Page 55 of Neighbor from Hell
She hesitates, her fingers brushing the hem of her t-shirt, the faded maroon letters cracked and peeling, and I see it—the self-consciousness, the way she shifts her weight, like she’s suddenly aware of her messy hair, her rumpled shorts, the contrast to this fine room.
But she nods, a small, decisive movement, and says, “Okay,” before crossing the floor and sinking into the chair, and I feel a rush, a quiet thrill that she’s here, choosing to stay, choosing me, even if it’s just for a while.
I slide a plate towards her, my voice easy, coaxing. “You went to Chicago University?” I nod at her t-shirt, letting my smile tilt, playful, wanting to draw her out.
Her eyes lift, surprised, and she takes a strawberry, rolling it between her fingers, her voice warm, like she’s stepping into a fond memory.
“Yeah,” she says, her lips curving. “I was there to study business. My mother thought I’d take on the world. But it was mostly late nights, bad coffee, and arguing about fatalistic Russian and European philosophers with students studying arts in dive bars.” She laughs, a small, bright sound.
She reaches for a croissant and tears it apart. Buttery flakes scatter on the table. I lean in, caught by the simple act, by her. I want to hold onto this ease, this glimpse of her unguarded.
We talk, the conversation light, weaving through her stories—a professor who wore bow ties, a Chicago winter that buriedher car in snow. I offer a story of my own, a mad Oxford bet of herding some pigs into a professor’s office after too many pints, and her laugh comes again, louder, her shoulders loosening. The food disappears slowly, bites taken between words, the coffee cooling in our cups, and I feel it—a rhythm, a warmth, like we’re building something fragile, something that could break if I don’t cherish it.
I set my cup down, my voice steady but gentle, because I need her to know I’m not being high-handed, but just thinking of her, and what she needs. “I’ll send one of the maids with you back to the cottage,” I say, watching her face, the way her fingers pause. “She’ll help you pack what you need for the week. The workers are diving into the heavy stuff first—repairing the roof, stripping walls, painting, building new cabinets in the kitchen. It’ll be loud and chaotic, and you won’t want to be dodging hammers to grab your things. You can give them directions, tell them what you want, but don’t worry about the cost. It’s covered, all of it.”
She pauses, a red cherry halfway to her lips, and her eyes search mine, wary but hopeful. She’s testing my words for some kind of catch that she’s still expecting.
“Okay,” she decides quietly. “I accept, but no maid. I only have a few things to pack.”
Her words arrive like a gift. Relief washes over me, and I can’t help it—a smile breaks wide and unguarded. My chest swells with a joy so great it catches me off guard. She’s staying, here, in my world. It’s more than I dared hope, more than I deserve. I lean forward eagerly, my voice bright, impulsive, because I’m greedy for more of her, for this.
“Do you ride?”
“Yes, but it’s been a long time since I’ve been on a horse. I had a friend whose family had a farm in Wyoming. I spent some summers there as a teenager.”
“That’s okay. Once you learn how to ride you never forget. Come for a ride with me this evening,” I say, the words spilling out. “The trails are magic at dusk. Will you?”
Her eyes widen, just a fraction, and I hold my breath, watching the flicker of surprise shift to a small, tentative smile, her lips curving like she’s seeing the possibility, the adventure.
“Yes,” she says, nodding, her voice soft but sure. “I’d like that.”
“Good.” I watch her, the morning light catching the curve of her cheek, the faint blush on her skin, and know with crystal clear clarity, that I’m in deeper than I planned, deeper than I’ve ever been. Last night was fire, consuming, but her hesitant trust, her quiet yes—it’s something more, something I’m not ready to name but can’t let slip away.
The image of her riding beside me, her hair whipping in the wind, the manor’s fields stretching endlessly before us slips into my head and a wild thrill sparks in my chest.
Chapter
Thirty-Seven
LAUREN
With my phone pressed between my ear and my shoulder, I shove clothes into a duffel bag—a few t-shirts, jeans, a sweater that’s too big but warm. Sandy’s voice crackles into my ear, and I can almost see her grinning, and her eyes glinting with that knowing look she always has when she has been proven right.
“I really don’t know how to explain myself to you,” I say, tugging a pair of socks from a drawer. The air is thick with dust even though the workers are working outside, their hammers pounding, their music blaring, their voices loud through the warped walls. I’m fleeing to Hugh’s manor, to a world that feels too big, too shiny, too much like a dream. Dreams break.
Sandy cackles loudly.
“Stop laughing,” I scold, but there’s no heat in my voice, and she pays no heed and carries on laughing gleefully. I sink heavily onto the edge of the bed.
“Iknewthis was gonna happen,” Sandy crows, her voice smug.
I roll my eyes, even though she can’t see me. “I feel bad,” I admit, “but… I don’t, not really. Like you said, it’s an equal exchange. I enjoyed myself.” God, did I?
“And you’re getting a full renovation out of it. So why should you make this harder than it needs to be?”
I pause, my gaze drifting to the window. “I don’t expect anything from him, Sandy. That’s the key. If I start expecting more, that’s when it gets dangerous.”
“You’re absolutely right,” she says, but there’s a warning in her voice, a thread of worry. “Take what he’s offering, Lauren. He’s got more than enough to give. But when it’s time to end it, end it. Whatever you do, don’t fall in love with him. A man like him is out of our league.”
