Hate Thy Neighbor: An Enemies-to-Lovers Standalone Romance Read online

  “Feet off,” I scold, then turn back toward my parents, my brows taking a nosedive. “Why wouldn’t I? It’s a fixer-upper. My first official house—I want to make it mine.”

  “Baby girl, you don’t even know how to change a tire.”

  Brandon cackles some more at my expense, and I shoot him another scowl over my shoulder.

  My nose crinkles. “What does that have to do with anything? That’s what insurance is for and all that other stuff.” I wave my hand dismissively in the air.

  They raise their brows, waiting for me to see their point, and I do. I mean, I totally get it. My parents did everything for me during high school and in college, then when I met my ex, I didn’t have to worry about doing any of that stuff because he took care of it for me. When I had a flat tire, he called and handled it for me. If my car needed an oil change, he made the appointments and kept track of all that for me.

  I guess now that he’s not around, I’ll have to learn to take care of all that myself, something I should’ve learned to do ages ago, but honestly, I’ve always had a man in my life who could help me. First my dad, then my ex. I never had a time when I had to depend on myself and trust myself enough to get something done.

  I blow out a sigh. “This is the first time every decision will be mine. I want to make memories in this house, and I want to start by doing all these DIY projects.”

  My mom forces a smile, truly unconvinced, and Dad just rolls his eyes, mumbling some psychology mumbo-jumbo under his breath. He goes back to his task of carrying in the dining table chairs, something Brandon should be helping with.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be doing something useful?” I raise a brow at my brother. With an annoyingly slow pace, he pushes up from the couch and walks down the hall toward the master bedroom.

  “Sure do. Think I’ll start with dropping a deuce in your bathroom.”

  My face contorts with abhorrence. “Fucking disgusting.”

  Focusing back on my task of stacking boxes, I feel my mother’s gaze on me, watching me closely. Much too closely.

  “So,” Mom starts, fiddling with the torn edge of the kitchen supplies box on the counter. “You’re taking care of yourself, right?”

  I pause halfway down from picking a box up. She’s still fiddling with that damn edge , avoiding my gaze. Likely because she knows what my reaction will be.

  “Of course I am.” I damn near scoff.

  “We’re just making sure. We know how forgetful you are, and without Reid around to remind you—”

  I roll my eyes and cross my arms over my chest. “I don’t need Reid’s help with anything, Mom. I’m perfectly capable of handling things on my own.”

  We have a stare off that lasts a few solid beats, before she nods and pats the frumpy box, deciding to leave the subject alone, for now. My mother has always been a beautiful woman, but you know the phrase, “aging like fine wine”? That’s Lisa Hales in a nutshell. With bright hazel eyes, high cheekbones and a slender nose, my mother could’ve been a model if she hadn’t gone the sex therapist route. For the most part, people say my mother and I look alike, but I don’t see it. Where my hair is brown, hers is a beautiful honey blonde. Where her hazel eyes are bright and inviting, mine are flat and boring.

  Speaking of those eyes, they trail up and down my body, and she pauses on my breasts.

  “Did you take my advice? Remember, nipple stimulation is very important for your body and posture during sex and masturbation, Sweetheart.”

  “Argh! Mom!” I groan. Spinning on my heels, I hurry out the open front door. Anything to avoid her “sex talk.” The woman seriously knows no bounds.

  I walk back out toward the rental, shaking my head the entire way. I pass my dad, and I’m guessing, by my flustered expression, that he knows exactly what happened back in there because he laughs at me. I pause, at the mouth of the truck, when I hear the sound of thunder. At least I think it is, until the roaring grows so loud, it’s deafening. I shield my eyes from the sun with my hand and glance down the street at where the sound is coming from, only to realize there’s something coming.

  Or someone, I should say.

  My eyes widen when I realize what I’m looking at.

  The chromed-out motorcycle that looks like it belongs on an episode of Sons of Anarchy pulls into the driveway of the quiet, well-put-together house next door. The one with no cars and the nice lawn. I narrow my gaze, eyeing the person on the bike, as they pull up the drive. A white T-shirt, red and blue flannel wrapped around the waist, and ripped jeans are all I can see on the outside, and my feet, with a mind of their own, start taking slow, unsure steps toward the house next door. I swear I see the bike rider twist their head toward me just a bit, but it’s hard to tell with that helmet on. The visor is blacked out, so I can’t make out anything, not even the person’s eyes.

