I Love You, My Neighbor

If it seems too good to be true, it usually is. Whoever came up with that saying knew what they were talking about.

“Cricket! Cricket, come back here!” I shout, stumbling up the hill after my dog, who just disappeared over it.

When I offered to pay my friend’s aunt and uncle for their purebred Borzoi, Cricket, they flatly refused. That alone should have set off alarm bells. But I was so captivated by the hound’s big brown eyes and soft white and brown fur that I convinced myself it was a generous gift.

Cricket doesn’t like me, and I’m starting to feel the same way. He refuses to obey my commands and chases after everything. Absolutely everything!

At the moment, he’s fixated on a white plastic bag from the local supermarket. Granted, I wanted a dog to motivate me to exercise every day, but chasing after him when he breaks free from my grip is not the kind of workout I had in mind.

Rubbing the cramp in my side with one hand, I shield my eyes with the other and glance toward my house at the bottom of the incline. Is it too much to hope that Cricket has given up the chase and is patiently waiting for me?

My neighborhood, just south of Melbourne, is not overly hilly, but running after the dog for close to a mile has worn me out.

I let out a sigh of relief when I see Cricket enthusiastically giving a stranger a tongue bath outside my place.

At least his fondness for licking strangers has saved me from a trip to the pound today. Although I didn’t have to buy Cricket outright, rescuing him from Carrington Bay Lost Dog’s Home every time he runs away is quickly draining my wallet.

Urging my tired and shaky legs to keep going, I start walking toward Cricket, more than ready to rescue the stranger from my rambunctious dog and head home for a hot, soapy bath.

“Where’s your owner, hey, boy?” The stranger’s warm and affectionate voice floats over to me as he kneels and scratches Cricket behind the ears.

I can’t see his face, but one thing is clear—he’s in far better physical shape than I am. Dressed in brown work boots, shorts, and a tank top, his muscular calves, back, shoulders, triceps, and biceps stand out.

I try not to stare at his bare arms as he rubs Cricket’s fur. It’s been a while since I’ve been with a man, and I’m not interested in looking right now. Which means I should take my eyes off his bulging muscles. I mean, my heart’s racing from the hill. And my runaway dog. Not the guy in front of me.

Right?

Right.

I steal a glance at the neon green pickup truck parked next door, guessing he might be some sort of tradie—a carpenter or an electrician.

Whoever he is, he’s no stranger to hard work. That’s a good thing if he’s working on the death trap my best friend and I call the house next door. The property was sold about a month ago, and the new owner has a long way to go to make the place livable.

The dilapidated fence, overgrown shrubbery, crumbling brickwork, and busted pipes make it more of a health hazard than a renovator’s dream. I hope the renovations happen quickly and quietly since I’m an early riser and in bed shortly after sunset.

As I approach, Cricket lets out a short, sharp bark, startling me and causing the stranger to spin around. When he sees me, the man stands up.

He must be at least six feet two, and his face matches the rest of him in terms of impressiveness. His stormy-gray eyes stand out against his high cheekbones and medium-length dark blond hair falling across his forehead. He appears to be around my age, late twenties. The hint of stubble on his angular jawline adds to his appeal.

Long ago, I would have felt tongue-tied and shy in the presence of such male beauty, but I’ve learned not to be swayed by good looks. In my experience, men like him are often vain and superficial at best. And at worst, they realize they can do better and move on to someone more their type.

At least that’s what my exes did—moved on with my best friend, Jess.

So I shrug off his attractiveness, flash him a polite smile—which he doesn’t bother to return, mind you—and turn my attention back to Cricket.

“Is this your dog?” the stranger asks before I have a chance to call Cricket.

“Yes,” I wheeze. “Thanks for keeping him here until I caught up. I try to hold onto Cricket’s leash, but he’s much stronger than I am.”

His brow furrows. “Cricket?”

“That’s the name his previous owners gave him. They said he loved chasing cricket balls at a local cricket club, so I didn’t want to confuse him with a different name.”

“I see.”

I smile at him again, hoping he’ll find some humor in the situation. But when he continues to frown, my smile fades. I can’t help but think that if I looked like Jess—perfect body and face—he would smile back. They always smile back at Jess.

“So, how long have you had…Cricket for?” he asks after a moment of tense silence. He says the name as though it pains him to use it—as though saying it out loud adds up to dog abuse.

