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1
Lana
The pictures on the wall thumped with the bass coming from next door. It was a Wednesday night for goodness sake. Who the hell threw a party in the middle of the week? The annoying man I lived next to, that’s who. I released a frustrated groan and pulled my glasses from my face, dropping them onto the stack of papers beside me.
The disturbance caused Yoda, my three-year-old Chihuahua, to look up at me before he stood, stretched, walked to the other end of the couch, turned three times, and resumed his nap. His back faced me as the ultimate snub.
I’d read the same line of numbers multiple times. The noise from next door was proving to be as frustrating as the person behind it. He who swooped in and snatched up the unit I’d wanted before I’d had a chance to finish weighing the pros and cons of each place.
Spreadsheets—seeing the numbers—that was what I did. But nope, guess some were more impulsive than others. Like Mr. Thoughtless next door.
Of the four complexes I’d narrowed it down to, this one had everything I wanted. A smaller community, lower HOA fees, but a decent amount of amenities with the pool, workout room, and a clubhouse that could host movie nights. I’d picked out exactly which place I’d wanted at each location. Here, it was the end unit on the back half of the subdivision so there was less drive-through traffic. Three bedrooms, a larger living room, and a kitchen with a small sunroom attached to the patio. Not to mention, I got to look out on a distant mountain view and natural desert landscape, instead of my neighbor’s backyard like some of the buildings in the center of Desert Rose Station. That was just bad planning.
That unit had been the last end availability in phase three, the final phase which meant I didn’t have to deal with long term construction noise and dirt. It was perfect. And two months later, I remained irked over having lost the one I’d scouted out and being forced into making an impulse decision. A decision I’d regretted since moving in.
Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. My pictures bounced and the pulse in my temple pounded in the same rhythm. I ran my hands through my hair, scrunching it in my fist before letting the curls tumble free. I didn’t like confrontation, it wasn’t my thing, but how was a woman supposed to think?
I stormed down the hallway, passed my front office that rarely got used, and out my door. My mistake of not stopping for shoes became painfully evident as I had to gingerly walk over the pebbled divider separating my driveway from his. With a frustrated sigh, I shook the nerves from my body before jabbing the doorbell, then hitting it twice more.
As I lifted my finger to hit the button again the door opened with a whoosh. The mid-laugh stopped and the smile dropped from his face the moment he set eyes on me. Two months of living next to him and this was the closest we’d actually come to each other. The fact that I had to look up at him bristled under my skin. At five-nine, I stood eye to eye with most men—taller when I wore heels—and I enjoyed being on even playing ground so to speak. Which meant he had to be at least six feet and another reason his mere presence was a thorn in my side.
“What can I do for you, Ms. Passive Aggressive?” He leaned his lanky body—clad in a plain black T-shirt and gray athletic shorts—against the doorframe and crossed his arms in front of his chest.
I frowned at his greeting. Miss what now? Oh, shit. The note I’d left on the windshield of whatever car was parked too close to my driveway and nearly had me blocked in. Leaving a written message was easier. Like memos at work, they were clear, concise, and got the point across without the worry of something being spoken incorrectly.
I crossed my arms and pursed my lips. “Well, you can turn down the music, Mr. Party-In-The-Middle-of-The-Week.”
What could only be described as a sarcastic chuckle passed his lips. “So, that’s why I’ve been graced with you talking to me finally? You came to bitch about my music? Surprised you didn’t leave a note taped to my door.” He scratched at his hair and my eyes were drawn up to the mess of black curls haphazardly sitting atop his head in what I would say was a messy bun that rivaled my own.
His thick, dark eyebrows drew together when his brow crinkled into a deep V. There wasn’t a hint of amusement in his rich mahogany eyes. Eyes surrounded by midnight lashes so long they should be criminal on a man. And flawless skin that was a natural warm hue which my damn near pale ass envied. He had the complexion I’d wished my parents would have given me. Instead, Dad’s genes won the great DNA battle, at least where my skin tone was concerned. Being this close to him for the first time, damn he was disarmingly good looking. His deep voice which held a New York accent cut through my momentary daze.
“Maybe I should start leaving you notes every time Ren decides to leave unwelcomed gifts out by my patio.”
It was my turn to frown. “Who the hell is Ren, and what do they have to do with me?”
He cocked his head to the side and a half-smile tugged at the corner of his lips. Full, dusty rose-toned lips that begged for attention as they stood out from the surrounding close-cut, dark beard.
“Ren. From Ren and Stimpy.” He bugged his eyes and his brows rose as if those names were supposed to mean anything to me.
A groan deep from the back of his throat rumbled free. “Your dog. The little rat looking, yappy thing that seems to think my patio is his personal hangout.”
I clenched my teeth. Yoda was my baby, and sure he barked sometimes, but he wasn’t “yappy” and he sure as hell didn’t look like a rat.
I huffed and planted my hands on my hips. “His name is Yoda. And yes, maybe you should have left a note, or knocked on my door if it was an issue.”
He shook his head and gave another sarcastic chuckle. “Yeah, right. Me come knock on your door because you’ve been oh so approachable. We’ve been neighbors for months, and this is the first conversation we’ve had. So, knockin’ at your door, that ain’t likely t
o happen, Ma. I just clean it up and keep it moving.”
