Kristy

"How's the diet going, darling?" Mum asks within minutes of my arrival at the house she and Dad have lived in for the past two years.

According to my bathroom scales, I've actually lost three kilos. When I stepped on them this morning, I'd been so excited by the new number that I jumped in joy, tipped the scales, and nearly fell on my butt.

After recovering from my near fall, I put on my favourite clingy purple and silver top. Judging from my mother's disapproving expression, I'm not quite ready to pull off such a close-fitting clothing.

Right now, I feel every bit as fat and frumpy as I did as a teenager. My mother is 5'2", blonde, with delicate features and a petite frame. Next to her, I feel huge. And once I met Jess, who is tall and gorgeous, I felt like the odd one out whenever I was in the same room as them. Hearing my mum chastise me for eating too much sugar and carbs didn't help either. Her constant "warnings" to take care of my health grated on my nerves constantly as I grew up. I religiously weighed myself when I was a teenager to remind myself I wasn't overweight.

"I thought that mutt of yours was supposed to be helping you exercise," Dad says, sliding his glasses down his nose so he can peer at me over the top of them.

"The weight is coming off," I tell both of them. "And his name is Cricket, not 'that mutt'."

Sometimes I refer to my dog as a mangy mutt, but I hate it when my parents call him a mutt. And I hate it even more tonight, now that my relationship with my dog has improved - thanks in large part to Logan and his advice. Every day since I took him a peace-offering, Logan chats with me about Cricket, and he is coaching me on how to interact with my dog.

Yes, my dog still runs away from me just to see Logan. My dog still ignores me a lot of the time, but there are moments when he doesn't - moments where it feels like we have a breakthrough. I even wanted to bring Cricket with me to Mum and Dad's tonight, since he's already been on his own at home while I worked at the café all day. Even though I returned home to check in on him after my shift, I didn't want to leave him alone again. My parents, however, both said no when I asked to bring him.

"What's for dinner?" I ask Mum, hoping to change the subject from my weight and my dog.

"Grilled fish and salad. I think I've kept the calorie count low since you're worried about your weight."

"That's great," I tell her, forcing a smile.

I'm starving after being on my feet all day. I've cut down on lunches and leftovers from the café. Consequently, my stomach is empty and I don't think fish and salad will cut it.

Looks like I might be making a McDonald's run on the way home. My mouth is already watering at the thought of a Big Mac.

"And come help me in the kitchen," Mum orders.

I leave Dad reading his newspaper at the dining table and follow Mum into her spacious kitchen. It has everything a chef needs. That's one thing I do share with my parents - a love of preparing good food. But not baking. That is strictly my department. My parents liked to have fancy dinner parties when I was young, and Mum would create these elaborate and beautiful dishes. It might have been the only time I saw my Mum as a creative person.

"How are things at the café?" Mum asks after I ask her about her job as a student advisor at Blake University.

As usual, her question has a thread of contempt woven through it. My job has been a sore spot between us since I graduated. Mum and Dad have never approved of it being my full-time job. They were fine with me working there while I studied, but when I graduated, they wanted to see me taking over the corporate world - something I had and still have zero interest in.

"They're great, Mum."

"How many days are you managing the place? Still just the one?"

"Yep," I say, ignoring the scorn in her voice as she hands me some vegetables to start chopping.

Since the owner is on the premises every day except Sunday, there's no reason for me to manage the café the rest of the week. It's something that doesn't bother me but does bother my mother. After all, there isn't any prestige in baking or serving others, is there?

She sighs heavily, indicating she's gearing up for a lecture. I put my hand up to halt her before she starts. "I don't want to hear it, okay? I'm happy. That should matter more to you than the title I have."

Her gaze sweeps up and down me before coming back to rest on my face. "I just don't understand how you can be so happy with just baking and waitressing." She shakes her head, returning her attention to flavouring the fish she's pulled out of the refrigerator. "I mean, you're so different from your father and me. Sometimes I wonder if our baby was swapped with someone else's at birth."

