Page 7 of Neighbor from Hell
HUGH
Completely deluded. This is the only way she can be described. I’ve never come across anything like it. I saw it in her eyes. The unshakeable belief that she can put that property right simply by tinkering around with it. My blood’s boiling, and my chest is tight with fury. ‘No,’ she’d said, like it’s that simple, like she can just reject my offer and preserve that rotting heap she calls a cottage.
I dig my heels in hard, and my horse responds, hooves slamming the dirt, tearing across the field faster than I’ve ridden in years. Wind lashes at my face, cool and biting, streaking through my hair as I push my horse to what I know he is capable of. With his gallop and a thunder in my ears, I don’t stop, not for a long damn time. I let the rage burn itself out.
By the time I finally rein in, my shirt’s damp with sweat and sticking to my back, and the horse’s flanks heave under me. I’m miles out now, the manor a speck in the distance, and I realize— I’m too furious. Why am I this angry? She’s just some stubbornYank; there’s no reason to let her get under my skin like this. The sun dips lower, golden streaks breaking through the clouds, painting the fields in a glow that usually calms me. Not today.
I turn my horse around, take him at a slower pace, and let the rhythm of his hooves steady my pulse.
No one’s riled me up this quick or this bad, ever. I don’t want to admit it, don’t want to give her the credit even in my head, but it’s because she’s… unusual. Beautiful, yes, but not in a polished, predictable way—more like a wildfire, dangerous and raw, the kind that gets your blood boiling whether you want it to or not. The big blue eyes, the tangled strawberry blonde halo, and that sharp little “fuck” she let slip. None of it has got anything to do with the land, and that knowledge pisses me off more. I shove the irritation down and focus on the plan.
She’s not motivated by money—that much is glaringly obvious. I doubled the price, threw out a number that’d make most people’s eyes bulge, and she didn’t even flinch—just stared at me with those big blue flames, like I’d offered her pocket change for a candy bar. It’s baffling. Money’s the one thing that always works—cuts through bullshit, bends people to my will.
Not her, apparently.
She isn’t a country bumpkin, though, no question about it. I caught it at that first glance—wide-eyed contempt twisting her face as her eyes accidentally slid towards the weeds growing through the cracks outside the door. I’ll be willing to bet she’s never stepped foot outside a city grid. Probably grew up choking on exhaust fumes, crammed into some overpriced box. All she needs is time before the novelty of a crumbling cottage stops being all quaint and pretty wears off. Girls like her—outsiders who stumble out here—always end up whining about the quiet, the fact that there’s nothing to do, or the way the days stretch into silence. She won’t be any different; I’m ready to bet on it.
But right now?
She’s hooked—clinging to a dream. Or maybe she’s sentimental about losing her grandmother. That’ll change. I just have to be patient. It’ll fade, though—that’s the thing. Grief’s a drug, keeps you high on purpose for a while, but it wears off. She’ll wake up one morning to the creak of that rotting floor, the empty fields, the sheer bloody stillness, and she’ll get restless. The isolation out here—it chews people up, spits them out bored and clawing for a way back to noise, to life.
But when I think about the unreasonable hag that was her grandmother, I recall that Mabel Morrel was even more stubborn and unwilling to sell at the very end than she was when she first arrived.
This girl’s got that same fire in her eyes, that same defiance burning in her gut. It’s why she’s digging her heels in for this pile of junk as if it’s a castle worth defending. I can picture her now, coughing through the dust, her voice sharp with more soft “fucks” as she runs into more buried junk — and there it is again, that flicker in my chest, hot, unfamiliar, and unwanted.
She’s a thorn I didn’t expect.
And I’m certainly not waiting months for the boredom scenario to play out—not a bloody chance. I’ve got no patience for her mourning phase to end, no time to wait for her wallow until she figures out she’s in over her head.
She’s probably naive under all that spit and fire—and that’s going to be my angle.
She doesn’t want cash, fine, but boredom’s a beast I can wield. I can see it now: her pacing that cramped cottage, kicking at the junk, realizing there’s no Starbucks, no plush bars, no pulse to keep her going. She’s not built for this, not long-term. I’ll make damn sure she knows it, too—speed it up, push her to the edge until she’s begging to ditch this place.
Shame she didn’t arrive in the midst of winter. A winter in Hawk’s End will knock any and all sentimentalism out of anygreenhorn. Instead, she’s arrived with a hot summer forecasted around the bend.
I nudge the horse into a trot, the manor rises up ahead, its stone walls snagging the last scraps of daylight, shadows clawing across the grass. She’s young and unexpectedly beautiful, sure, with that city-girl innocence hidden under sharp words and a devil-may-care attitude, but I’ve never had to sweat turning a woman’s head. It just happens, like breathing. A look, a word, and they’re tripping over themselves.
I can do charming when I want—flash a grin, let my voice drop low. She’ll feel it; they always do. Hopefully, I won’t have to try too hard. I’ve never really given it a thought before. How hard can it be to seduce and corrupt?
All I have to do is give her a taste of the good stuff, the kind of life I live without blinking, and she’ll start craving it. I’ll take her down to London. That’s the move—chuck her in the helicopter, let her gawk at the skyline while she sips champagne. I’ll drown her in it—the lights, the excitement, the pulse—and this village will start to feel like a fucking graveyard after that.
Perhaps, I’ll invite her to the manor first. Show her a taste of the kind of life she would be missing cooped up in that rotting cottage. She’ll tromp in, boots caked with mud, and see it: the gleam of the chandeliers, the smell of old wood and older money. All within easy reach. All she has to do is give up her silly dream of doing up her decaying property.
I’ll make it all a fantasy she can’t resist until I get her to give in. As soon as she does, then I can put an end to the charade of my undying attraction to her. Hopefully, given her pride, she’ll be too hurt to remain here. It occurs to me though, that one result could be that she might refuse to sell to me out of pure spite. I think on this for a little while and decide that if it comes to that, I’ll throw someone else at her, some smooth-talking lackey in a suit, call it a “business offer” that she won’t pin on me.
My heart’s steadier now as the cottage problem becomes more manageable. I swing off the horse, and one of the stable hands grabs the reins, mumbling some greeting or platitude I don’t quite catch. I nod vaguely and stalk inside, the echo of my steps bouncing off the high ceilings.
She’s nothing—a glitch, a fly I’ll swat.
In my mind’s eye, I see her again—coughing in that dust-trap, snapping at me like a little blue-eyed dragon—a hot spike of lust sizzles through my body. I shove it down fast. Doesn’t matter. I’ll be killing two birds with one stone. Either way, she’s toast, and that property is mine.
It’s a done job.
Chapter
Seven
LAUREN
