Neighbors And Favors

By Kate Davis

New apartments should come with a trial period…

 

I've just signed a two-year lease on an apartment I can barely afford.

My job hit a brick wall so I need the place to be perfect to help me get my life back on track. But the first night in, and I already know my neighbor isn't going to make it easy on me.

 

Tall, dark, handsome (and did I mention the British accent?), Shane Logan likes his nightly activities…a lot. I can hear everything through the paper-thin walls. I'm about to tell him that in not-so-friendly terms when I realize he isn't just sexy, he's also friendly and eager to be of help.

Maybe having a neighbor like him isn't such a bad idea.

I'm a writer in desperate need of inspiration. Shane so happens to turn into mine. With a deadline approaching fast, his offer to do me a favor turns into two and three. Before I know it, he's forced his way into my life with the tenacity of a whirlwind.

 

I can deal with the fact that he's far too loud and far too sexy. But when my dog likes my neighbor more than me, I start to get a little suspicious. Soon it becomes clear Shane Logan has secrets.

Plunged into the suspicions surrounding my neighbor, suddenly the only thing I can be sure of is that Shane is fiercely determined to hide the truth about himself.

 

Remember when I said the lease should have come with a warning?

Well, mine should also have come with a big red flashing sign.

Author Note:
About the book: Full-length standalone. No cliffhanger.
Genre: Clean Contemporary Romance/Romantic suspense/Romantic comedy.
Contains Christian themes since female protagonist grew up in a Christian home.

 

EXCERPT

"Well, hello, neighbor."
I stare at the six-foot-three British guy, taking in his lopsided grin and the cleaning gloves and garbage bags in his hands. He's wearing a white, snug T-shirt and jeans that hang low on his hips—nothing remarkable, really, but for some reason, he looks like he's stepped straight out of a fragrance advertisement—you know, the expensive kind.
And for some reason, the realization annoys the heck out of me. No one looks so good in the middle of the night. I know I certainly don't.
"What do you want?" I squeeze through gritted teeth. My good manners have apparently deserted me.
"Ah, now that's neighborly friendliness if I ever saw some." His lips stretch into a stunning smile with perfect, white teeth and two little dimples.
I suck in my breath as another wave of annoyance hits me.
Dimples.
Does he have to have a perfect pair of those?
I mean, why toss him a good thing or two from the genes pool when he can win the whole darn lottery?
I bet his personality sucks.
Apparently, Sammy doesn't think so because she's instantly stopped her barking and is now making those tiny wailing sounds that signal elation and are usually reserved for her best friends.
Aka me.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Aurora Press
• Release date: Sep 28, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393216650

Book preview

Chapter One

heart

Thump. Thump.

I press a pillow against my face, contemplating whether to kill myself or my new neighbor.

How can anyone be so frigging annoying? Doesn’t he know other people live in this building? I ask Sammy, even though I expect no answer from my Pomeranian fluff ball.

Sammy cocks her head to the side, watching me with her chocolate brown eyes that seem to understand every word I say.

I don’t want to spell out the obvious. Everyone knows what that thumping noise is. It’s too telling to be interpreted as anything other than dirty action between the sheets, but my little Sammy is not used to that vocabulary, which is why I refrain from using it whenever she’s around.

Thumping again.

What are they doing? I mumble, frowning. Sounds like they’re Sumo wrestling the wall. Maybe it’s a wrestling team exercise. I scoff. Yeah, sure.

Team exercise, all right, though I doubt the WWE is involved in any way.

Sammy whimpers, her little, innocent eyes speaking volumes. I need to get over there and smack this guy over the head before I know more about him than his mom. I mean, I know he seems to be going at it for hours. On and on. And there’s lots of talking involved when his bed is used for activities that aren’t related to sleeping. I can’t make out what he’s saying, but I bet it’s nothing you would want your neighbors to know.

Let’s finally put a face to the thudding.

Slipping into my black pumps because those are the only pair of shoes I can find among the boxes littering my tiny hall, I clutch Sammy under my arm and head next door, then bang my fist against the door.

Taking deep, calming breaths, I wait for someone to open.

Hey, I call out when nothing stirs. I know you can hear me. I knock again, and keep knocking.

Actually, I’m sort of banging my fist against the wood by this time.

I’ve had enough of the strange activities in the apartment adjacent to mine. I’ve lost way too much sleep because of the guy and I’m determined not to give up.

