Page 37 of Neighbor from Hell
“Your party’s beautiful,” she says, a touch of wonder in her voice, like she’s seeing something out of a storybook. “It’s like… how I imagined a party in a palace would be.”
I follow her gaze, seeing it all anew: the open doors to the rose garden, moonlight spilling over the gravel paths, guests drifting in and out, their laughter mingling with the scent of night-blooming jasmine. “It’s not my party,” I say, keeping mytone light. “A favor for a business acquaintance who wanted somewhere grand for his fifth wedding anniversary.”
“That’s… really kind,” she says, and her sincerity hits me, unexpectedly, like a ray of light breaking through a cloud. She’s not biting, not guarded, and it throws me. I bite back the instinctive sarcastic retort about the favor being worth £1.2 billion, knowing talk of wealth would spook her, make her retreat.
She stands, smoothing her jacket, ready to bolt. “I should go?—”
“Why?” I ask, moving closer, catching the faint lemon of her shampoo, a scent that pulls me back to that kiss. “You don’t need to wait alone in a cold, flooded house. The plumber will call when he gets there. Come and join the party.”
She falters, glancing down at herself, her fingers tugging at her skirt. “I’m not dressed for this,” she says, voice tight, a flush creeping up her neck. “I look… out of place.”
“You look beautiful,” I murmur, and it’s not flattery. It’s truth, raw and unguarded. Her skirt hugs her hips, her top bares a sliver of skin, and that jacket makes her real in a way no gown could.
She freezes, her cheeks deepening with color, and I see the way the compliment lands, softening her edges, making her pause. “Thank you,” she says quietly, and after a long moment, “Okay. I’ll stay.”
Relief floods me. The feeling is unexpected and unsettling. I turn my head and catch a waiter’s eye, signaling him over.
“Champagne okay with you?” I ask her, keeping it casual, like it’s nothing to keep her here.
“Champagne’s good,” she says.
“You’re hungry? Shall I call for some hot food?”
Her eyes flick to the buffet table across the room, piled with all kinds of exotic dishes. “Maybe I’ll just… grab something from there.”
She starts to move, but I’m not letting her slip away so easily. I fall into step beside her. “Alright,” I say, my voice warm and friendly. “I’ll go with you.”
Her eyes flick to mine in surprise, and instantly, I feel the air shift, become charged like it was in the orangery—dangerously alive and impossible to resist.
Chapter
Twenty-Five
LAUREN
Ifeel like I’m in the spotlight, and I’m suddenly fiercely glad I didn’t half-ass my outfit. That skirt I fretted over? It hugs my hips just right, and it’s short, but there’s enough there to hold its own. The crop top, the jacket—they’re not diamonds and designer silk, but they’re me, a scrappy echo of the confident old me.
I know I don’t blend in, more like the thrift-store cousin of this glittering crowd, but I don’t care. Not much, anyway. What I do care about, and too much, is Hugh being so close his cedar-and-whisky scent curls around me like an invisible trap. His hand rests very lightly on the small of my back, guiding me through the crowd, and it’s not that I want it gone. God, no. It’s that I hate how much I like it, how it sends a shiver up my spine, warm and treacherous, like standing too close to a fire.
He’s too near, so near, his presence is almost overwhelming, and I can’t ignore how he looks. In these dazzling surroundings and in superbly cut white tie, he has morphed into a properLord of the Manor. He seems taller, sharper, prouder, like he’s stepped out of a dream. His hair is swept back, not a wave out of place, and his skin appears golden, making those gorgeous gray eyes that, as ever, seem to see right through me, even more stunning. He towers over me, his broad shoulders cutting a silhouette.
It all makes my knees feel like they’re made of jelly.
I know it’s not hunger or the effects of champagne, because the flute in my hand is still full as I haven’t dared drink it yet. It’s him. Every glance, every move, chips away at my resolve, and I wish I’d downed something, anything, to blame for this weakness, this unsteady pulse. But it’s just him making me feel raw and exposed.
We reach the buffet, a vast spread of gleaming silver trays filled with every kind of food. I turn to Hugh to tell him he doesn’t need to babysit me. “I’m sorry—I’m keeping you from your guests.”
He turns, his eyes locking onto mine as a small smile tugs at his lips. “Don’t be. The talk was getting stale. I’m happy for a break.”
His words are easy, but his eyes stare at me as if they hide a deeper meaning. Before I can dwell, he hands me a plate, his fingers brushing mine for a split second, electric. I take it, and suddenly shy, turn away and pretend to scan the table full of delicacies. Caviar, a whole salmon cooked and sliced into thin portions, glistening prawns in aspic, cheeses dusted with herbs. Nothing messy, nothing that’ll make me look like a disaster. I pick three safe bets: a cucumber round heaped with a creamy concoction, a skewer of shrimp and courgette flowers fried in batter, a piece of puff pastry that looks like it won’t crumble. I glance at him.
“Don’t you want anything?”
He nods and reaches past me, his arm grazing mine as he grabs a few appetizers. I watch a mini steak on a cracker, a stuffed mushroom, and a couple of bite-size tarts with lobster meat arrive on my plate. I inhale deeply. We’re sharing the plate now, standing close, the crowd a distant hum. I nibble at the pastry, trying to focus on the buttery flake, but he’s watching me, his gaze steady, unyielding. I feel it like a touch, and my cheeks burn. We don’t talk, just eat, the silence thick with something I can’t name. Then he breaks it, voice low.
“You should always wear your hair like that. Suits you.”
I wasn’t ready for compliments from him and nearly choke to death. I want to groan or bolt, because he’s making this so freaking hard. He’s saving my ass like a goddamn hero, but the pull I feel, this ache to lean closer, it’s a bad thing. A bad, bad thing because I could strip him bare right here, white tie be damned. The intensity of longing shocks me, and makes my breath catch.