  Before I can figure out who’s under there or get any closer, the garage opens. The bike quickly revs in, and the door shuts, all within a few seconds.

  Still with a frown pasted on my face, I glance around at all the houses in the cul-de-sac. Someone who owns a motorcycle was not what I was expecting when I moved in here. Not at all.

  This should be interesting. Right?

  “Gives You Hell”—The All-American Rejects

  My first official day in the neighborhood, without my family, is spent baking. Much to my chagrin, my family stayed and helped me get settled here for a few days, before they had to head back home. Brandon had football practice, and apparently, his coach is a fat dick. My dad called him a chode, something the incomparable Dr. Ethan Hales doesn’t do often.

  Of course, before they left, my parents had to know I was okay and made me promise to take care of myself. They obviously couldn’t tell me that, in their own words, because they discerned it’d somehow lead to the next world war. Oh, no. They used my brother for their dirty work instead. It was one thing for them to ask and question me about my health, but to sic my brother on me? That was a new low.

  The first night sleeping alone in my new house felt…surreal. It was the first time I was truly on my own. I wasn’t sharing my space with roommates, or a boyfriend, or even a fiancé; I was officially on my own. It was the highest I’d felt in a long time. But with all highs came the lows, and the low in this case was my fear. Though small, my fear was still there, itching to be heard. I feared my ex’s words—I feared all his doubts were warranted.

  Maybe I couldn’t do this.

  Maybe I really wouldn’t be anything without him.

  All that fear did was make me want to prove him wrong. Once I worked through the doubts, I embraced my new chapter with open arms and not one ounce of trepidation.

  If I was truly going to prove everyone wrong, I needed to have faith in myself first.

  When I roll out of bed the next morning, a fresh wave of excitement slams into me. I’m feeling refreshed and determined to enjoy the rest of my weekend, before I start my new job Monday. Back in Long Beach, I was a veterinary assistant for three years. It wasn’t easy to find an open position here in Campbell, so quickly, but I managed. Of about twenty clinics to choose from, I had my heart set on only a few, and I was fortunate enough that one of those clinics took a chance on me as a new hire.

  My plan for today is to knock off as much as I can on my to-do list for the house. Even with all my furniture and most of my boxes unpacked, the house still looks barren and unorganized. I figure I’ll find some throw pillows and other odds and ends, before looking into paint colors and other necessities.

  Last night, I saw a quick and easy recipe on Pinterest and decided I’d try it out after I went grocery shopping. I thought it would be an admirable introduction to the neighbors. I made two batches of chocolate Bundt cakes. One for the neighbor on the left, and the other for the neighbor on my right. I set the delicious smelling desserts on my good china that I had to dig through my boxes to find and wrap each with foil.

  I decide to start with the house to the right of mi
ne. Personally, I like to call them the contradictors. I still can’t, for the life of me, understand why they’d have a Hummer and a Prius. It certainly defeats the whole purpose, doesn’t it?

  Despite that, Mona, the owner of said Prius, turns out to be a really sweet woman. She’s a mother of four, and I learn her husband owns the Hummer that isn’t in the driveway this morning. We chat for a while, and I can’t contain my burst of pride when she fawns over the cake I made.

  From her house, I make the trek back to my place and grab the other cake from the counter, before I head to the neighbor’s house on the opposite side. Once again, there are no cars outside, but as I noticed yesterday, motorcycle guy keeps his vehicles in the garage.

  A smile tips the corners of my lips, as I climb the steps, taking in the immaculate grass and the clean, sleek look of his porch. Whoever he is, he obviously takes excellent care of his house and lawn. Clearing my throat, I ring the doorbell and square my shoulders, wanting to make a worthy first impression.

  It’s silent, save for the loud barking at the fence.

  No sound of footsteps.

  My brows dip.