"Wow. Thanks, Mum."

I'm used to that sort of comment these days. Over the years, it has hurt less and less. Mum and Dad love me, I know that, but they aren't the affectionate, straightforward type of parents. They are academics, both successful in their fields, and I admire both of them. But it's not like I have zero goals or ambitions. One day, I want to buy a little shop and run my own café. I just haven't mentioned this to my folks because my father would lecture me on how most small businesses fail in their first year, and my mother would probably insist that running a café is beneath me.

"I just want you to do well," Mum says.

"I know, but I feel like I am doing well."

She doesn't make any attempt to hide her scepticism. "How's Jess?" she asks after a moment, changing the subject.

"She's fine."

My parents would have been happier with Jess as a daughter. My friend is, after all, far more ambitious than I am. Not only is she one of Australia's favourite supermodels, but she's fluent in several languages and she also has a communications degree under her belt. With her looks, education, and personality, she is extremely accomplished. Is it any wonder my parents love her?

"What's she up to in Italy?"

Jess and I often message each other, but we also have a date where we speak once a week. We don't break that date for anything.

"When I spoke to her on Tuesday, she told me she's met another model there. His name is Alfredo, and they're spending a lot of time together."

She broke up with her boyfriend of three months - Simon - before she went to Italy. He was shattered, but I was only too happy to see the back of him. I'd overheard him ask Jess why they had to hang out with me instead of the other models Jess knew. I disliked him before then, but after that, it was an effort to pretend I liked the guy.

My mother frowns. "I hope she doesn't plan on staying there. You'll be stuck with all the rent, and you can't afford it on your wage."

That's my mother for you, never the romantic and every bit the pragmatist.

"If Jess decides to stay, I'll just advertise for another housemate."

I don't even bother mentioning that I could probably afford the place on my own. I easily make my share of the rent and bills and save a large amount. I live with Jess because she's my best friend, but I could live alone if I wanted to. All the hours I work earn me a very decent paycheck. Of course, working seven days a week isn't always enjoyable, but what else would I be doing with my time if I wasn't at the café or baking? Jess is in Italy. Naomi is always busy with work. My group of friends rarely gets together these days, except for special occasions. And it's not like I have a boyfriend to take up my time. I lost pretty much all interest in hanging out with the opposite sex after my last relationship went south.

So, between work and my goal to lose weight and get fit, there isn't time for much else. Mum might not consider me successful, but watching the nest egg I'm building grow bigger and bigger is incredibly gratifying. One day, I'll have enough to buy my café.

"Anyway," I say to Mum, "they're just hanging out at this stage. There's no need to worry about her staying there. She loves Oz."

Appeased, Mum goes back to what she's doing, and our conversation turns to news headlines. We don't always agree on politics and other news events, but we do enjoy debating things.

The rest of the preparation time passes quickly, as does dinner. Dad amuses me with stories of how he's been attempting to keep himself busy during his days off.

Once dinner is over, I thank them both and make the twenty-minute drive from Carrington Bay to Leaf Gardens, the gated community where my parents live. I add five minutes to my trip home tonight, however, because I go the long way to avoid McDonald's.

I pass Logan's place before I pull into my driveway, unsurprised to see his car still in the driveway. It isn't uncommon for him to stay longer at the house on weekends, though he never makes noise past eight o'clock at night.

A few times this week, I've even wondered if he is trying to keep the noise down. It doesn't seem quite as intrusive as it did the week before. On Wednesday, I even went to lay down for a nap at my usual time and managed to squeeze in forty minutes before the sound of a drill pierced my sleep. But I'm probably imagining Logan being quieter.

"I'm sorry, Cricket." As soon as I'm through my front door, I find him waiting for me, and I bend down to scratch him behind the ears. "I think we're going to miss our walk tonight, buddy."

