Page 41 of Neighbor from Hell
I linger on that, watching him, testing. The price was too low—pipes that old, a job that big, should’ve cost a fortune. I’d nearly argued, but Harry was already packing up, insistent, and I’d let it go. Now, I’m sure Hugh’s behind it, and I want him to admit it, to crack that composed mask. But he doesn’t. His face stays smooth, unreadable. Maybe I was wrong. Prices in these parts of the world are really that cheap.
“Good,” he says simply, leaning a fraction closer, his shoulder brushing the doorframe. “I just wanted to make sure.”
My suspicions unanswered, and thrown by his concern, I can only nod. His eyes flick past me, catching sight of the lamp in the living room. “I saw you reading. I didn’t mean to pry, it’s just that we are neighbors. You’re winding down for the night?”
“Yeah,” I say, too quickly, my words tumbling out before I can stop them. “I did a ton in the kitchen today—ripping out the cabinets, sanding. Anyway, yeah, I’m just… trying to relax.” I’m rambling. My voice is high-pitched and freaking betraying me, and I hate it.
Why am I so nervous? Is it his calm? The way he’s watching me like he sees every flicker of my thoughts? Whatever it is, it’s working. It makes my pulse race like crazy, and I’m pissed atmyself for letting it. I take a slow, steadying breath and try to match his ease. Then I remember the lamp, its light spilling over us, impossible to ignore. I saw his eye flick towards it, so he’s definitely seen it. I seize the chance to shift the ground.
“When are you sending your staff to pick the lamp up?” I ask, tilting my chin toward the living room.
He leans in slightly, peering past me, and my stomach flips at how close he is, his scent—leather, earth, him—curling around me. “It sure does look beautiful in there,” he says, his voice warm, ignoring my question’s edge. “It really suits the room.”
“It’s too much,” I counter firmly, though my resolve is wavering under his gaze. “It’s too expensive to keep.”
“Well,” he says. “How about we call it a welcome present?” he says, a glint in his eyes. “From your new neighbor.”
I laugh, the sound slipping out, light and unguarded. “Most neighbors bring cookies. Muffins, maybe.”
“Not many neighbors have much taste,” he says, and it’s not a boast—just a fact, delivered with blunt honesty I’m starting to recognize. It catches me off guard, not arrogant but daring, and for the first time, his directness doesn’t bristle, but charms. What is life if not to be a little reckless sometimes, or engage in a thrilling escapade? I sigh, knowing I’m wading deeper into trouble. My body feels like it’s heating up, too aware of him standing there, close enough to touch.
“Fine,” I say, conceding, my voice softer and more pliant than I want. “Okay, you’re right. Not most neighbors, no.”
“So you’ll keep it?”
I nod. “Thank you. It’s beautiful”
He nods, satisfied, but doesn’t move, his presence filling the porch, the night pressing in around us. I’m burning up, remembering that kiss, that sudden, searing mistake I swore not to repeat. If he tried now, if he leaned in, I’m not sure I’d stop him, and that terrifies me.
He makes me weak, strips my defenses, but I’ll hate myself if I give in, if I prove Cecilia right—another woman falling for the womanizer, another conquest for the 12thDuke of Beauclerk. The thought cools my blood, and I’m ready to end this little interlude, to shut the door when he speaks, voice deceptively casual.
“Would you like to come out with me one night?” he asks, and my heart stumbles. “There’s a club I like—one of the few worth going to in London. I could take you. Just a few drinks, good music, no pressure.”
The desire to say yes is incredible, but my instinct screams no, a reflex to protect myself. “I’m not really a club person,” I say, stepping back. “Back in Chicago, my friend Sandy used to drag me out, and I hated it.”
He tilts his head, undeterred, a spark of amusement in his eyes. “Because of the places you went. Trust me—this one’s different.”
“I get that,” I say more gently, not wanting to seem ungrateful after everything. “But I’m… at a stage where I’m good with quiet. Being home with my own company, you know?”
“And reading?” he asks, leaning closer, genuinely curious, and I’m thrown. Why is he doing this, turning my doorstep into a conversation center? I glance at the book on my couch, its worn cover catching the lamp’s light, and hesitate.
“Yeah,” I say vaguely.
“What are you reading?”
I freeze, my cheeks warming. It’s one of my grandma’s old novels, tucked among her things—a Harlequin from the ‘70s, all swooning heroines with heaving breasts and dashing lords. Spicy, too, with scenes of a manor owner ravishing a woman under the moonlight, kidnapping plots and breathless passion. I’d laughed when I found it, surprised at her taste, but tonight, reading it, I’d stopped, embarrassed by how it mirrored my ownlife—Hugh, the manor, this pull I can’t shake. There’s no way, however, that I’m telling him that. “It’s just… an old novel,” I say, dodging. “I found it in my grandmother’s collection of books.”
“Is it good?” he asks, and I want to groan. He is relentless, determined to draw me out, and I’m trapped.
“It’s… interesting,” I say, clipped, and praying he doesn’t push. He can’t know the details—an English Duke saving his American lover from the clutches of a predator. I’d die if he guessed.
He nods, then shifts, like he’s weighing something. “I’ll let you get back to it,” he says, but adds, “By the way, that club I mentioned— Raye is performing live soon. Do you know her? She sounds incredible when you catch her live.”
My jaw drops and my eyes widen before I can stop them. Raye? My favorite, the one artist I’d kill to see live, her voice raw and electric on every playlist I own. “What?” I blurt, stunned.
He catches on fast, his eyes snapping on my obvious interest. “You like her?”
“Yes, I—she’s my favorite,” I admit, voice betraying my excitement. A sneaky part of me wonders if he knew, if this is another calculated move, but I don’t care. Raye, live? My resolve wavers, temptation clawing at me. “When, exactly?”