  Okay, let’s just knock. If he’s not home, I’ll leave the cake.

  I rap my knuckles on the door three times and wait again. Still nothing. I’m just about to turn on my heels, when the door swings open with a frustrated sound that can only be described as a low growl.

  Time suddenly stops.

  The foundation shifts beneath my feet.

  Tension crackles in the air. My eyes grow impossibly round, and my mouth drops open in shock.

  Standing there—with droplets of water rolling down a toned chest, trickling over abs that are impossible to look away from—is my neighbor. My very hot neighbor. There’s a script tattoo over his right pec, but I can’t be too sure what it says. And suddenly, the thought of asking seems a bit inappropriate. He hovers in the doorway like a giant, and I gape at his height. He has to be at least six feet four, or five. Usually, everyone towers over me, seeing as I’m only five foot two on a good day, but this guy? That’s not the case at all. Hell, the top of his head is damn near grazing the top part of the doorframe. With a mind of their own, my eyes trail down his impossibly long body.

  Suddenly, the thought of this individual naked, with water rolling down his fine body in a shower, makes me flush hot, and I’m uncomfortable with the fact that I’m this attracted to someone I don’t even know.

  I swallow thickly.

  Well, now I know who rides the motorcycle.

  For a long beat, I forget how to speak. I even forget how to breathe. I inhale a sharp breath, when a tight pain travels down the center of my chest, reminding me to breathe. Slowly, I drag my gaze up the tan, toned body to a pair of bored ice blue eyes. The guy is handsome. Painfully handsome. I didn’t think it was possible for his face to get any better than his body, but, obviously, I was wrong. His face is so much better than I could’ve expected.

  The color of his eyes are so bright, it’s as if he’s wearing colored contacts, and I’m finding it hard to look away. His strong and bold brows arch over luminous, furious eyes. He’s got cheekbones I’d kill for. And succulent lips pursed into a tight, stern line. His hair is a dark chocolate brown, shaggier on top than it is at the sides. The dark strands look like he’s just ran his hand through it; yet, somehow, it looks incredibly good on him.

  “H-Hi, I’m Olivia Hales. The new neighbor. Next door,” I fumble, snapping out of my ogling. “I just wanted to bring over the cake I made. I know it’s usually the other way around, as housewarming gifts for new neighbors, but I thought it would be refreshing to do things differently.”

  With his hand gripped around the knot of the towel, just above the light smattering of dark hair that dips below, and droplets of water still dripping on his pristine hardwood floors—it doesn’t escape my notice they’re the exact shade I wanted for my own home—the man continues to stare at me. Scratch that, the man is practically glaring into my soul. I can feel the waves of unrestrained anger percolating in the air around us. No outward expression. No interest. For a second, I didn’t think he even heard what I said.

  I open my mouth, but freeze, when I see the tic in his jaw. The sharp slope becomes even more lethal, and it’s almost distracting to stare at. The man is like a goddamn descendant of a Greek god.

  At my gawking silence, his mouth twists with frustration, maybe annoyance, I’m not even sure, but it’s enough to make my smile and positive spirit falter. I shift awkwardly on my feet, the weight of the cake suddenly growing heavy in my hands.

  “I, um, I would probably set it inside. It’s a little warm out today.”

  And, once again, nothing. Not a damn word. He still hasn’t even given me his name, for Christ’s sake. He just continues glaring down at me. The sharp features of his handsome face give nothing away.

  “I’m sorry. I might have missed something,” I say, raising my voice in case he’s hard of hearing. That can be the only explanation for his silence. “I’m your new neighbor. O-liv-i-a.” I make a show of breaking my name down and speaking loudly. There’s no way he can misinterpret that. Unless he’s deaf.

  Oh, fuck. What if he really is deaf?

  His grip tightens on the door, and his brows dip, the sharp edges slanting down, casting shadows across his face.

  “I heard you the first time.”

  His voice…Christ, his voice. It rolls through my body. It feels like warm, melted butter on my skin and stirs something unfamiliar inside me. His speech is flavored with whiskey and tobacco. I’m not even entirely sure if that’s a thing, but I feel like it is. It’s so deep and masculine—and all too hot—it takes me a few seconds to realize what he said. When I do, my face scrunches with confusion.

