Life Next Door (Love Not Included Series Book 2) by J. D. Hollyfield
Authors: J. D. Hollyfield
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you.” I step aside to let him in and he sets his tool-bag on the inside mat.
“Oh, its okay, Ms. Westcott. I had to come out this way, anyway. My girlfriend lives in the next neighborhood over so it all works out.”
“Oh, that’s great, Brendan. I really appreciate it. Do you want anything to drink?”
“No, I’m okay, but thank you. I’ll just fix your lock and be on my way.”
“Okay, sounds good. I will be in the kitchen if you need anything.”
“Sure thing. Thanks, Ms. Westcott.”
I turn my back to Brendan and make my way into the kitchen. I head straight toward the wine and give myself a refill. I need to make myself some dinner but I’m so tired and mad that cooking doesn’t even sound appealing to me. I am never against a liquid dinner, so bypassing solids it is. I grab my glass and the bottle and head toward the back room where my workshop is. This is my secret safe haven. It’s where I keep all the plans for my future business. I can sit back here for hours and create recipes and invent the perfect blend of ingredients to formulate the perfect dessert. I sit down in my office chair and swivel around while I look at all my drawings and layouts. I slam the rest of my wine and refill again.
One day. That’s the key. “Focus on the prize, Westcott,” I coach myself. I don’t need any distractions, including a certain bastard neighbor.
Chapter 8
Wednesday, to no surprise, goes off the same. The neighbor’s car is gone and I leave for work, pathetically disappointed I didn’t have a run-in with him. Not like it would have been a pleasant one since I want to rip both his heads off.
May’s, as usual, is crazy busy all day. When I return home, there’s still no sign of the neighbor and it doesn’t help my mood that I see Blondie’s bobble-head bouncing out of his house again. Apparently my neighbor has a healthy appetite and young blondes are on the menu. As Blondie makes it to her car, she sees me and waves before she gets in. She waves! I want to get out and pummel her face in, but I have no idea why. I couldn’t care less. He’s just the neighbor, with no ties to me. He’s just someone who is residing in the she-devil’s house. Hopefully he will get sick of this boring neighborhood and find somewhere else to live. I get out of my car and viciously pull my purse out from the passenger side. It doesn’t comply at first and I tug at it again. Just as Blondie drives away, I do a final tug and it pulls free, sending me backwards into the grass. On my way down, my heel gets caught in a crack that Jeff was supposed to fix eons ago and it snaps off.
I hate everybody.
Thursday rolls around with no sign of the neighbor. I receive two voice messages from Jeff which go unheard. Not to disappoint, at the same time and the same place, I face off with bobbling Blondie. To top it off, I burn a cake. I, Priscilla Westcott, burned a cake. I hate this week.
By the time Friday makes it here, I am a ball of fire. I let Katie go home early and shut the shop an hour before normal closing time. I have not heard from May most of the week aside from basic texts, and if she has a problem with it, she can show her face at HER shop and do something about it. I make it home and actually don’t see Blondie’s car in the driveway. Yeah right. She’s probably parked in back and he’s most likely got her railed up against his Jeep, ravishing her like the slut he is.
Ugh, shut this down, Westcott.
I get into my house and throw my bag on the couch. I see the answering machine flashing; it’s Jeff again, yapping about a bunch of charges on his Visa that is almost maxed out. Yeah right, Buddy. That’s not happening.
I decide tonight is not going to be a cooking night and I order pizza. It’s getting late and I have no interest in anything culinary. I go to my infamous cabinet and pick out a 1989 Pinot Noir vintage from California. My favorite. One benefit of being with Jeff was that he had great
“Oh, its okay, Ms. Westcott. I had to come out this way, anyway. My girlfriend lives in the next neighborhood over so it all works out.”
“Oh, that’s great, Brendan. I really appreciate it. Do you want anything to drink?”
“No, I’m okay, but thank you. I’ll just fix your lock and be on my way.”
“Okay, sounds good. I will be in the kitchen if you need anything.”
“Sure thing. Thanks, Ms. Westcott.”
I turn my back to Brendan and make my way into the kitchen. I head straight toward the wine and give myself a refill. I need to make myself some dinner but I’m so tired and mad that cooking doesn’t even sound appealing to me. I am never against a liquid dinner, so bypassing solids it is. I grab my glass and the bottle and head toward the back room where my workshop is. This is my secret safe haven. It’s where I keep all the plans for my future business. I can sit back here for hours and create recipes and invent the perfect blend of ingredients to formulate the perfect dessert. I sit down in my office chair and swivel around while I look at all my drawings and layouts. I slam the rest of my wine and refill again.
One day. That’s the key. “Focus on the prize, Westcott,” I coach myself. I don’t need any distractions, including a certain bastard neighbor.
Chapter 8
Wednesday, to no surprise, goes off the same. The neighbor’s car is gone and I leave for work, pathetically disappointed I didn’t have a run-in with him. Not like it would have been a pleasant one since I want to rip both his heads off.
May’s, as usual, is crazy busy all day. When I return home, there’s still no sign of the neighbor and it doesn’t help my mood that I see Blondie’s bobble-head bouncing out of his house again. Apparently my neighbor has a healthy appetite and young blondes are on the menu. As Blondie makes it to her car, she sees me and waves before she gets in. She waves! I want to get out and pummel her face in, but I have no idea why. I couldn’t care less. He’s just the neighbor, with no ties to me. He’s just someone who is residing in the she-devil’s house. Hopefully he will get sick of this boring neighborhood and find somewhere else to live. I get out of my car and viciously pull my purse out from the passenger side. It doesn’t comply at first and I tug at it again. Just as Blondie drives away, I do a final tug and it pulls free, sending me backwards into the grass. On my way down, my heel gets caught in a crack that Jeff was supposed to fix eons ago and it snaps off.
I hate everybody.
Thursday rolls around with no sign of the neighbor. I receive two voice messages from Jeff which go unheard. Not to disappoint, at the same time and the same place, I face off with bobbling Blondie. To top it off, I burn a cake. I, Priscilla Westcott, burned a cake. I hate this week.
By the time Friday makes it here, I am a ball of fire. I let Katie go home early and shut the shop an hour before normal closing time. I have not heard from May most of the week aside from basic texts, and if she has a problem with it, she can show her face at HER shop and do something about it. I make it home and actually don’t see Blondie’s car in the driveway. Yeah right. She’s probably parked in back and he’s most likely got her railed up against his Jeep, ravishing her like the slut he is.
Ugh, shut this down, Westcott.
I get into my house and throw my bag on the couch. I see the answering machine flashing; it’s Jeff again, yapping about a bunch of charges on his Visa that is almost maxed out. Yeah right, Buddy. That’s not happening.
I decide tonight is not going to be a cooking night and I order pizza. It’s getting late and I have no interest in anything culinary. I go to my infamous cabinet and pick out a 1989 Pinot Noir vintage from California. My favorite. One benefit of being with Jeff was that he had great
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