It's after nine and very dark outside. Besides, I'm exhausted.

When I don't make any move to go and get his leash, Cricket starts barking and running around the room, emptying his toy bucket and nearly knocking Jess' favourite vase off the small table in the lounge.

"I'll tell you what, Cricket. We'll go out in the backyard instead."

With Cricket on my heels, I grab my keys and walk into the laundry, turning on the outside light and opening the back door. Cricket bolts into the yard immediately and starts running laps. I inhale deeply as I step out, enjoying the scent of all the herbs and flowers I have lined up on the veranda. Before, the veranda looked like a sanctuary for plants, but now it's littered with Cricket's toys. I pick up the closest tennis ball and throw it to Cricket. The grass is so long it needs cutting. But before I can dwell on it too long, I'm distracted by the noise coming from Logan's. Turning my head in that direction, I see my neighbour's backyard is lit up with floodlights.

Curiosity gets the better of me, and I walk over to the fence and climb onto the first rung. I can't remember how old I was when I last climbed a fence. Feeling both like a child and a peeper, I step up onto the second rung so that I'm high enough to peer over the fence.

Hopefully, Logan won't mind me popping my head over to see what he's up to, and—Holy mother of... Wow. I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry as I focus on Logan digging up his backyard, his muscles rippling and flexing with each swing of his shovel. The temperature outside is cool, but he's only wearing a pair of work boots, socks, and shorts. And judging from the sheen of sweat on his tight abs—abs that would make a male model jealous—he isn't feeling the cold air at all.

To be honest, I'm not feeling the cold right now either. Last weekend, when I took Logan my peace offering, he wasn't wearing a shirt, but my irritation and focus on apologizing meant I was able to concentrate on him and not his body. Now, however, I can't tear my gaze away.

Shamelessly, my eyes cling to the spectacular male body in view—the broad shoulders, the eight-pack and obliques, and the hips that I have the strangest impulse to lick. A surge of heat swirls low in my belly, spreading throughout the rest of my body as I imagine dragging my tongue over him and tasting the salt of his sweat. Like a fire finally given oxygen, my libido runs riot. Suddenly, I'm picturing him above me, thrusting into me and giving me everything my body seems to want and crave. As my temperature soars, my heart races, and a shallow breath escapes my lips.

It's been a long, long time since I've felt anything close to what I'm feeling now. Men and sex haven't been on my radar or interested me at all since the last relationship that shattered my self-confidence with men. Perhaps I should have expected my libido to roar back to life at some stage, but the simple truth is that I hadn't expected it at all. And the fact that it's Logan making me feel hot and bothered? Well, I don't understand it. And I don't like it. I hate it, in fact. The man is gorgeous, grumpy, and way out of my league. In other words, desire is the last thing I want to feel around him.

So why can't I stop looking at him? Watching him? Wanting him and treating him as if he's my very own peep show.

Cricket's sudden bark startles me, and I nearly slip as Logan looks up and straight at me, catching me standing on the fence, staring at him. My stomach clenches as his grey eyes meet mine. I hope he can't see my face reddening. Sure, there's no way for him to know what I've just been thinking. But I know.

Blank-faced, he asks, "Everything okay?"

"Saw the lights on and thought I'd say hi," I say, trying to ignore the roughness in my voice and how awkward and embarrassed I must look.

He drags his hand through his hair, causing it to stick up in all directions before pushing the shovel into the ground so that it stands by itself.

Walking toward the fence, he says, "Didn't see you go out for a walk earlier."

"No, I went out tonight."

"Right," he says, his mouth turning downward.

"To my folks," I add quickly.

Our truce and pleasant interactions this week have revolved entirely around Cricket. I don't want Logan to think I've ignored my dog in favour of a date or anything.

And if I want to stay on good terms with Logan, it's only because I don't want to go back to standing in front of his house, feeling awkward every time my dog gives Logan a tongue bath. That's the only reason I want to stay on his good side. Well, that, and the fact that it's nice not to dread every interaction with the guy.

