Love Next Door (Lakeside #1) by Helena Hunting

Chip appears, his face screwed up in a grimace as he turns around and holds out his hand, answering my question without saying a word. Monica, his girlfriend, apparently decided to crash the party.

I arch a brow at Frankie. “What happened to the boys’ weekend?”

“It was the only way he was allowed to come,” he mutters.

She adjusts the brim of her oversize hat and attempts to strut across the driveway. It’s gravel and dirt, though, so her heels keep sinking, making her strut a challenge. “Wow.” She pushes her sunglasses up her nose. “This place is—”

“Rustic and awesome,” Chip supplies, and I’m unsure if he did it purposefully to cut off anything rude she might say or if he genuinely feels that way.

“I was going to say condemnable, but I suppose rustic works.” She air-kisses my cheeks. “I’m so sorry you’re stuck here, Van. I can’t imagine how awful it must be for you.”

“I’m surviving.” Monica is a socialite and very used to five-star everything. The party bus is her idea of roughing it. “Did you steal this thing from an eighties hair band?” I motion to the RV.

“Isn’t it awesome?” Frankie pats the side of it.

“It’s something, that’s for sure.”

The guys are totally into the whole “camping” situation. Honestly, the RV is probably as big as my cottage and is outfitted with two bedrooms, a full kitchen, and a deluxe bathroom. It means they don’t have to come inside the cottage, which is good, since the only thing I’ve done in there is sleep and burn grilled cheese sandwiches.

At first it seems like things are going to be okay. At least until we sit by the campfire. Monica keeps making people switch chairs with her, depending on what direction the wind is blowing. She also can’t understand why she’s being eaten alive, and the drunker she gets, the louder she becomes.

“Ah! Why won’t these things leave me alone?” Monica slaps the side of her neck for what has to be the millionth time this evening.

“Because you’re delicious, babe.” Chip nuzzles through her mass of hair to bite her neck.

“Chip!” She swats him, but she’s giggling. Loudly.

I glance over my shoulder. It’s late, but it’s a Friday, so I’m hoping the noise isn’t a problem for my surly neighbor.

“Dude, I might be crashing in the cottage tonight if these two keep it up,” Frankie mutters.

“Just keep drinking, and I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

Frankie makes a noise in the back of his throat but chugs the rest of his rum and Coke.

This whole drunk-affection gigglefest is Chip and Monica’s version of foreplay. Often the giggles turn into irritation when Chip gets too sauced, and they end up fighting. Which then turns into angry-loud makeup sex. We know this to be the case because we’ve dealt with it before. Not the actual act, but the soundtrack is impossible to tune out, because Monica has never been known for her quietness.

The giggle turns into another shriek, and Monica’s back to slapping her legs.

I did offer her bug spray, which she said no to because she didn’t want to put those kinds of chemicals on her skin.

Her volume increases with each martini she consumes, despite my requests to keep it down.

So I should not be surprised when my neighbor appears at the edge of the trees and scares the living crap out of Monica. Her chair tips over, and she loses her hold on her martini glass. Thankfully it’s made of plastic.

“Ahh! What the hell! I’m covered in vodka and olive juice and dirt! Chip! Help me up! There are bugs everywhere!” She grabs on to Chip’s arm and tries to scramble to her feet. I should mention that she’s wearing white jean shorts. At a campfire. In the woods.

Dillion, on the other hand, has clearly come from bed. Her hair, which is usually pulled up in a ponytail, is down, the curls framing her face and making her look like an angry angel. She’s wearing a pair of flip-flops, gray shorts that show off her toned legs, and a thin, worn tank that reads BEDHEAD IS MY NATURAL LOOK across her chest. As usual, it’s white, which means the glow of the fire highlights her pert nipples and the fact that she’s definitely not wearing a bra, just like the last time she chewed me out, for keeping her awake with my hammering.

Her eyebrows pop at the spectacle that is Monica, and she quickly shifts her attention to me. She props a fist on her hip. It seems to be her go-to move. “I get that it’s Friday night, and you’re reliving your frat party days or whatever, but you’re literally twenty feet away from my bedroom. It’s two freaking a.m., and unlike the rest of you, I have to work in the morning. Do you think you can wrap this up for the night or at least tone it down and cut the rave music?” She motions to the portable speaker, which is blasting Monica’s favorite club playlist.

Monica, who has completely lost her filter, scoffs and wipes away fake tears. “Aww. Does your shift at the gas station start early on the weekend?”

Oh shit.

Dillion’s lip curls, and she slowly turns away from me so she can angry glare at Monica. “Ex-freaking-cuse me?”

Monica’s lip turns up in a sneer, and I glance at Chip, who tugs on her arm and mutters, “Babe.” But she doesn’t heed the warning.

She waves Dillion off and slurs, “Tell the trailer trash to stop being such a party pooper.”