Someone has to tell him that the walls are paper-thin, in case he hasn’t figured it out yet, and that someone is going to be me. I mean, I can even hear him while wearing noise-canceling headphones, the certified kind.

I bang my fist harder. It actually feels good to let out the steam of annoyance that has been building up inside me.

After what feels like a good five minutes, the sound of footsteps carries over and a key turns a moment before a tall guy, half-naked from the waist up, opens the door.

What?

His voice is deep and gruff, dark, matching the hair on his head. I stare into angry blue-gray eyes that remind me of angry storms, and then back down.

I don’t know where to stare: into those ardent eyes, or at his tanned body rippled with muscles that I didn’t even know existed.

No wonder his wrestling buddy can’t get him to stop. It’s probably all a training exercise for him.

Need anything? A bowl of sugar? Any tools I may help you with? The guy’s deep voice jerks me out of my thoughts. I almost jump back, startled, and end up pressing little Sammy a little too hard against my chest. She gives a tiny yelp, and I bury my burning face in her fur, happy to hide the telltale signs of a major blush.

I know that accent. He’s British. North of England, to be more precise, though that’s about as far as my world knowledge will take me.

I’ve never had a thing for British guys, but then again, he hadn’t featured on my radar before.

No, thank you. There’s nothing about you I’d ever want. I press my lips shut as I stare into those eyes that can’t possibly be so gray and blue at the same time. It must be the light playing tricks on me. Or he’s wearing contacts.

I was just trying to be neighborly, seeing that you’re new here and haven’t had time to unpack yet.

He knows that I moved in recently.

His eyes shimmer with a challenge as he lets his gaze brush over me.

Suddenly, I’m all too aware of the hot fashion mess I am.

I’m wearing my yoga outfit: yogi pants and an oversized shirt that’s seen the inside of a washing automat a few too many times.

He, on the other hand, would probably look good with a bag thrown over his head.

It’s the torso, I realize.

All chiseled with rows and rows of defined muscles and the slightest hint of a tan.

I swallow hard as my gaze shifts back down, seemingly glued to those abs of his. Why can’t I look away like someone with an ounce of self-respect?

Well? the guy prompts a little impatiently. If you don’t need anything, maybe you’re trying to sell me your dog or something? In which case, the answer’s no. I won’t even babysit him for five minutes.

He’s joking, I know that, but tell that to my mommy instinct. Instinctively, I press Sammy tighter against me.

My gaze flies back up to meet his impatient look. It’s a girl, and I would never! Sammy’s my—

I stop and bite my lip hard. He doesn’t need to know what Sammy means to me. All he needs to do is keep the banging to a bearable level. That’s when I see the smirk on his lips and it dawns on me that I’m giving him exactly the kind of reaction he was hoping to provoke.

Relax, sweetheart. I don’t want your dog. In spite of his reassurance, he inches a step forward, bringing me closer to those impossibly good looks of his, and reaches to pat Sammy on her head.

Everyone with a little bit of brain capacity knows you should never pat a stranger’s dog on the head. Sammy doesn’t like that. In fact, she’s known to yap and bite a finger or two. Well, maybe sometimes.

Don’t, I yell and move to snatch her out of his reach when my fluff ball decides she’s going to make an exception for a change and begins to lick his hand.

I mean, really lick, like you would lap at a cone of ice cream in the summer heat.

For a moment, I can only stare in disbelief. Sammy has never done that before, at least not to a complete stranger.

My half-naked neighbor begins to laugh and leans forward, bringing his face close to Sammy’s head. I glare, half flabbergasted, half annoyed, as she begins to wriggle in my arms, excited to jump right into his.

What the—

Sammy, no! I snap, sounding a little bitter. I want to say, I’m your mommy, and you’re not supposed to like the half-naked, rainstorm-eyed guy who makes mommy very angry.

But I don’t want to come across as one of those crazy people who think their pet comes with a lifelong affection exclusivity clause—even though I’m pretty sure they should, actually. I mean, you feed them, you give them a roof over their head…it goes without saying that…you get the drift.

He laughs and brings his face closer to Sammy who’s so frantic from his attention that she manages to wriggle out of my arms and jump right into his. I stare, horrified, as she begins to lick his chin, his neck, basically every inch of skin she can reach, and the guy just keeps laughing, petting and scratching her, which drives her even more frantic.

Sammy, I try again, but my voice is all choked up. I’m not sure whether from anger or from tears. I think it’s kind of both, based on the fact that I’m so furious I could cry.