"Right," he repeats, but his frown has disappeared.

"Ruff!" Cricket exclaims, putting his two front paws up on the fence so he can say hello to Logan too.

"Hey, Cricket," Logan answers.

"He hasn't been for a walk today, and I wanted him to burn off some energy. Tossing a ball around the yard seemed like the next best option."

"Yeah, it's a bit late to be going out walking," Logan nods. "Wait a second, I'll just go get my ladder."

A minute later, Logan returns with a ladder, which he props against the fence about a foot away from where I'm perched. A foot isn't far enough. He smells like a man and deodorant, and I'm acutely aware that he's close enough for me to reach out and touch him as he climbs up.

He leans over to pat Cricket. It's not like Logan smiles as he does so, but there's something about the way he talks to my dog and strokes him that makes me think he likes Cricket just as much as Cricket likes him.

"Do you have a dog?" I ask impulsively.

"Had one," he says gruffly, his eyes still fixed on Cricket.

He doesn't elaborate, and I desperately want him to, but the raw emotion in his eyes when they briefly meet mine stops me. Something bad happened. Something I'm sure he doesn't want to talk about with me. While our interactions this week have been an improvement over the previous two weeks, we've never shared anything personal with each other.

"I guess that explains how you know so much about dogs," I offer.

He shrugs. "Yeah."

"Thanks for all your advice, by the way." I want to erase the unhappy expression from Logan's face.

"You're welcome. Anyway, it's late, and I should start packing everything up," Logan says suddenly, jumping down from the ladder. "I'll see you around, okay?"

"Sure, okay."

I drop onto the ground on my side, ignoring the pang of discontent and guilt I feel over the way our conversation just ended.

Did I say something wrong?

I sit down on the back porch and watch Cricket sniff the yard, run around, and mark his territory. But as I listen to Logan shuffling around next door, probably packing up after my interruption, I can't stop remembering the raw emotion in his eyes when he told me he'd had a dog. I could swear that it was grief.

The guy is a walking misery machine, and tonight isn't the first time I've thought it. He barely laughs or smiles, even around his mates. Has Logan always been like that, or did something happen that made him like that? Are the shadows and gloominess in his eyes about a dog, or are they about more than that?

I haven't thought much about Logan's past before, but I can't stop thinking about it now. Logan has secrets, I'm sure, and for some stupid reason, I can't stop contemplating what they might be.

Dearest readers,

I have some exciting news to share with you—I’ve signed a publishing agreement for this book with Inkitt! As part of this agreement, my book will no longer be available for free reading, even on Substack. I’m permitted the five chapter sample that is here. I know this might be disappointing, but I believe this step will help bring this story to life even more.

Thank you for being such an incredible community. Your enthusiasm and support mean the world to me, and I can’t wait to share more stories with you.

All my love,

Elle

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.

"Look, I'm sorry," I start, running a hand through my already messy hair. "Clearly, we got off on the wrong foot. Maybe we should try starting over, what do you think?"

After studying me for a moment, she nods. "Okay, that might be smart."

"Good." I stick out my hand. "Hello, I'm Logan Jacobs. I'm your new neighbour."

She reaches out and takes my hand. "Hello, I'm Kristy Hill. Congratulations on your new place. It's going to look fantastic when you're finished."

Her comment catches me off guard, and a chuckle escapes me. It's been a long time since I found anything even remotely amusing. And this is the second time in a week that I'm laughing over an interaction with her. I'm not sure how I feel about that. I don't want to feel happiness, especially with Izzy gone, and I almost resent my neighbour for prying the chuckle from me.

"Well," Kristy says, a small smile sliding across her face, "I'll keep my fingers crossed for you."

"Thanks. I guess I'll have to swing by the bakery to pick up some more muffins for the guys next weekend, or they'll go on strike."

