Barking Up the Wrong Tree: An enemies-to-lovers romantic comedy

By Tracy Krimmer

If fences make good neighbors, Reese can't imagine one tall enough to handle the perpetual barking dog next door.

 

Or its handsome owner.

 

Scratch that. Annoying owner.

 

When an unfortunate situation forces her to make nice with her unbearable neighbor, will she discover first impressions really aren't everything?

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tracy Krimmer
• Release date: Jan 16, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201423650

Book preview

one

It’s not the dog’s fault his owner is an inconsiderate jerk. The dog may be the one that has been barking for the past forty-five minutes, but my neighbor, Jimmy, isn’t doing anything to stop him. All I want is to enjoy my Saturday and sleep in after a nearly impossible week.

Yet here I am at eight in the morning, my darkening shades blocking out the sun, but even my white noise machine can’t drown out the dog’s incessant complaining about whatever is in the air. What else could possibly be making him bark this much?

I tear my sheets off as I groan. He’s making me crawl out of bed and go over there. Ugh! I slide on my sweatpants and a t-shirt, but first I have to brush my teeth. Hate him or not, I refuse to subject any other human being to my morning breath.

Once I’m presentable, I slip on my flip-flops and race across my front lawn, squirming at the dew squishing between my toes. There’s nothing worse than wet feet. Without skipping a beat, I raise my hand and knock on his door with my fist while ringing the doorbell with the other. Not one, not two, but three frantic times.

The door opens, and Jimmy stands behind it. He seems taller than the last time I saw him. Dust dots his light brown hair, and sweat covers his face. I kick myself for thinking he’s attractive for even a second. I hate you, I remind myself. He’s a complete pain in my ass.

Just because we’re the only two houses on this part of the block doesn’t grant permission for your dog to bark all night. I’m trying to sleep.

Reese Turner, good morning to you as well. His blue-green eyes form creases at the corners when he smiles.

I cross my arms and let out a huff. Good morning, I say through gritted teeth. Except it isn’t one because while I’m trying to sleep your tiny pug is barking like a St. Bernard.

Really? Jimmy appears surprised. And how, exactly, does a St. Bernard bark?

Ugh! I want to kill him. This man infuriates me like no one I’ve ever known. So cocky, sarcastic, and, as he lifts his arm up to shake some of the dust out of his hair, strong. My gaze is glued onto his bicep. He flexes and I know he’s caught me staring.

Look, all I’m asking is for a little piece and quiet in the morning. I work long hours and can really use the extra sleep.

Sleeping Beauty needs her beauty sleep, right?

I clench my jaw. Your. Barking. Dog. Dragged. Me. Out. Of. Bed. I wasn’t about to doll myself up for—I loosen my mouth and laugh—you.

The smile hasn’t left his face. I didn’t ask you to. He crosses his arms and leans against the doorway.

I wasn’t—that’s not what—uh! Just please quiet your dog down so I can sleep.

Maybe you should get out of bed and do something productive.

He did not just say that to me. Look, I work hard all week and I deserve my Saturdays to sleep in. So if you’ll please quiet your animal down for the time being I would appreciate it. If it’s not your dog, it’s you hammering or drilling away at something in the house. I wish you’d just finish renovating this property already. Also, while you’re at it, have that oak tree looked at. I point to the eye sore between our properties. I’ve told you a thousand times that it’s leaning heavily into my yard. One of these days it’s going to fall over right onto my house.

Trees don’t just randomly fall over.

I’ve had about enough of this guy. Jimmy—just— I stomp my foot on the ground, turn around, and hustle off. I can’t stand to look at him anymore.

Have a nice day! Jimmy calls out from behind me.

It will be a nice day when he finally finishes renovating that house and moves the hell out of the neighborhood.

two

I rub my thumb and ring finger between my eyes. How I’m managing to not drop my head onto my desk and fall asleep is beyond me. Jimmy’s damn dog barked every time I tried to relax over the weekend. It’s like the little shit knew. Oh, Reese is running on the treadmill? I’ll take a nap. Now she’s drinking tea on her patio? I’ll bark for fifteen minutes straight. She put her earbuds in? Okay, time for me to take another nap. Now she wants to go to bed? That’s right—barking time!

If I don’t manage eight hours of sleep, I’m miserable at work. I’m also not as approachable as I’d like to be. I’m cranky and focusing is a chore. That doesn’t matter today, though. It will take all my strength and about two pots of coffee, but I’ll make it work.