I want to smack the guy right over his head, I really do, but I’m not one to condone violence. However, if he keeps making out with my dog, I might just put my peace-loving ways on hold and do something I’ll come to regret.

Luckily for me, Sammy has attention deficit disorder and gets bored easily. After what feels like an eternity, she finally calms down enough so I can squeeze my hands around her and snatch her out of his arms, touching as little of him as possible in the process.

It’s not that I would be averse to six foot three of pure deliciousness if he was the kind of guy I’m looking for. But I very much doubt he is the kind of guy I’m looking for. For one, he’s just been involved in a moaning contest with someone, hence the almost-naked status and the ringing bells in the back of my mind. And second, if you make me feel like my dog likes you more than she likes me, you’re my enemy! It’s as simple as that.

"Haven’t you had enough fondling for a day already? Did you have to touch my dog as well?" I grumble, realizing I won’t be able to kiss my dog for the next few hours. Given that I’ve no idea where his hands were before he opened the door, I’ll have to bathe and probably disinfect my pooch.

I’m afraid I don’t follow. Shorts-clad guy looks perplexed, his brows furrowed, which only makes his thunderstorm eyes seem darker, more mysterious.

I scoff inwardly.

Mysterious? Come on!

I know everything about him, or at least everything no neighbor should ever know about you.

I try to peer over his shoulder, almost expecting to glimpse a stunning model standing in the doorway, clad in nothing but his oversized shirt, cheeks red from all that exercise. But I can’t see past his broad shoulders. Either she’s hidden from view or she’s waiting in the bedroom for him.

Never mind. I shake my head, irritated. We’ll need you to keep the noise down, okay?

The noise? He regards me, even more perplexed now. I guess some people don’t realize they’re as loud as a truck in the throes of their lust-induced wrestling matches. As it seems, shorts-clad guy is one of them.

Your—banging in there. I wanted to say sexual escapades, but, again, I would never use that kind of vocabulary in front of Sammy, even though her innocence is probably spoiled forever now that she’s been all over this guy.

On the bright side, I’m pretty sure he’s British, so he should be familiar with the synonym for bedroom-related activities.

Banging? He frowns again.

Oh, come on!

Please don’t feign innocence because it comes across as stupidity. Particularly since he’s wearing next to nothing. I heave an exasperated sigh. Your noise. My words come slow and measured in the hope he’ll get the message I’m trying to convey here. "The walls are thin. We can hear everything you’re doing in there. And I know for a fact you’re not refurbishing because I was told the owner finished a year ago." I point to the door behind him.

So?

So?

Oh, goodness. He’s one of those people who doesn’t mind others tuning in to his private business, meaning if I don’t set the record straight there’s going to be much more of this in the future, albeit I’d rather not know what or whom exactly he’s fixing.

At the thought of more noise, I groan inwardly.

That’s a bleak outlook given that I’ve just signed a two-year lease. Besides, it took me forever to find this apartment, so there’s no way I’m moving out anytime soon.

I wanted to keep my relationship with my neighbors civil, not least because I love Jesus, but it seems shorts guy might just make that impossible.

Look. I straighten my back and stare him down frostily so there’s no way he could ever miss my displeasure. You might not mind the whole world hearing you, but I’m not interested in knowing all about your bedroom activities. Look for an audience elsewhere. Otherwise, you’ll come to regret it.

What the—

That’s all I’ll say, buddy. Think about it.

With that, I turn around and walk back to my door as stoically as my stiletto-clad feet will allow me. I’m aware of my British neighbor’s eyes staring a hole in my back, but I fight the urge to turn around and throw him a last, icy glance, even though I want to.

Badly.

Chapter Two

heart

Once I’m back inside my matchbox apartment, I put pen to paper, figuratively speaking, by firing up my laptop and starting a new blog post. You see, that’s what I do. I call people on their folly, which comes in many shapes and sizes. Last time I checked, my blog was boasting a staggering five subscribers. Of course, one of them is my mom, who won’t admit it, not even held at gunpoint, I bet, even though I can see her IP address popping up at least once a day.

The two other readers are my best friend, Amanda, and Rashid, the guy at the coffee shop down the street, who serves me my daily caffeine fix and keeps dropping hints about my newest blog rant. The other two readers are either failed writers like me looking to vent out their frustration or fake accounts set up by Amanda. Knowing my best friend, she’d absolutely do such a thing to boost my morale.

As I begin to type, the words just seem to flow in a fast stream of ranting, and with each sentence the anger from before seems to lift off of me.

