I Love You, My Neighbor

KRISTY

The last time I saw this much exposed male flesh was probably two years ago, before Marc hit on Jess and we broke up. Agonizingly, my face and body heat up, my gaze ping-ponging between handsome faces, chiseled abs, and rock-hard pecs.

I don’t know where to look—nowhere feels safe. It’s like my brain short-circuits. I could handle one man, maybe, but three? With all of them watching me, I can barely string a sentence together.

I force myself to think of Marc and how he hurt me, but I still feel the urge to reach out and touch the sculpted men in front of me. Clearly, after avoiding the opposite sex for the past two years, this situation is too much for my poor brain to handle.

“Hello,” I finally manage, forcing myself to focus on the guy with the kindest blue eyes I’ve ever seen. “I’m, ah, I wanted to talk to…” I trail off when I realize I don’t even know my neighbor’s name.

“Hey, what are you guys doing down there?” my neighbor shouts down at us, realizing he no longer has his friends’ attention. “What am I paying you slackers for?”

The guy with brown eyes and close-cropped black hair calls over his shoulder, “I don’t believe you’re paying us at all.”

“I told you there’d be a slab in it for all of—”

My neighbor stops short as he walks to the edge of the roof and sees me standing there. Cool gray eyes meet mine, and my already racing heartbeat speeds up further with the extra shot of adrenaline his appearance sends through me.

He’s sizing me up, but not in the same friendly, casual way the other men are.

Naomi was right about me needing to fix this situation, because it’s suddenly clear to me that it is escalating. His stare is cold and indifferent. It’s guarded, like he’s waiting for me to be a problem. And I can’t shake the sudden feeling that nothing I say or do will soften that look—not even an apology or a peace offering.

I swallow hard. What if my leftover muffins fall short as an apology?

“Well, we’ve got company, Mr. Boss, sir,” the guy with the kind blue eyes says, winking at me and smiling.

I can’t help but smile back at him, grateful for his kindness and warmth in this moment. He’s almost too handsome with intense blue eyes and wavy dark hair. He’s also vaguely familiar, like I’ve seen him somewhere before.

“So, I see,” my neighbor replies, finally breaking his gaze and climbing down the ladder.

As he approaches, the other men part like it’s instinctive, giving him space. But when he gets closer, his eyes lock onto mine again. “Is there a problem?”

Despite the irritation that flickers through me at his less-than-welcoming glare, I can’t help but notice that, like the other men, he’s also shirtless. His pecs and abs are more defined than I expected—tight, hard muscles that show the kind of dedication to fitness I wish I had. The sweat glistens on his skin, catching the light, accentuating the ridges of his abs and the sharp lines of his arms as he moves.

I should really be focusing on explaining why I’m here, but my mouth feels too dry. I’m hyperaware of the lone bead of sweat sliding down his chest, the way his muscles shift as his hands land on his hips. I blame the surge of repressed hormones still swimming in my head and body.

“There’s no problem,” I say, forcing myself to meet his gaze, trying to sound a lot calmer than I feel. “I just wanted to bring you some muffins.”

“Muffins?” he repeats, his voice flat. He takes the brown paper bag, opens it, and peers inside briefly before snapping it shut. His eyes flick up to mine, sharp and guarded. “Do they have arsenic in them?”

My lips quirk up at his joke because he doesn’t seriously believe I want to poison him. Right?

The look on his face says he’s really not sure, and my stomach sinks in response.

This man is grumpy and short-tempered, and he never smiles or makes our interactions any easier. But I haven’t exactly been super friendly with him either—not after our first meeting.

He’s right about me not knowing what I’m doing with my dog—something I’ve been too proud to say to him. And my behavior the other day? I walked into his house, interrupted his work, and insulted him. He’s likely labeled me a judgmental bitch. And that…? That doesn’t feel good. At all.

I’ve never been too comfortable around men that good-looking, but making him hate me has to be a new low—even for me. A new kind of defense mechanism.

“No poison,” I promise him. “I just… I want to apologize for the other day. For what I said, specifically.”

His arms cross over his chest. “Why?” His tone is cold. Skeptical. Clearly he isn’t about to let me off the hook that easily.

I swallow, pushing back the irritation that’s building and ignore the impulse to throw my hands in the air and give up.

“Because walking into your house and yelling at you wasn’t my finest moment. I’m not normally like that, and I don’t go around being rude to strangers.” My voice softens, but I make sure to hold his gaze. “I do regret the things I said, and I hope we can put it behind us.”

He watches me for a long moment, his face unreadable, and I can feel the tension between us thickening. “And these muffins are supposed to fix everything? Make everything okay?”

I blink, feeling the heat rise to my cheeks. “I hoped they’d be a start. I’m trying to apologize. I want to make peace.”