Her smile widens. "Seems like I've caused you more of a problem than I meant to."

"It was a nice thought. You should really blame the person who made the muffins, though. They were to die for."

Her gaze falls to the ground before sweeping back up to my face again. "That would be me, actually."

That's right. I remember her mentioning something about baking when she stormed into my house a few days ago. She complained that no one likes to buy burnt muffins.

"Since the muffins you gave us weren't burnt, can I assume you're not falling asleep while they're in the oven?"

"Oh, I still fall asleep, but I set the alarm on my phone. If I doze off with my head on the kitchen bench, it goes off right next to my head. It takes me a few minutes to wake up sometimes, but the muffins aren't as bad as they were."

Good. Because I don't intend to apologize for the noise I make. It's unfortunate that she usually sleeps when I need to work on my new place, but that's life. Sometimes it sucks.

"Well, they didn't taste burnt to me at all," I say. "They're the best muffins I've ever had."

"Thanks."

Silence falls between us, but this time it isn't as uncomfortable or tense as it has been before.

"Well, I should leave you to it," she says finally. "You're probably tired, and I should get back. Come on, Cricket."

Cricket, of course, does his own thing and lies down on the grass instead of going with her when she tugs on his leash.

She glances at me, wariness in her eyes. In light of the semi-decent conversation we've just had, I should keep my mouth shut and pretend I'm not concerned by what I'm seeing. But as I watch her continue to tug on his leash while talking his ear off about all the things they're going to do when they get home, I can't hold my tongue.

"Forget about being his friend. You have to use the same command every time, and you have to say it as though you mean it."

"I do mean it," she bites out, glaring at me once more.

Well, it didn't take long to ruin the brief truce we had. Still, I am trying to help her. And Cricket, of course.

"Listen, I know you don't like it when I tell you what to do with the dog."

"You think I'm an idiot when it comes to him," she says, tugging even harder on his leash, clearly desperate to put an end to the conversation.

I reach out and take the leash out of her hands before she accidentally strangles the dog. "Kristy, I'm not saying this to piss you off. I want to help."

She crosses her arms. "Help?"

"I'm not an expert, and I still think you need a qualified trainer, but I have a little bit of experience with dogs. I can tell you where you're going wrong if you want me to."

Her blue eyes are full of fire as they meet mine. "I don't need you to tell me where I'm going wrong. I'm pretty sure everything I'm doing is wrong."

"Well, yeah," I agree before I can stop myself. "So what's it going to hurt to listen to a few things I have to say? What have you got to lose?"

Her sigh borders on exasperation. "Fine." She throws her hands up in the air. "Help me, then."

"First," I start before she changes her mind. "Stick to using one-word commands. Never vary them because the dog will get confused. Use the same intonation every time you give the command. If you want him to come with you, try saying his name and then the word 'come' or 'here.'"

"I've tried that."

"The trick is consistency. And you have to convince the dog that coming to you is worth his while. Do you have dog treats for him?"

"Inside," she mutters.

"Go get them. We'll wait."

She looks set to argue, but after a moment of looking between Cricket and me, she leaves.

As soon as she walks out of her house with the dog treats, Cricket stands up, ready to walk to her. I tighten my hold on his leash and tell her, "Call him now."

Her eyes are full of uncertainty as she stands there.

"Remember, say the command like you mean it. Don't yell it, just make it firm and upbeat."

"Okay." She takes a deep breath and looks at her dog. "Cricket, come."

I let go of the leash, and Cricket walks straight over to Kristy. "Great. Now reward him."

He jumps up on her, nearly knocking her off balance, as he licks her hands and chest while she gets the treat out for him. I want to tell him to sit, but I don't want to undermine her leadership. She needs to establish herself as the leader, not me.

I wait until she's handed him a treat before asking, "How was that?"

"He was on his way over anyway as soon as he saw the treats."

