I Love You, My Neighbour

Chapter 4: On the Wrong Foot

LOGAN

Less than ten minutes after my friends have gone home to their girlfriends or televisions, I watch Cricket sprint over the hill, racing towards me. As usual, I can't see my neighbour beside her dog, but I can hear her shouting.

"Cricket, wait for me!"

When is she going to do something about her dog? She clearly needs help, and as much as I enjoy the sight of her getting flustered every time Cricket runs up to me, I don't want to be the reason the dog gets hurt. Not that it would be my fault, per se, but I don't want to witness an accident that could easily be prevented if my neighbour swallowed her pride and asked for the help I offered her on the first day we met.

Bending over to pat Cricket and talk to him, I look up to see my neighbour trailing over the hill after him. As usual, irritation zings through me at the sight of her. Ever since our very first conversation, annoyance has been the predominant feeling whenever she's around. And it's only grown stronger since the day she barged into my house, the day I informed her we were going to be neighbours. Since then, she's either ignored me or grunted a hello while glaring at both me and her dog.

But things might be different today. Maybe. She did apologize earlier, going out of her way to make amends. Now I'm trying to figure out how I should respond. It's clear that the fact we're going to be neighbours and will constantly run into each other has weighed on her enough to bring me a peace offering. I respect her for that, especially since I had no intention of trying to fix things. But since she's making an effort, maybe I should try too. Regardless of what I think of her, I can admit that I haven't exactly been the best neighbour. That changes today.

Still hesitant, she walks over to me, clutching her side as if she has a stitch. She told me she adopted Cricket to motivate herself to walk, but her breathlessness suggests she's out of shape, though not overweight—just very curvy.

Not that I'm interested in her curves. They're just... there. I can't help but notice them, especially when her T-shirt clings to her, highlighting her impressive chest, and her sweatpants, though loose, fail to hide the curves of her hips.

"Hi," she says between gasps for breath.

I stop scratching Cricket and stand up, so I can look down at her face and not up at her body. "The muffins were a bad idea."

She jerks as if I've hit her. "Sorry?"

Mentally kicking myself for my lack of tact, I try again. "I meant that the guys really enjoyed them. Now they're demanding to be paid in muffins for helping me with the renovations instead of beer."

I had initially scoffed at their request until I tried the muffins myself. I couldn't believe how good they tasted. They—yes, I had two—literally melted in my mouth. As good as they may be, I have no burning desire to spend my weekends tracking down muffins just because of her.

"Oh." A soft smile spreads across her face, lightening her blue eyes. "I'm pleased."

"Where did you get them from?"

"The bakery on Main Street. I work there."

"You stole the muffins?"

Her neck flushes pink, and her already red face turns blotchy. "No, I didn't steal them. If they weren't mine, I would have bought them. I would never steal. Jesus."

I don't know why I assumed she stole them rather than bought them. Of course, she bought them, and I'm an asshole for suggesting otherwise. There's just something about her that rubs me the wrong way. After our frequent run-ins over the past couple of weeks, I don't have an overly high opinion of her, but that doesn't mean I can't be polite. We don't have to be friends, but it would be good if we could have a conversation that doesn't devolve into an argument or resemble the Cold War.