Page 17 of Neighbor from Hell
“It’s true, though,” he argues stubbornly. “Who else owns a company managing billions in assets and comes from generational royalty. You’re as rare and golden as a hen’s tooth, and you need to ensure that she knows this. This is how you’ll get her to stick to you like Velcro… the way all the others have.
He leans back and crosses his arms. “You have to blow your own trumpet sometimes. Brag with confidence. After all, you’ve earned the right. All the Dukes I know are selling their Rembrandts and Monets just to stay afloat. You? You’ve managed to get into the Forbes richest list.”
I groan.
“My advice,” he says, his voice dropping to a slurring whisper. “Unless she’s been living under a rock, she knows exactly who you are. You’ve been on enough magazine covers. She knows she’s onto a good thing, but she’s just playing hard to get. Give her time, and she’ll show her true colors.”
I hold his gaze for a beat, then look away. How strange. He knows exactly how the game is played, and yet, he fell right into the oldest trap in the book with Camila’s.
“Right,” I murmur. “Right.”
He claps my shoulder once firmly, before his fiancée sweeps in, all smiles and glitter. Brushing my arm, she pulls him away for a dance.
“Don’t be a stranger, Hugh,” she calls coyly over her shoulder, and then they’re gone, swallowed by the swaying crowd.
Alone, I sit stewing on his words—give her time.
Makes sense. She’s just arrived, and has barely unpacked, and time is probably what she needs to come around and see reason. But time is what I don’t have. Those nasty developers are circling her land like a blood-maddened shark. I don’t want them getting to her first, or worse, her selling to them out of spite just to stick it to me.
I swirl the whiskey and watch the light fracture through it, and a bizarre thought drops into my head.
I’m going to get her. By hook or by crook, I’m going to get her.
I frown. Not her, I mean the property, obviously.
I’m going to get it. One way or another. I’m going to get it. If I get her too, it will be the juicy cherry on the cake.
Chapter
Twelve
LAUREN
Isit cross-legged on the dusty sofa, a notebook balanced on my knee, as I jot down everything I’ve tackled today. My handwriting’s a mess, slanting hard, but it’s legible enough.
Haul a whole heap of trash out.
Windows pried open.
Kitchen sink and counters scrubbed free of grime.
Five piles of books and magazines sorted and ready for donation.
I pause, chewing the cap, then add a few more tasks.
Empty out and thoroughly clean the bedroom.
Heavy-duty cleaning of the bathroom.
I scan the list, ticking off what’s done. Half the page is already scratched out, and it feels good. I’m carving some order into the crazy chaos around me. I rip the page free, grab a magnet from a drawer—a tacky thing shaped like a teapot and slap it onto the fridge. The metal’s cold against my fingertips. Thank God, it’sstill humming faintly from the ancient motor inside. I step back, hands on my hips, staring at it.
It’s proof I’m not drowning… yet.
I’d planned to crash in Grandma’s room tonight, but the thought makes me feel uneasy—it’s too heavy, too haunted, like it needs an exorcism or at least a priest to wave some smoky incense around. The more I clean out her stuff though, the more I get a sense of who she is, and I’m pretty sure that we would have been friends, but I suspect lying on her bed and being surrounded by so much of her essence will be quite spooky. Anyway, since the living room is where I feel most comfortable, that’s where I plan to sleep again, so I zeroed in on cleaning it all day.
Black trash bags line the walls now, stuffed with moldy cushions, cracked mugs, stacks of yellowed newspapers Grandma hoarded like treasure. There’s another pile to store—photo frames, a tarnished clock, stuff I can’t toss yet, but it’s the only way I’ve clawed enough space to see the floor. An old carpet peeks out, faded red and matted, curling at the edges. I’ll rip it out eventually, strip this place bare, but for now it stays. The couch is clear, at least, the springs groaning as I sink into it again. I’m ready to collapse, my arms aching, dust still tickling my nose.
It’s early evening, the light outside softening to a hazy gold, and I drag myself up to warm some soup—another can of tomato, the label peeling, the stove hissing as it heats. I stir it slowly as the steam rises, tangy and warm. It’s so quiet around here, I can hear the sound of the spoon clinking against the sides of the pot.