“Ah, I’ve had him for around three weeks.”

I nearly tell him that Cricket and I are both still adjusting to the situation, but keep the information to myself. He doesn’t need to know.

He continues to stare at me—and frown.

“His previous owners were downsizing and didn’t have enough space for him in their new place,” I add when he says nothing.

He still doesn’t respond. I’ve never been good with silence, so I continue on.

“When they heard I wanted a dog, they offered him to me.”

“Right,” he finally says.

He stands there frowning, feet apart, arms crossed, making his T-shirt pull tight across his chest while his forearms and biceps bulge.

His gaze skims over my sweat-soaked appearance. I probably look every bit as gross and unfit as I feel, and I’m sure he’s thinking I need to run and keep running to lose some of the extra weight I’m carrying. The short ten-minute walk to and from work doesn’t do a thing to burn off all the calories I consume while quality-testing the food I bake.

It’s moments like these when I wish Jess were here to take the focus away from me. No doubt, she could have done the same jog I just did and still look gorgeous. She would flirt with this man, make some lighthearted comment, and dismiss the whole situation with a flick of her wrist.

I sigh in frustration. I’m not Jess, so I need to find some other way to get out of this awkward moment.

“Well, I should get Cricket home. Come on, Cricket.”

Thankfully, my lungs no longer feel as if they’ve shrunk, allowing me to sound slightly more authoritative than a deflating balloon. However, Cricket lies down on the grass, resting his face on his paws and giving me a bored look.

“Cricket, come on,” I plead, realizing I’m failing miserably at convincing this surly beefcake that I have any control over my dog.

Not that I care what he thinks, but I hate the fact that the dog doesn’t listen to me. I’d be uncomfortable no matter who was witnessing this exchange—an exchange that might have been made easier if the stranger made a joke of it or seemed amused by it, but he’s so serious.

It’s a wonder his face doesn’t crack in half when he raises an eyebrow at me. Even his judgmental and annoyed expression doesn’t diminish his looks. It’s annoying.

And hot. But also annoying.

Before I can physically drag Cricket away, which all the training tips I’ve read advise against, the man asks, “When was the last time you owned a dog?”

Straightening up, I meet his gaze. “This is actually my first dog.”

“You might want to consider taking him to a dog training course. An irresponsible dog owner can get themselves hurt, their dog hurt, or even hurt someone else. It’s a miracle Cricket didn’t run out into the street and cause an accident.”

Heat surges through my already flushed body. Did he just imply I’m a bad dog owner? I’m well aware of the danger Cricket poses every time he escapes, but I do my best to hold onto him.

And it’s not like I haven’t thought about taking him to a training course, but I want to establish a stronger bond with him before venturing out in public together. It’s embarrassing when others can see that he hasn’t warmed up to me at all. I don’t want to look like a complete fool when I give him commands he refuses to obey.

Besides, I can’t risk going to the local dog park for fear Cricket will bolt after something…or someone. It seems he likes everyone else more than me.

“Thank you for your opinion,” I say, forcing a stiff smile. “I’ll take it into consideration.”

“You do realize that walking him every day isn’t enough, right?”

Wow. He really thinks I’m a moron. Well, I’m not. Yes, I’m still learning about dogs, but I’m not stupid. And who does this guy think he is, being so bossy and nosy? The dog police?

Gritting my teeth, I walk up to Cricket and grab hold of his leash. “I know there’s more to taking care of a dog than just walking him.” I give the leash a gentle tug. “Time to go home, Cricket.”

Of course, the dog refuses to budge. Why can’t he make things easy for me, just this once? I feed him; I’m nice to him.

“I know some people who run a dog training program in a park not far from here,” the stranger offers, glancing between the dog and me. “I have their number if you want it.”

“Thanks, maybe I’ll get it from you another time.”

“Suit yourself.” He bends down to stroke Cricket again. “See you, Cricket.”

I’m sure I hear him whisper, “Good luck with her,” before he walks toward the house next door.

Once the stranger opens the front door and steps inside, Cricket whines, stands up, and finally gives me his attention.

“Now you decide to get up,” I chide. “Couldn’t you have done that earlier?”

Glancing at the house next door one last time, I cross my fingers, hoping the renovations will be completed soon—or better yet, that the new owners hire a different tradie. I don’t want to see that man again any time soon.