Love Next Door (Lakeside #1) by Helena Hunting

I keep going, toward Bee’s front porch and the blinding spotlight. Standing in front of the cottage is Van. Shirtless. Sweaty and shirtless. The bright light shines directly on him, accenting the dips and ridges, the smooth planes of muscle.

Van is ripped. Probably because he spends a lot of time at the gym, staring at his own reflection in the mirror. He lifts his ball cap from his head and runs a hand through his deliciously sweaty dark hair before he flips his cap around and replaces it, backward this time.

I roll my eyes at myself. What the hell is wrong with me? Deliciously sweaty. “Hey!” I bark.

He startles and the hammer in his hand goes flying, but he was on the back swing, so it heads in my direction. I sidestep it, and it manages to miss me by about six inches. He spins around, eyes wide as they land on me. “What the fuck?”

“Do you realize what time it is?”

“Do you realize that you scared the living shit out of me and I could’ve hurt you, or myself?” He motions to the hammer lying on the ground next to me.

“Wouldn’t that have been a pity,” I snap.

“What the hell is your damn problem?”

“You.” I point a finger at him. “You are the problem. It’s after ten. There’s a bylaw in place around here that stipulates all construction takes place between the hours of seven a.m. and nine p.m. from June to August, and you’re violating that. And for what? It’s not like whatever you’re doing is going to matter when your damn plan is to parcel out the property!” I’m yelling now, and heaving. And my nipples are peaking under the white tank I wore to bed. I hug myself to hide them.

“This is the second time you’ve said that. What the hell are you talking about?”

“What do you mean, what am I talking about?” I flail for a second and then cross my arms again. “You called me about it. Bee wasn’t gone a couple of weeks, and you were already asking about acreage and subdividing. It doesn’t take a genius to know what your plans are!”

“I don’t even know what you mean by subdividing, and I never called you.”

“Yes, you did!” He’s just so infuriating.

“No. I didn’t. Believe me, I’d remember dealing with someone as hostile as you.”

“I am not hostile.”

“Really?” Van props a fist on his hip. His narrow hip.

I follow the movement, which leads my eyes to his waist, that enticing V of muscle dragging my gaze down farther. Of course, because my brain is a jerk, the image of him naked pops back into my brain.

As if he’s reading my mind, his brow arches. “You’re picturing me naked right now. Aren’t you?”

“What? No!” My eyes snap back up to his.

“Yeah. You are.” His lip curls, somewhere between a smirk and sneer, his tone needling. “You were staring at my crotch, probably thinking about the last time you visually molested my junk. Is that why you stopped by? To check me out again? This whole fake phone call thing is an excuse for you to come back over here and get a look at the goods again.” He runs a hand down his chest.

“You’re an egotistical asshole. I realize that this might be some kind of fun holiday for you, and that you’re probably sleeping until noon every day, but some of us have to be up at the crack of dawn. Bylaw hours are seven a.m. to nine p.m. Next time you break them, expect to get a visit from the sheriff.” I spin around and stomp over to the extension cord, find the place where it’s joined to the lamp, and break the connection, submerging us in darkness. “Next time I won’t be so nice about it.”

“Hate to break it to you, but you weren’t very nice about it this time,” he calls after me.

It drives me crazy how easy it is for him to push my buttons.

A few seconds later I hear an oof and a clatter, which means he’s tripped over something in the dark. I smile to myself. Hopefully this time he’ll get the message.





CHAPTER 7

WHY DO YOU HAVE TO BE SO PRETTY?

Dillion

Two days after the hammer incident, my neighbor comes knocking on my door, very early in the morning. I know it’s him because he tromps through the bushes like a moose, making a racket. He’d make a terrible sniper.

At first I assume he’s finally stopping by to apologize.

I should know better.

I open the door, and his annoyingly attractive, very angry face appears, unfiltered by the screen. I get that fluttery feeling in my belly. The one that tells me I’m probably going to fantasize about him during my shower later. It’s happened a couple of times since I moved back. Okay. More than a couple. But he really is stunning. Apparently, I’m a sucker for dark hair and eyes the color of maple syrup. And chiseled features and an athletic physique. It’s why I ended up dating the quarterback in high school, and also how I ended up with Jason for two years in Chicago.

I have a type, and as much as I don’t want to admit it to myself, this guy is 100 percent it. At least physically. Personality-wise, I’ve tried my best to stay away from the assholes since I left Pearl Lake. I haven’t always been successful, but I’ve done better than Tucker.

Van waves a bunch of papers. “What the hell is this?”

I bat them out of my face and step forward so I’m blocking the way into my trailer.