Page 22 of Neighbor from Hell
“Would you look at that!” the cashier murmurs, practically vibrating.
This is more than enough to bring me back to my senses.
“Do you know him?” I ask, keeping my voice as casual as I can manage, leaning against the counter, playing it cool.
Her eyes widen and her blue nails flutter. “Everybody knowshim. His family’s been here for generations. He’s the Duke of Beauclerk. He lives mostly in London and only really comes to Hawk’s End for short visits. Hugh Montrose is the closest thing to royalty we have. The girls go crazy when he’s around.” She sighs dreamily. “I know you’ve got gorgeous cowboys walking around in America, but he’s what we got. Proper eye candy, isn’t he?”
She looks at me expectantly, and I cough and nod quickly. “Yeah.”
“You’d think he’d be the typical rich titled guy,” she continues, “and take some of those girls throwing themselves at him, but nope. He just minds his own business, rides his horse, flies his hawks and falcons, and keeps to himself.”
I turn my head to look at him, processing, because this is surprising to hear. I, of course, would have thought that he’d be after everything with boobs and a pair of legs he can open, but… he keeps to himself? Maybe that is easy to believe, after all.
Of course, he’d keep to himself when the only thing that interests him is stealing other people’s land. I have a wild desire to scratch the message into that gleaming new car of his: “my cottage is not your birthright.” God, he really brings out the witch in me.
I’m about to return my attention to the cashier when all of a sudden, he looks my way. Through the window, our gazes collide.
Jesus! I freeze in panic, as my stomach lurches and shock roots me to the spot. He takes off his sunglasses, perhaps so that I won’t be even a shadow of a doubt that he is indeed staring straight at me. And then he smiles, a slow, crooked thing, warm enough to burn. My pulse trips, and heat creeps up my neck. It’s such a weird sensation, I can’t tell if I’m pissed or flustered or both.
The cashier, Annabel, her name tag announced it, squeals and grabs my arm. “Oh my God, did you see that? He smiled at me! Oh my God.” Her face is all glee, oblivious to my frozen stare.
I laugh, shaky, channeling my nerves into a grin, grateful for the distraction. “You’re Annabel, right?” I ask, needing to ground myself.
“Yeah, but I hate that name. Everyone just calls me Ann,” she says, still buzzing, her freckles melding into her flush.
“I’m Lauren,” I say. “Is there perchance a hardware store around? I need waterproofing, plumbing supplies, that kinda thing.”
Ann nods, pointing down the street. “Yeah, just past the pub—it’s a big sign, you can’t miss it.” She’s still half-gone, gushing about Hugh—his jawline, his mystery—and I let her ramble, curious despite myself.
“He’s just so delectable, I could pop him between two slices of bread and eat him,” she says with a grin. “And he’s a billionaire.”
I raise a brow, teasing. “Is he the only edible man in town, or is he just extra tasty because his family gave him billions?”
“Oh no. His family was almost bankrupt. Montrose Manor had leaks everywhere, and the east wing had become dangerous because of structural damage. His father even sold off a parcel of land to pay his property taxes. Hugh Montrose is completely self-made. He bought back the land his father sold and restored the manor to its glory days. He’s bloody unbelievable.”
My heart skips a beat. So I misjudged him.
“And yes,” she continues, catching my earlier drift and giggling, “there are other edible men, but none quite like him. Look, you’re new here. Why don’t you come out with me for a drink at the pub? It’s quite alright on Friday and Saturday nights. The drinks are not too pricey, and you’ll be able to meet some of the lads here. None as handsome as the Duke, but us mortals must recognize our limitations and make do.”
“The Duke doesn’t ever go to the pub?” I ask.
She makes a hissing sound. “Of course not. If he ever did, I’d quit working here and find employment there.”
I smile in response because she is such a delight to listen to. Her invite catches me off guard, but I embrace it because I knowit comes from a warm and genuine heart. I feel that ache again, the one that’s been quiet since the bakery.
“Yeah, I’d like that,” I say, meaning it, my mood lifting. “Let me know when you’re free.”
“Deal,” Ann says, handing me my receipt, her smile wide.
I head out, the soap, a bag of nuts for my furry little tenant, and a packet of sponge light in my bag, and glance at the Range Rover again. Fortunately, Hugh is nowhere in sight. The hardware store’s not far away, a squat building on its own with a cluttered window displaying hammers, paint cans, rolls of wallpaper, and an ironing board.
Inside, it smells of men’s smells, sawdust and metal, and the shelves are packed with tools I barely understand but apparently will need. I grab a small tube of caulk to urgently seal some cracks I found in the living room wall, a small trowel, and a basic wrench, my budget screaming with every choice. The clerk, a gruff guy with a beard, gives me a catalog for ordering paint and bigger supplies online, jotting down my cottage’s address for delivery.
“It usually takes a few days,” he says. “But I’ll try to hurry the order so it gets to you earlier.”
“I’d appreciate that, thank you.” I nod with relief, especially now that it’s confirmed that I won’t have to bike back and forth with gallons of paint.
By the time I’m done, I see that Hugh’s Range Rover is gone.
