Page 58 of Neighbor from Hell
“Dinner is ready, m’Lord,” he informs formally.
I nod, forcing my voice to steady despite the storm in my chest. “Thank you, Knox. I’ll come down after a quick shower.”
“Very good, m’Lord,” he replies before stepping back into the shadow.
“I could do with a shower too,” Lauren says. “I’ll see you soon?”
“You sure will,” I reply.
“Thank you for today,” she says, her voice shy. “It was really nice. All of it.”
In her eyes, a flicker of desire still remains, but before I can lose my head and capitalize on it, she turns, her steps quick on the marble as she heads to her room.
Chapter
Thirty-Nine
LAUREN
Islip into my room and lean against it. I’m buzzing, my skin tingling with excitement, from Hugh’s kiss, from the way the world seemed to shrink to just us, our lips locked, the sunset bleeding pinks and purples around us.
The ride was perfect—the horse’s thunder, the wind in my hair, Hugh’s arm around me, his laugh low and warm. But it’s the ride back that lingers, romantic in a way I didn’t expect, the way we didn’t need words, just the quiet rhythm of the mare, our bodies pressed close, his solidity behind me like a rock I could lean into, steady, unyielding. I catch myself, my breath hitching, because I’m thinking dangerous things, imagining leaning into him, trusting him, when I know better.
It’s been nothing short of magical.
How is it that every moment with Hugh is better than the last, each touch, each look, surpassing what came before?
I shake it off, pushing away from the door, my boots silent on the Persian rug, and walk towards the window. I look outto the beauty around me, but see only the memory of his forehead against my head, the way he inhaled my scent, soft and deliberate, floods back, and I’m there again, turning to him, my lips finding his in a kiss that was unlike anything—deep, sweet, a current that pulled me under until I was drowning in him.
I pause, my fingers brushing the velvet drapes, my chest tight with a question I don’t want to answer: Is this what seduction feels like? The thought is a spark, bright and treacherous, because I’m losing my head, letting him pull me in, but I have Sandy, her voice sharp and grounding, ready to yank me back to reality, to remind me this is temporary, a vacation, nothing more.
I glance at the clock. I’m running out of time. Dinner is soon, French and lavish. I undress and hurry to the bathroom, the marble cool under my feet. Stepping under the hot water, I watch the steam curl like a promise around me.
I finish quickly because I’m eager for dinner, for him. I step out and towel off. The shower has washed away the dust of the ride, but not the heat of his kiss. As I dry my hair with a blow-dryer, my reflection in the gilded mirror shows flushed cheeks and eyes too bright.
I consider dressing up in something sleek and elegant to match this manor’s grandeur, but I hesitate, my hand hovering over a silk blouse. No, I decide, I want simple, something that feels like me, not this world of gilded wealth. I slip into the one dress I packed, white, airy and floaty, its hem skimming my knees, and I pair it with a pair of delicate gold sandals, their straps glinting faintly.
It’s casual, maybe too casual for a place like this, but it will have to do.
My steps echo in the hall, and fresh doubt creeps in, a whisper that I’m way underdressed, that I’ll look out of placein this museum of a house, its arched doorways and elaborately painted doomed ceilings looking down like judgment.
I descend the staircase, my hand trailing the polished banister, and step into the dining room, where a glamorously set dining table waits. The windows are glowing with the last of the evening light.
Hugh’s there, standing near the table, his back to me, phone pressed to his ear, and I pause, my breath catching, because he’s casual too, a white linen shirt that shows off his biceps, thick and strong, and khaki pants.
He turns, mid-sentence, and his gorgeous eyes find mine. They hold me like a physical touch, and I feel the heat of his gaze, the way it lingers as he speaks into the phone, his voice low, distracted.
I move to the table and take in the spread—French, decadent, a feast that makes my mouth water. There’s coq au vin, the chicken glossy with red wine sauce, flecked with thyme; ratatouille, its vegetables vibrant, sliced thin and spiraled; a baguette, crust golden and crisp, beside a wedge of brie, creamy and soft. A bowl of salad niçoise sits bright with green beans, tomatoes, and anchovies, and a tarte tatin gleams, its apples caramelized, begging to be sliced. My appetite surges, sharp and eager, and I’m practically humming, my fingers itching to reach for a plate.
Hugh ends his call, the phone clicking onto the table, and crosses to me, his steps slow, deliberate. His hand finds my waist, light, but possessive, and then his lips brush my cheek, a kiss so soft, so beautiful, it stops my breath, its tenderness more intimate than anything we’ve shared. It’s too gentle, and I don’t want gentle, not when it will confuse me and make me want things I can’t have.
I want raw, sexy, something clear and uncomplicated, so I turn to him, my hands finding his shirt, and kiss him, deepand hard, my lips pressing, demanding, chasing the heat of last night, the clarity of desire. He responds, his hands tightening on my waist, but then I hear footsteps, a soft clatter, and pull back, my cheeks burning, because the staff have arrived, moving around fussing with the table, their eyes discreet but present.
Suddenly shy, I step away, my pulse racing, and slide into a chair held out by a liveried man.
“Thank you,” I mumble.
The staff nod and slip away, leaving us alone again, the air heavy with what we didn’t say. I smooth my dress, once again aware of its simplicity, and say, my voice small, “I hope I’m not too underdressed.”