"Yeah, but it was still a positive interaction. You should practice in your backyard, getting him to come by using that command and then rewarding him."

"Do you think it will make a difference when we're walking on the street and he sees a distraction?"

"Not right away. But if you keep working on it, you'll have more luck than you've had so far. You should carry the treats with you whenever you go out with him."

She looks down at what she's wearing, and I'm sure she's thinking there's no place to hide dog treats in her tracksuit pants and T-shirt. Still, if she wants to walk him and keep him with her, she should try to find a spot for them.

"He'll maul me if I carry them on me," she murmurs, looking up at me. "He jumps like crazy when there's something he wants."

It's on the tip of my tongue to tell her that dog obedience training would help with that, but I bite the comment back. I don't want to risk her getting annoyed and ignoring my advice.

"It'll be difficult," I agree, "but I think you should still try."

"Well, thanks for trying to help."

"Anytime, Kristy," I offer, genuinely meaning it.

Nodding, she waves and turns around, but then looks back at me over her shoulder. "I, um. I'm going to take him to dog obedience lessons. I decided that today."

It's all I can do not to pump my fist in the air in triumph. She looks less than thrilled that she just admitted that to me, but I'm thrilled.

Not wanting to upset her or make her regret telling me, I just nod. "Cool. And hey, thanks again for the muffins."

"You're welcome," she says. "I'm glad you enjoyed them."

I watch her walk toward her house, thinking maybe, just maybe, Kristy and I won't end up on a show called "Neighbours from Hell" after all.

Chapter 5

Kristy

"Tired, hon?"

The words startle me, jolting me out of my near-slumber faster than a cattle prod to the butt. I straighten up, coming face to face with my friend, Naomi Tate. She smiles at me over the display case I should have been cleaning instead of dozing off on. I hadn't even heard her enter the empty café.

Wiping the drool from my face, I get back to cleaning the case, grateful it wasn't Jaqueline, the owner of the place, who caught me napping. It's late afternoon, and we rarely have customers right before closing time, but Jaqueline would still have been displeased.

"You have no idea," I grumble. "I'm not getting my usual amount of sleep, and with all the exercise Cricket is giving me, I can barely keep my eyes open."

Naomi grins. "What's keeping you up? Please tell me it's a man."

"It's a man, alright. A really awful one. Unfortunately, he's also my neighbour. He bought the rundown property and is renovating it. Every day, right when I want to sleep, he's there with his buzzsaw, keeping me awake."

Naomi's pale brown eyes widen. "Oh."

"Yup. He has a day job, so he doesn't start on the place until late afternoon, interrupting my naptime."

The man I never want to see again not only works next door, but he'll also live there one day.

Cricket, at least, is thrilled. There's no way to keep the dog beside me when that man is around. He's like catnip to dogs. Perhaps that makes him dognip?

Naomi's brows furrow. "I'm sorry. That sucks. Have you tried talking to him?"

"Trust me, that did not go well."

Walking into his house and shouting at him wasn't my brightest idea, but I was so tired at the time. After hearing his saw interrupt my sleep for what felt like the millionth time, I was ready to stick that saw in a place the sun doesn't shine. Unfortunately, the whole situation made me lose my temper—I'm always quick to flare up when tired—and I insulted him royally. He won't be forgetting me calling him a lazy tradie anytime soon.

"Tell me what happened," Naomi says.

"That's going to take a few minutes."

Naomi glances at her watch. "I have time."

"Are you getting coffee?"

"Yup. The usual, please. Skinny cap—"

"With two. I remember."

"And…" she trails off, eyeing the glass display case with the remaining cakes and muffins. "I'll have one of your strawberry and white choc muffins, please. It's been too long since I've had one."

"They're not as good as usual. I keep falling asleep while they're in the oven."

"I'm sure they're fine," she assures me. "Everything you bake tastes superb."