“Peace, huh?” He raises an eyebrow. “Is this a bribe so I’ll stop making noise? Because I just can’t fix this place silently. It’s impossible.”

My heart sinks at his response. I’d be lying if I said it hadn’t crossed my mind that he might be more conscious of the noise he’s making if I make nice. But until today, I hadn’t realized just how bad this situation was getting between us.

“No,” I say. “I’ll… I’m dealing with the noise.”

“You seemed pretty upset about it the other day.”

Yes, I’m tired, and I hate the noise he makes. I’m out of my routine, and I’m exhausted, but that’s because I get up at four in the morning and bake well into the evening every day of the week. That’s my choice.

But he doesn’t need to know all that. That won’t make this situation any better.

“I know, but it’s my problem, not yours, and I don’t want to end up on Neighbors from Hell.”

His gray eyes almost seem to sparkle in response. “Neighbors from Hell?” Something resembling a smile crosses his lips, but it’s gone so fast, I likely imagined it.

His friends, on the other hand, are clearly amused, chuckling softly. For a moment, I forgot they were there, but now I feel myself flush from my chest to the tips of my hair. There’s no unkindness in their eyes, though, merely curiosity and amusement.

“It really is just a peace offering,” I reiterate.

My neighbor remains quiet for a moment, his eyes narrowing as if he’s assessing me. Finally, he uncrosses his arms. “Then I guess thanks are in order.” The words feel like they’re dragged out of him.

It’s not a real thank you, and I just threw my pride at the wall for a man who doesn’t seem grateful in the slightest. Disappointment mingles with annoyance.

I’m trying here. What more does he want from me?

“Right. Well, enjoy,” I force out.

I glance at his assistants, still watching with thinly veiled amusement. “Hopefully you guys have worked up an appetite.”

“Yeah, we have,” the third guy with rust-colored hair chimes in with a grin, breaking the tension a little. “Thanks for the muffins.”

I nod, offering him a brief smile. These men seem nice and easygoing. Why couldn’t one of them be my new neighbor?

Turning my attention back to my actual neighbor, I see he’s still watching me, his expression unreadable. “Bye, then,” I say.

Instead of a goodbye, I get a nod.

As I walk away, I can feel his eyes on me. Part of me wonders if anything I said even got through to him. I’ve done what I could, but what if it’s not enough?

My steps slow as a white BMW slowly drives by my house, a familiar-looking man in the driver’s seat. God, I hope that’s not Simon. I blocked his number when Jess broke up with him and he kept texting me to speak with her. I really can’t deal with Jess’s ex right now.

The car doesn’t stop, though; it keeps going. Hopefully my fatigue is just giving me a case of paranoia.

I walk briskly onto my property, opening my front door and locking it behind me. I lean back against the door, sigh, and wait for my adrenaline level to fall. Whether it’s the residuals from speaking with my neighbor or the potential sighting of Simon, I’m not sure.

Cricket ambles off the couch and walks over to me, his tail thumping a few times against the floor, unaware of the storm brewing in my head.

“You want to go outside, boy?” I ask, though my voice is distant, my thoughts already drifting back to next door.

As I take Cricket into the backyard, the muffled sounds of talking and laughter drift over from my neighbor’s yard. My stomach tightens at the sound. Are they talking about me? Laughing about me?

The uncertainty gnaws at me. I should be glad I can’t hear them, but my brain wants to fill in the gaps of what I can’t properly hear. I have no idea if my apology made a dent in his walls, if he’ll even eat the muffins, or if they’ll end up in the trash.

My chest tightens at the thought. What if none of it mattered? What if he’s already decided I’m nothing more than a pain-in-the-arse neighbor and there’s no coming back from that?

I try to shake it off, but it clings. The next time I see him, when I walk Cricket tonight, I’ll know. His face will tell me everything—whether he’s willing to accept my apology or if he’ll keep holding a grudge. And if it’s the latter, then what?

The uneasy feeling deepens. If he doesn’t accept my peace offering, every interaction from here on out will be a battlefield. I’ll be living next to a man who can’t stand me.

I try to steady my breathing, but it’s hard to ignore the fact that this is no longer just about my lack of sleep or his bossiness about my dog. This is about the rest of the time I have to spend here, seeing him nearly every day.

The idea of having a neighbor who holds onto anger, who sees me as the enemy—it’s more than just awkward. It’s suffocating.

And there’s nothing I can do about it now. The ball’s in his court. He can either choose to forgive me, or we’ll be locked in this weird, silent war forever, probably headed for Neighbors from Hell.

I glance at Cricket, who’s blissfully unaware of the turmoil in my head. I wish I could be that carefree, but I’m not. I can’t pretend this doesn’t matter—because it does. More than I want to admit.

I head back inside, the sound of their laughter still echoing in my ears, and I can’t help but wonder: What if I just made everything worse?