Page 9 of Three Wickedly Bad Neighbors and a Very Grumpy Girl

“But we have rules. No loud music after 9 p.m.”

“Oh rules, schmules. They’re the exception.”

I gasp aloud. The very purpose of a rule is to be followed. This is literal blasphemy.

“Avery, honey, as the young kids say these days, you need to chill, maybe get laid a bit too. Now be a good neighbor and do whatever you need to do to make it up to them for ruining their party. Please hand the phone back to them.”

Neon pink spheres burn on my cheeks. Ordinarily, I don’t care if people think I’m uptight or grumpy, but suddenly I don’t want them to know I need to be laid regularly because the truth is, I’ve never been laid at all. I don’t understand the rules of sex, so until then, the only laying I’ll be doing is laying down the rules for everything else.

I barely hear Mayor Burns continuing to gush over them before they hang up, mostly because I’m still in shock that they own this house and because I had a flash thought of all three of them naked while I, too, was naked. I shake my head. Back to business.

“Well, fine. You could have told me you own the house and that the Ambroses are your adopted grandparents,” I say haughtily.

“We did,” they all chorus together.

“You could have tried harder,” I say, my tone accusing.

“What, like wave the title deed in your face?” Gray asks.

“Yes, that would have been acceptable. Still, this neighborhood has rules—”

“Which don’t apply to us, apparently. You heard the mayor,” Sullivan says.

Argh, why are these men so damn infuriating?

“Also, if you’re the Ambroses' grandsons, how can you let them travel around Europe with no itinerary at their age? That’s very careless of—”

“You think we don’t have eyes on our grandparents? We were in the Marines; trust us, they’re very protected,” Porter says.

“Well, still. And why did your grandparents give you this house? What’s going to happen when they come back?”

“They’re not coming back. Just yesterday, they decided to stay in Italy, so we got them a villa there, and that’s where they’ll be staying,” Porter says.

“You know, you’re nothing like our grandparents described,” Gray says.

“They told you about me? Why on earth would I be the topic of discussion?”

“Yes. Said you were this sweet, lovely person. Beautiful too. Said we should ask you out on a date. That you were wife material. Turns out, you’re only one of those things—beautiful—and a whole lot of psycho,” Sullivan says, except he’s grinning at me.

What? Wife material? For them? Well, clearly the Ambroses have no idea what they’re talking about.

“So how are you going to rectify the situation?” Porter asks.

“What do you mean?” My heart is going to explode.

“Well, you crashed our party, so you’re going to have to be our entertainment.”

“What do you mean?” I swear my brain only works half as well in their company.

“What we mean is, we expected a night of entertainment, freshly back from the Marines and all, and since you ruined that, we’re going to get a couple of beers and watch you dance for us, because that’s what we would have been doing if you hadn’t shown up with your fake chickenpox,” Gray says.

“In your dreams.” I give a hearty laugh. “I don’t dance.”

“Well, these are your options. As an apology, you can either dance for us or get spanked. Either way, we’re going to be entertained. Those are your only two options,” Sullivan adds.

Spanked? On my bottom? Like a naughty child? Are they insane?

“I would like a third option, please.”

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