Eventually, I press publish and the blog post goes live. I lean back, pleased with myself. That’s it. My writing might not be earning me a living, but at least it helps my mental health. The post’s barely been up a minute when my phone rings. I peer at the caller ID and groan.

It’s mom.

She always calls after waiting a polite minute or something. Or maybe that’s how long it takes her to read whatever post I’ve just written.

Hey, mom, I say upon picking up.

Darling, how are you? Which really actually sounds like dahling, hau ah u? You see, Mom is British. Dad and she met during Dad’s gap year traveling through Europe, and she moved to the US after only knowing him for a month. Long story short, twenty-five years later, they’re still sickeningly and madly in love, and by sickeningly I mean when you’ve had so much ice cream you can’t stand the sight of it for a year. Growing up, it was so bad, I actually felt like the third wheel whenever I was around them.

I’m fine, Mom. Why are you calling?

Can’t a mother just check in with her daughter? Mom laughs, which sounds both fake and defensive. She’s such a bad liar, but also adorable in a way that you can’t call her out on it because you know she only means well.

Of course she can. Well, I’m great. I hope you and Dad are, too. I actually know they are. She called a mere three hours ago to tell me that Dad’s heartburn issues were solved. I need to go back to work now.

Ah, work. She makes a whiny sound, and I know she’s making her sad face to Dad again, who’s probably listening glued to her hip, even though I’m sure she has me on speakerphone. That’s how close they are. Even her private conversations about Dad involve Dad. Now, imagine what it was like for me when Mom decided it was time for the talk about the birds and the bees, and Dad had to be sitting a few feet away, mirroring Mom’s every expression and then chiming in like her male echo. Even worse, old Pastor Rick was sitting on the far end of the table, quoting from the Book of Solomon. Ten years later and I still can’t read that part of the Holy Bible without blushing.

How’s that coming along, dear? Mom asks.

Fine, I lie. You can’t tell my parents the sad reality. You simply can’t. It would be like setting off an avalanche, and before you know it you’ve moved back home, let Dad take you out for ice cream while Mom’s prepared a welcome home party, inviting all the neighbors and the people you thought you’d never see again.

It’s happened to me before…twice.

Is something holding you back, dear? Mom asks carefully. Like your new flat?

The new apartment is great, Mom. You can’t believe everything you read. I huff inwardly. Sometimes, it’s just the figment of a writer’s imagination.

Hm. She doesn’t sound convinced. In fact, I’m sure it’ll only take a minute before she tries a new approach that will be just as obvious as the previous one.

Well, love. The way Dad and I see it, your move to—

Mom! I almost screech before she can continue. I’m sorry to have to cut you off but I have this important thing today. And I can’t be late.

What important thing? Dad shouts down the line.

That thing, you know? I swat at the air, even though he can’t see it. I’ll tell you all about it later, okay?

I hate lying to them, I really do, but sometimes it’s a matter of survival—the survival of my mental health. The way I see it, I’m actually doing it to protect them from an imminent heart attack if they knew the state of my job prospects, finances, the crime rate around here.

Not to mention, there’s nothing Christian about the area where I live.

Besides, it’s not really a lie. I do have something important to do, which is head to the coffee shop down the street and get some caffeine to help me finish that first draft I’ve been working on. Actually, finish is kind of far-fetched. It should rather be help me start that first draft.

So far it’s been millions of random ideas but nothing concrete. Nothing satisfying. Nothing remotely resembling the it that would make the backbone of a good story.

Don’t forget about dinner next weekend. And wear something fancy, Mom says.

Wouldn’t miss it in a million years. Love you, guys. And with that, I press the end call button and heave a sigh of relief.

It takes me all of three seconds until it dawns on me that I’ve just given Mom my standard answer without even thinking.

Wait! What dinner? What was she just talking about?

She never invited me over and I’m darn sure I never accepted, not least because

It’s a two-hour drive and I don’t own a car, meaning I’ll have to fork out money I don’t have on a cab

Mom likes to pack as much sherry as she can into her recipes, meaning she’ll expect me to stay over because see 1

There’s never the bed and breakfast option with my parents. What sounds like a harmless invitation to dinner will most certainly turn into a whole weekend with…well, Mom and Dad

And finally, you can bet your meager wages that it’s never just my parents and me. Before you know it, everyone you know and don’t want to know has popped over to inquire about it’s none of their business.

I’m about to speed dial my parents’ number and cancel their dinner