Alvin Hamilton is a highly sought-after up-and-coming artist. He’s not just a painter. He paints dreams and hope with his brush. You can stand in front of one of his paintings and have to remember how to breathe. His work sucks you in like an undertow. The word in the industry is he’s very particular about where he shows his work. Each piece he sells brings in a lot of money, and Poppy Haus is in need of some.

After eight years at Poppy Haus, I’ve worked myself up from gallery assistant to the gallery manager. Ultimately, I’d love to be the director, but that job belongs to Janet Berger, and she’s made it very clear she intends to be here forever. My job is to secure the artists for special exhibits, and Alvin Hamilton is on my list.

My desk is a mess, which drives me crazy, but there’s too much to do. I can’t stop and take the time to organize it. Every item on here is needed. I’ve researched the other venues Mr. Hamilton allowed to show and sell his work. I attended other shows at local galleries to see how they compare to Poppy Haus. Most recently I’ve studied the social media accounts of other galleries. I think I have a solid idea of what will attract Mr. Hamilton to our gallery, and I’m scheduled to meet with him in a few weeks to discuss it.

Janet has been breathing down my neck about the whole thing. I can’t remember a time she hasn’t been nagging me about something. I swear she’s trying to find any reason she can to get rid of me. She’s made it pretty clear that if Alvin Hamilton falls through, that may mean the end of my job. I need all the help I can get.

Right now that help is in the form of my fifth cup of coffee. I don’t know what I’d do if I didn’t have a maker right in my office. I pour myself a cup and set it next to me. A deep breath, a crack of my knuckles, and I’m ready to work.

I’m creating an informational packet for Mr. Hamilton outlining all the ways I plan on marketing his exhibit, should he choose to allow us to feature him. Spread over my desk are pages upon pages of handwritten notes I took in my research that I plan on working into the packet. It’s finally time to open up my word processing program and start my creation.

My phone rings as I start to gather my papers, startling me. My hand flies up so fast to answer it, I knock it into my cup, coffee spilling over the sides, onto my hand. I jump as I let out a small cry of pain, hitting the cup again, knocking it over completely. The liquid covers my desk, the papers ruined.

I don’t have time for this.

Frantically, I yank tissue out of the tissue box and pat down everything on my desk. My documents are ruined. My pen marks smear together, my notes impossible to read. I spent hours upon hours making notes, but haven’t entered them into the computer yet. This is a disaster.

Knock, knock. My boss, Janet, comes into my office. Is everything okay? I heard a ruckus.

Yeah, it’s fine. I spilled my coffee, that’s all. And missed whatever phone call I had. Hopefully whoever it was will call back.

Janet picks up the small metal trash can and holds it out so I can toss my coffee-soaked tissues in. Thank you.

Of course. Tough morning?

Tough weekend. My neighbor’s dog kept me up every night.

She smiles. Oh, Reese. That’s nothing. Just wait until you have a baby waking you up every single hour. You’ll learn how to adjust then.

Janet never misses an opportunity to bring up her self-appointed super mom title. I’ve seen pictures of her children—a dark-haired three-year-old boy and a wide-eyed one-year-old girl. Sure, I realize she’s a proud mom—and she should be—but comments like this drive me crazy sometimes. No, I don’t have kids. Will I ever have children? Maybe if I ever meet a decent man I’m willing to go the distance with. But I don’t need her comparing the babies and the dog situation. Completely different, and totally irrelevant.

How can I help you, Janet? My desk smells like the Post Alley Blend of Seattle’s Best. My paperwork is a mess. I have to move on with my day if I have any chance of salvaging any of this.

Alvin Hamilton.

The name stops me. He’s been my life over the past few weeks.

His assistant called and moved the meeting to next Tuesday.

My heart drops into my stomach. Tomorrow?

"No. Next Tuesday. Tomorrow is this Tuesday. I know you’ve been working your behind off on this presentation and I expect you’ll do a fabulous job. We all know how critical it is that the gallery secures this exhibit." She narrows her dark eyes and purses her lips.

Yes, I understand completely how important this is. She’s counting on me and if I don’t come through, that doesn’t bode well for me.

So next Tuesday then?

"That’s what I said. I’ll let you get back to work. And for goodness sake, clean up this mess. I feel like I’m at home after Sasha and Daniel have pulled every toy they own out of the toy