  Well, if he heard me the first time, why is he making me sound shit out for him and look ridiculous?

  “Oh, sorry,” I mumble, glancing down at my white painted toenails. “Well, it’s nice to meet you…” I trail off, waiting for him to be a gentleman and give me his name. He doesn’t. He gives me a cold leer.

  Okaaay.

  “Here, enjoy this. I have a few more stops to make, then some shopping to do, but I’ll see you around.” I thrust the plate with the foil-covered cake toward him, and he glances down at it like it’s offensive, making no move to take it. My arms start to grow heavy, hanging between us, and a long, awkward beat passes. It’s a test of sorts, as we stare at each other, seeing who will break first. The muscles in my arms are screaming, on the verge of trembling, and I will him with my eyes to take it.

  “No.”

  “No?” I parrot, feeling oddly discombobulated by this naked stranger and his cold demeanor.

  Taking a page out of my book, he makes a show of dragging out the syllables when he repeats himself.

  Does this guy have a limited vocabulary?

  “What do you mean ‘no’?” Growing agitated by his rudeness, I clamp my back teeth together and grind my molars. Anything to keep from telling my neighbor that he’s acting like an asshole.

  He shifts, changing his grip on the door. The movement causes the muscles in his arms and his abs to flex without permission. I don’t even have the willpower to force myself to glance away.

  Christ in heaven, he has those veins that strain against such perfectly tanned skin and—

  He suddenly reaches out, and for a second, I think he’s going to take the plate, but instead, he pushes it back toward me.

  “I mean, no. I don’t want it.” Without another word, he slams the door in my face.

  A startled gasp flies past my lips at the resounding echo of the door shutting, and I stand there, staring at the wood, like a complete fool, until I can get my feet to move properly. I cross his lawn back toward my house and glance over my shoulder.

  I want to give my neighbor the benefit of the doubt, but as far as first encounters go, I think he’s an absolute dick.

  I spend way too much time at HomeGoods and another long
span at the local hardware store, looking at flooring options. Even when I stumble upon a similar color to what I have in mind, I flash back to my neighbor’s floors. The light rustic floorboards are exactly what I’m looking for.

  If things had gone differently when I took the cake over there earlier, I might’ve had the guts to see past his good looks and ask about his floors, but that is most definitely not how it went down. I keep replaying the encounter, going over everything in my mind. I second-guess myself, wondering if I did anything to piss him off, but nothing stands out to me. I could’ve caught him at a crummy time, and I guess, technically, I did. He was getting out of the shower, after all.

  Maybe it was my ogling? I didn’t mean to purposely eye-fuck him. I just wasn’t expecting my neighbor to resemble a fucking male model from Men’s Health or GQ. But I get the feeling that wasn’t the issue either.

  For the life of me, I can’t get his dickish attitude out of my mind, and most of all, his eyes. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone—least of all a man—with such beautiful eyes. They were hard and angry looking, but they were also beautiful. Devastatingly beautiful. The vibrant blue was unlike anything I’ve ever seen before.

  When I get home and pull into the driveway, I peek at the house next door. The neighbor’s garage is wide open, and he’s moving around inside. It’s hard to see clearly, but I glimpse just enough to make out his silhouette and the vehicle inside. I pause, wondering if I should go over there and say hi, but after how awkward this morning was, I decide not to. Instead, I get out of the car, but when I shut the door, the loud sound is enough to grab his attention. With his hands braced on the edge of his muscle car and the raised hood blocking half of him from view, he glances over. Even though it’s too far to see the color, I can practically feel the blue of his gaze on my flesh. His stare has a texture to it, one I can feel rolling through my body, traveling down my spine, as if it’s a roller in a massage chair. I swallow past the sudden dryness in my throat, and I smile, waving at him. He doesn’t return the gesture nor does he smile. He just pushes off from the car, stuffs a red, dingy-looking bandana into the back pocket of his low-slung jeans, then hits something on the wall. The hinges roar, as the garage door kicks into action and shuts, shielding him from view.