Page 6 of Neighbor from Hell
Chapter
Five
LAUREN
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mqFLXayD6e8
-that don’t impress me much-
“Who are you, anyway?” I ask, my voice rasping through the dust still clogging my throat.
The man in the doorway lets out a heavy sigh, like I’m the inconvenience here.
“Your neighbor,” he says, clipped and curt. “Manor next door. I presume you’re the American granddaughter.” His hand slides into his pocket, casual, like he owns the damn place already.
“You presume right,” I mutter, brushing more grime off my jeans.
My eyes flick up to him, and—fuck, I try not to notice, but it’s impossible. He’s stupidly handsome, towering in this cramped, dilapidated shoebox of a cottage, larger than life in a way thatmakes the walls feel like they’re closing in. A sheen of sweat glints across his forehead, dark hair falling in waves, and those eyes—icy gray, sharp as glass, the most gorgeous I’ve ever seen—cut into me.
Too bad he’s dripping with arrogance. It’s so thick I choke on it and feel a sudden and great irritation. I glance at the collapsed cabinet behind me—splintered wood, teacups shattered, magazines splayed like a hoarder’s wet dream. Grandma would’ve broken every record on Hoarders, I’m convinced of it now. Piles of towering junk, a maze of crap I can’t imagine ever sorting through. My mood tanks and depression slams back, heavy and familiar. I just want him gone and this place not falling apart with every step I take.
Apparently, these are all too much to ask for.
“I’ll explain again,” my impossibly overbearing neighbor says, stepping closer, his shiny boots narrowly missing a cracked wooden duck. “I want to buy your land and this cottage. You probably don’t realize it yet, but it’s a bitch to maintain property in a foreign land; property taxes, council bills, sewage payments, agency fees, squatters moving in—especially if you’re living far away. I’d be happy to take it off your hands. The market value’s decent, but I’m sure you know that. But since I was fond of being neighbors with your grandmother for so long, I’m prepared to double the price. Even with inheritance tax, you’d walk away with a fat chunk of dollars.”
I stare at him, my jaw tight. How can he not comprehend that I am totally not in the mood to hear or process anything he’s spewing, which to my irritated brain sounds like a whole load of rubbish?
That is because he is so full of himself.
I bet life is easy for him living in that lovely big manor, without any money problems, and having a whole bunch of servants running to and fro, seeing to his every need. Iexperience a feeling very close to hatred, if not hatred itself. I can see him issuing harsh orders to his poor, wide-eyed minions who shake and shiver with fear. It’s not a pretty picture. I stare at the odious man as the promise of cash bangs around in my head. Double, double… he’s repeated this now twice.
Hmm… My eyes dart desperately around at the carnage surrounding me.
Part of me knows I should be, at least, tempted. It would be a normal reaction in a sane person. Cash like that could get me out of this dump and fix everything back home, but something in me snaps. A fierce, irrational ‘no’ claws up my throat. I want to chase this insensitive brute off with a broom, scream him out of here.
“No,” I say sharply, and I’m happy to note my voice sounds strong and final. Maybe tomorrow, after waking up to a rat or something, I’ll change my mind, but for now, no. Turning away from him, I pretend to poke through the wreckage around me, hoping he’ll take the unsubtle hint and go away. But of course, the impervious bully doesn’t. He doesn’t budge at all, just stands there, and my annoyance flares hotter.
“You won’t get anyone else willing to take this property off your hands for that price,” he says, voice now edged with displeasure.
I whip around, dust swirling. “What if I don’t want it taken off my hands?” The words burst out, loud and jagged, and I’m shocked by my own heat, but I don’t back down. My chest heaves, and my hands ball into angry fists.
Those incredible gray eyes narrow with incredulity. “You want to keep this monstrosity?” It’s a question, but it sounds more like an accusation.
“For the love of God, and for the last time. Yes, I do. I want to keep this monstrosity,” I shoot back, my voice cracking with defiance and impatience.
He inhales deeply, and I can tell he’s wrestling his temper. A muscle in his jaw ticks with exasperation. “Why? Look at this place. It’s been neglected for too long, and it’s falling apart. It’s actually unsafe. You can’t live here. It’s inhabitable as it is, and you have to admit even to yourself that it would be a battle, a nightmare to try and make anything of this ruin. It’s almost better to tear it all down and start from scratch. And I suspect you don’t have the means to do that. I’m a reasonable man. What would it take for you to let it go… for your peace of mind?”
“What I want for my peace of mind, respectfully,” I snap, “is for you to get out of my property.” Then the truth spills out, bitter and raw. “This cabinet just literally fell on me with no help forthcoming from you, and since I don’t expect anything going forward, please, just go away.” I turn back to the mess, yanking at a warped drawer, pretending he’s already gone.
I hear his expensive boots shift, a slow scrape, then the creak of the floor as he heads out. He’s leaving—good. But my head’s spinning, his arrogant face burned into it—tall, dark, those eyes like a raging ocean. I suppose he is the British version of a cowboy, all leather and swagger? Intrigued despite myself, I lurch toward the window, nearly tripping over a pile of moldy books. My fingers snag the yellowed, dusty curtain. I wince at the gritty stiffness of the material. It’s obviously never been washed in decades. Good thing I don’t have a phobia of germs because there must be zillions of pathogens on this thing. I edge the microorganisms caked material aside, just in time to see him swing onto a horse. A freaking humongous horse. I almost have to rub my eyes clean to be sure of what I’m actually seeing.
He gallops off, a blur of muscle and dramatic movement. It’s so unreal I almost laugh—almost. But I’m too damn tired, too overwhelmed, too overstimulated by my shit show of a day. My knees buckle, and I collapse into what looks like a sofa,and ancient junk presses against me on all sides. My throne of bedlam.
“I should’ve just stayed in my studio in Chicago,” I mutter. “At least there I could see the freaking floor.”
Chapter
Six
