Page 14 of Neighbor from Hell
My breath slows and steadies out.
“Seriously, Lauren, you’ll be fine. This isn’t the dumbest thing you’ve ever done.”
It’s close, though—quitting my job, flying across an ocean for this wreck—but now there’s no turning back. It’s time to bring some order to this chaos.
I head back inside and fling every window in the whole cottage open to let the clean morning breezes sweep through. That already feels better. I grab an unchipped mug and wash it thoroughly with bleach. It does a good job of removing the stains. Then I find some ancient rose tea in a tin, probably expired, but I don’t care and drop a spoonful of it into a teapot.While water boils in a kettle on the hissing stove, I think about my situation. I need a plan. I start mentally listing what’s got to happen. First job, clear the junk, then fix the floors and give the walls a fresh coat of paint. Maybe buy some new furniture. Make this place livable.
Sipping the scalding brew slowly, the floral taste bitter on my tongue, I step outside again. Strolling along the edges of my property, I scope it out with a critical eye. The brick wall’s solid, mossy in spots, but there’s just that hedge between me and the manor, a rusty metal gate swinging loose where our lands touch. I peer through, catching the perfectly cut grass on either side of his driveway. I refuse to admit it—not out loud, not even in my head—that maybe, just maybe, I’m curious about him. Especially after he hijacked my dreams last night, turning me into a panting mess. I still can’t believe I screamed—screamed over sex. And what was that thing about the butler? He’s turned me into a pervert!
Who the hell wants someone watching while they get their rocks off?
I gulp the rest of my tea down fast, letting the warmth settle my nerves.
I can’t help but envy the faultlessness of his land, though. It’s as far and wide as the eyes can see, literally. Perfectly manicured gardens, deer grazing lazily in the distance, beautiful ancient trees dotted strategically. All of this, and yet he still wants my little patch.
“Unbelievable! Greedy as hell!”
Turning back, I head toward the rear of my property, where the land dips into a shallow hollow. There’s a stone bench, half-buried in weeds, facing what looks like a pond—now just a muddy scar, choked with reeds and dead leaves. I crouch down, setting my mug on the bench, and poke at the dirt, finding shards of what might’ve been a broken blue-glazed teapot.Grandma’s, probably. She must’ve sat here, staring at this sad little hole, maybe dreaming of it full of water again, with floating lilies and darting brightly-colored fish.
The thought stings.
I never knew her, never got to ask what she loved about this place, why she clung to it like a lifeline. I pick up a blue shard, turn it over in my hand, and slip it into my pocket, a small piece of her to keep.
Brushing dirt off my jeans, I stand and begin to climb the slope. I spot something else—a gnarled apple tree, stubborn and hanging on, its branches heavy with small pink flowers. I grin, despite myself, imagining pies, cider, something alive coming from this wreck. Yes, I could do this. I think of the flowerbeds I could dig, paths I could clear, this land waking up under my hands. It will be hard work for sure, but not impossible.
I head back to the cottage, and to my surprise, there’s an impeccably dressed man with gunmetal-gray hair waiting patiently at my doorstep. His starched, perfectly ironed collar is so crisp and sharp I’m pretty certain it could slice bread. He has a pale, long, very English-looking face. I have no doubt where he’s from.
“Miss Hutton?” he asks politely.
I look at the envelope in his hand warily, and my reply is tart. “Who wants to know?”
“I’m Bertrand Knox, the butler at Montrose Manor.”
This is his butler? I can’t stop the rush of heat up my neck and into my cheeks, and it is so obvious I’m blushing that his eyes widen slightly. One hand touches my burning cheek, and the other lifts my empty mug slightly. “It says rose tea on the packet, but who knows what herbs are really in there?”
“Quite,” he murmurs impassively. Then he steps forward and holds out the envelope. “This is for you.”
“Thank you,” I reply, forcing a smile.
He steps back, but doesn't leave. Instead, he hovers, like he’s waiting for me to open the envelope and read it in front of him. At my questioning look, he explains.
“I’m to return with a response.”
“Oh,” I say. “Just a moment then.”
I retreat to the kitchen, the envelope heavy in my hand. I need the privacy to be able to read whatever it contains because I most definitely am not known for being able to control my expression, especially when it comes to responses like disgust or fury.
My stomach twists with worry and suspicion that it’s a lawsuit or some legal trap to kick me out of my property. I rip it open, and find his surprisingly handwritten note on thick, creamy paper, embossed with a fancy crest that screams old money.
My eyebrow shoots up as I scan the words. Wait, what? It’s an invitation to tea? For a moment, it almost feels like a joke, then it hits me that I really am in England, and tea time here must still be a thing like how it was in Jane Austen’s novels.
I also realize I don’t even know his name, but here it is: Hugh G. Montrose. I wonder what the G stands for, but what makes my eyebrows nearly shoot up to my hairline is realizing that he is a Duke.
“Right. So… he’s like royalty,” I mutter to myself.
To be honest, I’m not shocked, given his land, the manor, and the impressively gleaming horse. Plus, I have to also begrudgingly admit, he’s got that smug, lordly vibe, strutting in here yesterday like he owned my air.
The piece of new knowledge throws me off, hard though. Dukes are fairy-tale stuff, characters from dusty history books, not real, not in my Chicago world where the closest thing to royalty is a guy with a penthouse and a yacht.
