Page 78 of Neighbor from Hell
Tomorrow morning I will go back to the manor and face him. I have to talk to him, hear his side of the situation, and only then can I finally make up my own mind on who tried to destroy me and who saved me. Part of me is scared to meet him again. After the way we parted, I wouldn’t be surprised if he wants absolutely nothing to do with me.
Chapter
Fifty-Three
HUGH
“We’re making good progress, Hugh,” Michael, my project manager, says, the architect’s drawing rolled up and tucked under his arm. His hard hat tilts as he gestures toward the scaffolding. "We’re aiming to have the house fully waterproof by dusk today. If the weather holds, we’ll start on the electrics and plumbing tomorrow.” He pauses, glancing at the crane, then back at me, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Are you happy with the pace?”
I nod, my gaze fixed on the workers, their orange vests bright against the house’s raw structure.
My hands are stuffed in my jacket pockets, my chest tight with a mix of purpose and determination, because every nail driven, every board laid, is for her, even if I tell myself it’s just to keep the estate pristine and erase the eyesore next to my property.
“Yes,” I say, my voice rough from lack of sleep. “Keep it on schedule and make sure no errors are made. I want it to be perfect.”
The words feel hollow because ‘perfect’ for what? For her to return and live like strangers next to each other, or just to prove I’m not the monster she thinks I am?
“Good. Come over here. The architect came up with some adjustments to show you.” I follow him to a folding table.
Blueprints are spread out, weighted with stones, and he points to a revised layout for the kitchen, his finger tracing new lines to replace a window with French doors and add a stone hearth. “The doors will open up the space and bring in more light,” he says, his tone eager. “And the hearth will add that historic charm you wanted. Should we go ahead with it?”
I lean over, my hands braced on the table, the paper cool under my fingers, and study the changes, imagining her there, cooking, laughing, happy, the sunlight in her hair from the new skylights.
“Yeah, this is good,” I say, my voice distant, because it is good, but it’s for a future I’m not sure she’ll claim. “Go with it.”
Michael nods, gathers his papers, and heads inside the cottage, leaving me alone in the garden, staring at the cottage, its half-built condition a mirror of my own fractured heart.
The fire’s cause is still a mystery. The investigators have found nothing conclusive.
I wonder for the thousandth time why I’m doing this. Why am I pouring my money, my time, my soul into this blasted cottage? Do I expect her to come back, to see it and forgive me, to trust me again? Because I don’t know if I want her back. Why would I want someone who could think I’d burn her world down? Who then didn’t even give me a chance to explain, to prove I’m not that monster?
I’ve told myself I’m rebuilding because a dilapidated ruin next to my manor is a bad look, a stain on the estate. But it’s a lie, and my heart knows it, throbbing with the truth I can’t escape—I’m doing this for her, because I love her, because the thought of her out there, alone, without a home, twists me up inside.
I haven’t slept, not really, not since she left. I know thanks to village gossip that she’s safe and living with Annabel in that cramped starter home, but it doesn’t ease the hurt, the anger, the longing. She left with nothing—no phone, no money, a stranger in this country, and only survived because of an acquaintance’s quiet kindness.
I didn’t chase her, didn’t call, because I was too raw, too proud, too afraid she’ll reject me again. Once this property is built, regardless of what she does with it, I want to move on, to return to the life I had before her, before her laugh, her touch, her stubborn heart unraveled me.
But right now, as things stand, I can’t.
I’m in love with her, deeply, irrevocably, and the memory of that fire—running in, the heat searing my skin, the smoke choking my lungs, knowing she was upstairs—haunts me. I wasn’t thinking then, just acting, driven by a need to save her, and now, looking back, I’m horrified and chilled by the thought that she could’ve jumped, broken her leg, her neck, or worse.
It registers now that I’m exhausted. My body feels like it weighs a thousand tons, so, head bowed, I turn and start heading towards Montrose, needing lunch, a nap, something to dull this ache before I return to check the progress again.
But just then, a bicycle’s rattle cuts through the quiet, tires crunching on the drive. I lift my gaze and turn. And I see her. Lauren, her blonde hair tangled, her cheeks flushed from the ride, her borrowed sweater flapping as she pedals up. My heart stops. I can’t believe it. She’s here. Not in a taxi, but on a damnrickety bicycle that looks like it could collapse any moment. Un-fucking-believable.
Our eyes meet. And it’s like electricity going through my body. All the exhaustion is gone.
She parks the bike slowly, and every moment seems to take forever. I know she’s taking her time. Perhaps she's even surprised to see me here, surprised to see that I am once again working on the house despite her cruel accusations.
Suddenly, I realize that I don't want to see or talk to her. She didn’t come to see me. She came to check up on her cottage. She doesn’t deserve me. I swing around and continue on my way.
“Hugh,” she calls. “Hugh!”
Reluctantly, I stop in my tracks and turn around, but say nothing.
She starts walking towards me. She looks ravishing in the sunlight.
“Hi,” she says.
