Page 15 of Neighbor from Hell
Yet here he is, happily roaming around in the wild, pompous as hell, and he probably does have a penthouse and a yacht. It’s all so old-England, it’s almost surreal, but there’s a pull to it I can’t shake. I hate that my mind drifts, wondering how regal the rest of him actually is… yeah, that massive cock my brain conjured last night. Thick and large, ruining me. It’s got to be a lie, a trick my sleep-deprived head conjured up, but my thighs still remember, and I grip the card tighter, annoyed at myself. I glance down at the card again, weighing it. Every part of me says no—the farther I stay from him, the better for my sanity, for all of us.
Duke or no Duke, he’s still the rude jerk who barged in uninvited.
I’m not falling for this fancy-paper nonsense. With my decision made that I was to have nothing to do with him, it’s clear what I must do. Reject the invitation. I have a lot of work to do and I don’t want to. I head back out and find Bertrand standing still, his eyes focused on the apple tree.
“Tell him, no thank you,” I say firmly, handing it back. It feels a bit purposefully cold, so I soften my tone. “Tell him I appreciate the cordiality and invitation, but I’m currently incredibly busy.”
Bertrand Knox’s pale blue eyes widen with surprise. I’m pretty sure he’s never encountered anyone rejecting his master’s invitation to anything. Well then, I am honored to be the first. A little thrill runs through me at this tiny win, the elation sharp and sweet.
He nods, turns smartly on his heels, and heads off, disappearing down the lane.
Back inside, I decide it’s time to tackle the mess in the living room. I need a living space, so it doesn’t feel like I’m living in a junkyard. I dig out some black bin bags from under the sink—miracle they’re there—and get to work, sorting throughGrandma’s chaos. Books with cracked spines, teacups chipped to hell, photos of stern old faces.
I start splitting it into keep or toss piles.
One hour later, I have filled nine Toss bags and one Keep bag. It’s not enough, not nearly, but it’s a start, and it’ll give me a reason to hit the village later, scope out some supplies. I’m not worried, not yet. I’m just going to stay focused, hands moving, clearing a path through this hoard. I’ll make this place mine, one dusty relic at a time.
Chapter
Eleven
HUGH
“Miss Hutton appreciates the cordiality of the invitation, but she will be unable to attend today,” Bertrand says diplomatically. His eyes betray nothing.
I frown. “Why not?”
He clears his throat. “I believe she is busy… with the cottage.”
She’s not too busy to come to tea. She just did that to annoy me. Thoroughly annoyed, I wave him away.
He leaves quickly, shutting the door behind him, and I stay in the office, trying to distract myself with work. I try to focus, flip a page, rearrange myself on my swivel chair, but it’s useless. Exasperation is clawing up my chest, turning into a slow, simmering anger.
Pushing my chair back, I stand and start pacing the room. Once, twice, thrice. I don’t get it— what’s wrong with her? Why would she be so damn rude as to turn me down like that? She doesn’t listen when I’m straight with her, and she doesn’t budgewhen I try to play nice. And now she’s got me spinning and confused about how to handle her.
I stop by the window and glare out at the estate. My eyes go past the immaculate lawns, the stables in the distance to her crumbling cottage squatting there like a stain. My hands flex restlessly as I head out of the office. I stalk down the hall, past the portraits of all my ancestors and into the study. I need something, anything, to settle this itch under my skin.
I grab a bottle of whiskey from the shelf. It’s old and expensive, the kind I’d usually savor in the evening before dinner. I pour a glass, the amber liquid glugging out slowly, and bring it to my lips, but drinking this early in the day is just not my thing. I set it down on the table, untouched. It’s not what I want. Not sitting here stewing alone. I remember the engagement party I was invited to by one of my old mates from Eaton.
I’d brushed it off earlier, said I couldn’t make it as I would be tied up with work, but now it might be the lifeline out of this brooding hole I’m sinking into.
I pull out my phone, swipe to the calendar, and there it is. It’s tonight in Mayfair. I check the time, and I’m glad to see that it’s still early enough for me to make it if I leave now. The idea settles in, not ideal, but it will do. A loud club would just piss me off more, but something smaller and more intimate like this party feels like a more bearable way to shake her out of my head.
I grab my keys from the hall table and head to the garage, my steps purposeful. I slide into my car, turn on the ignition, and the engine snarls and awakens, vibrating through me. I zoom out of the estate, tires screaming on the gravel, before smoothing out as I hit the open road.
I get there a few hours later, the city smearing past the windows, and pull up to Charles’s swanky townhouse. One of his staff lets me into the warm interior. A sophisticated laugh driftsthrough an open door. I recognize the laugh and follow. Charles is there, grinning from ear to ear, his sparkling fiancée, Camila, on his arm. When he sees me, he looks surprised, his eyebrows shooting up to his prematurely receding hairline.
“You came! What a fantastic surprise,” he calls out. “Come and have a glass of champagne with us.”
I hand over a check as my wedding gift. I hand it to Charles since I won’t be at the wedding.
“Thank you, Hugh,” Camila says with a flirtatious smile.
I’m not a fan of Charles’s fiancée. I think she’s a sly social climber, but Charles is in love and must learn the hard way. I don’t stay long in their company. The place is crawling with faces from the old days. All sprawled into sofas, jackets off, laughing without a care in the world. As I weave through the crowd, the low hum of their voices and clinking glasses wrap around me.
I spot him, James, leaning against a pillar near the bar, his tie loosened, a tumbler of something dark in his hand, and quickly make a beeline for him. My old Uni mate. One of the sharper wits I remember from our late-night debates at Oxford. He catches my eye and he grins, slow and easy, and pushes off the pillar to meet me halfway.
“Bloody hell, Hugh. I didn’t expect to see you here,” he says, clapping my shoulder.
