Page 56 of Neighbor from Hell
I cough and shake my head, even as my chest tightens, the memory of Hugh’s gray eyes burning into mine flashing through me. “I’ll never fall in love with him. That’s impossible,” I say, too quick, too firm, like I’m trying to convince myself. “No way. I know he’s out of my league. He’s out of most women’s leagues.”
Sandy’s quiet for a beat, then asks in a sly voice, “How was the sex?”
I flush and I’m back there—on the sofa and the way he fucked me like he’d never stop, like I was everything. “Un-fucking-believable,” I say, my voice a whisper.
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” she says, her words slow, deliberate. “That’s a very slippery slope you have there. Sex like that with a gorgeous, super-rich Duke—it’s how you fall in love and get your heart broken.”
“No,” I say, pacing the cramped room. “I know what this is, Sandy. I know what he is. His wealth is everywhere—the manor, the staff, the way he snaps his fingers and the world bends to his every whim. It’s a reminder every day that this isn’t real. It’s justa fantasy. I’m just… having fun. This is a vacation, a chance to experience something I’d never get otherwise. I’m not restricting myself, not when it’s this easy, this good.” I pause, my fingers grabbing a half-empty bottle of moisturizer on the dresser, and tossing it into the bag. “That girl in the bathroom—Meredith—she made sure I got the message. Drilled it into my head. I should thank her, honestly.”
“You really think she was his ex-girlfriend?”
“No idea,” I say, zipping the bag decisively. “For all we know she could have been lying. But the way she talked, bitter and broken—she’s definitely someone Hugh slept with, someone who wanted more and got nothing. That’s what happens when you expect things. But I’m going in clear-eyed. I won’t expect a damn thing, so I’ll never be her, never stoop that low.”
I sling the bag over my shoulder, my resolve hardening, and Sandy hums, a sound of agreement, though I know she’s still worried.
I hang up and go outside, the cottage’s chaos fading as I enter the manor’s grounds. The walk to the main house is quick, my heart thudding with a mix of nerves and anticipation. Mrs. O’Brien meets me at the door, her smile polite, and leads me up the sweeping staircase and through the seemingly endless hallway until we reach the west wing. She opens a door, and I step inside, my breath catching, because this room, this suite, is something out of a Brontë novel, a dream woven from velvet and time.
The walls are covered in antique wallpaper featuring roses and gold vines. A magnificent four-poster bed standing on a plush wine-red rug dominates the room. Its mahogany frame is beautifully carved and draped in shimmering silk. On either side of the bed there are bedside tables made from the same wood with wonderful Victorian lamps on them. A chandelier hangs in the middle of the ceiling. Against one wall a vanity with a gildedmirror and a wardrobe tall as a man stands proudly. Heavy drapes, sapphire and thick, frame the tall windows that open to the incredible view outside.
Once Mrs. O’Brien leaves, I step closer to the window, my fingers brushing the cool glass, and see the tulips standing sharp and proud around the ancient oak tree. It’s a painting, alive and endless, and I’m floored, my chest tight with awe, with the privilege of being in this beautiful world that’s not mine.
I fumble for my phone and snap some photos; the clicks are loud in the blessed silence. A knock comes, soft but firm, jolting me. I cross the room, my sneakers silent on the rugs, and open the door, my pulse spiking when I see Hugh. He’s dressed in a white Polo shirt open at the collar, revealing a sliver of tanned chest, and slacks that hug his hips, tailored and effortless. His dark hair is tousled, his gray eyes bright, and they lock on me with startling intensity. I think of my unwashed hair, my rumpled t-shirt, the dust on my shorts. I’m a wreck, haven’t showered, and I feel the self-consciousness creeping in, but he doesn’t seem to care, his gaze steady and unwavering. His scrutiny makes me blush, heat flooding my cheeks as I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear.
“I just wanted to check in,” he says, his voice low, warm, like a fire on a cold night. “Make sure you’re settling in okay.”
I nod, my throat tight, and manage, “Yeah, it’s… incredible. This room, it’s so beautiful.” I’m happy to see him, despite everything, despite the warnings in my head, and it scares me how easy it is to smile at him, to want him closer.
“You’ll be ready to come horse riding with me this evening?”
“Yeah,” I reply. “But I don’t have any riding gear.”
He grins, a flash of teeth, playful and sure. “No problem. I’ll have something delivered. I’ll send you a link to an online store—pick what you like, whatever feels right. They’ll make sure it gets couriered here in time.” He pulls out his phone, his fingersquick, and I feel it, the ease of his wealth, the way he makes things happen, and it’s thrilling, but also dangerous, a reminder of who he is.
“Okay,” I say, my voice steady despite the flutter in my chest.
He smiles again, brighter. “Good. Settle in. Explore. Make yourself at home.” Then he turns and walks away, his steps light on the polished floor.
I shut the door, my heart racing, and lean against it, the wood cool against my back. “Don’t get out of control,” I whisper a warning to myself, my eyes sweeping the room, its opulence a siren call. “Just have the best time you can, then go back to your house, your life.”
I head to the bathroom, a marble sanctuary and oh, a massive clawfoot tub. I haven’t had the luxury of lying in a bubble bath in ages. I feel happy, lighter than I’ve been in weeks, and I cling to that, let it anchor me. Quickly, I run a bath, and quite literally sink into the bubbles scented with lavender. The heat eases my sore muscles, and I grab my book, the pages soft from use. The words pulling me in, until a scene turns heated—a kiss, a touch, bodies tangled—and I’m back with Hugh, his hands on me, his mouth claiming mine, the way he took me, deep and sure, until I was lost.
My hand slips beneath the water, my fingers finding where I’m still swollen and hungry for him. I touch myself, slow at first, then urgent, his name slipping from my lips, a soft cry in the quiet. I should feel shame, but I don’t, not this time. I feel light, alive, like I’m claiming something for myself, and it’s good, so good.
By evening, I stand before the mirror, dressed in the riding gear that arrived earlier, simple but perfect—a navy jacket, tailored to fit my frame, its wool soft against my skin, and cream breeches that hug my legs and bottom, snug but flexible, paired with black leather boots. Underneath a crisp white shirt; itscollar, sharp with newness. My hair is pulled into a ponytail high on the back of my head. I look… regal, like I belong in this world, and it’s a rush, a fantasy I’m letting myself live. I check my phone when it pings with a message.
Hugh: Ready?
Me: Yes.
My fingers are trembling with anticipation when I leave the room. The manor’s hallways are quiet as I head for the grand staircase, my boots echoing on the marble. At the bottom, Hugh waits, dressed in his own gear—a black jacket, fitted breeches, gleaming boots—and I’m struck anew, because he’s beautiful, unfairly so. His dark hair catching the chandelier’s light, his gray eyes bright with something like joy when they meet mine.
I pause, my hand on the banister, and feel it, the pull of him, the danger and the thrill, but I’m here, ready to ride, ready to live this moment, this vacation, for as long as it lasts.
Chapter
Thirty-Eight
HUGH