"You'll see," I mutter, getting to work on the skinny cap. "Go find a seat, and I'll bring your order over. That way, you can eat while I fill you in."

She grins, flipping her long, straight red-blonde hair over her shoulder and walking toward the area of the café where the September sun pours through the arch windows.

Before my new neighbour started working on the rundown property, I'd be frantically mopping, sweeping, and cleaning at this time so I could get home and sleep. But afternoon naps are now a thing of the past. I've always been a light sleeper, and even with all the windows shut, I can't block out the noise of the renovations next door. So, spending an extra thirty minutes telling my friend about my run-ins with my neighbour won't make much difference.

I plate up her muffin and drink before taking both items over to her.

Pulling out the chair opposite Naomi, I remove my apron, sit down, and let out a sigh.

"Okay," I say. She leans forward, giving me her undivided attention. "While I've got you to myself, let me tell you all about this neighbour of mine."

Starting from the beginning, I recount Naomi the story of my neighbour’s first encounter with me and the day I walked into his house to confront him about the noise.

"I wish Jess was here to deal with this," I say. "She could have easily charmed or flirted her way into convincing him to keep the noise down."

"Maybe," Naomi replies. "From what you've said, he seems like a grump. There's no guarantee Jess would have had more luck than you."

"Are you crazy? Jess is a ten on a bad day. No one can resist her."

Naomi shoots me a glare, and I instinctively know what's coming. She's going to give me her usual lecture about comparing myself to Jess.

That's easier said than done. Every guy we meet together never gives me a second glance. Then, of course, there's the fact that the only two guys I've seriously dated both made passes at Jess. I've always compared myself to her, but since then, I can't help but see everything that's wrong with me when I look at her. Her awesomeness highlights my inadequacies.

Twisting the antique ring my grandmother gave me around my finger absentmindedly, I say, "I don't know how to handle this without her, Nay. Even if Jess couldn't charm or seduce him into behaving, she'd still have an idea about how to fix the situation. She's a born negotiator and mediator."

"Well, then, I think it's a good thing Jess isn't here. It gives you the chance to deal with this yourself."

I lightly bang my head against the table. "I don't want to deal with this myself."

"Tough."

"I know you think I hide behind Jess, but some people are just better at certain things than others. I'm the plant whisperer and baker, and she's the beautiful and smart diplomat."

Naomi raises an eyebrow. "Well, you don't know what you're capable of until you try. Maybe it's time to expand your skillset."

"I've tried smiling at him and being polite."

"And when that didn't work, you walked into his house and yelled at him."

I cross my arms. "I was tired."

"Surely you've heard the expression 'you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar'?"

"Of course I have. I just don't know what else to do now."

"I think you have to do something, or this situation will only get worse. You can't be falling asleep at work, Kristy. You'll get in trouble."

"I know."

"And surely you've seen that show, 'Neighbours from Hell'?"

I grimace. The thought of ending up on that show because of a feud with my neighbour is highly unappealing.

"I have an idea," Naomi says, tapping her perfectly manicured fingernail against the table. "What would you say your greatest strength is?"

"Well, it's not business management, that's for sure."

I finished my Bachelor of Business a couple of years ago, but only because my parents would have been upset if I hadn't.

"No," Naomi agrees, picking up her muffin and taking a bite. She moans in delight as she chews. "This," she says once she's finished, "this is your strength. Your baking is hands down the best I've ever had."

Despite her being one of my closest friends, her compliment still makes me blush. "Thank you."

"Kristy, you have to take him some of these." She reaches across and puts her hand on top of mine. "Take him some muffins, and I swear to you, you'll have him eating out of your hand."

The idea of taking him food never occurred to me. I want people to enjoy the food I bake, but bringing my neighbour pleasure has been the farthest thing from my mind. But now that Naomi has mentioned it, I can see the benefit in offering him a peace offering. He might be more likely to accept my apology if it comes with muffins on the side.

"I do feel bad about the lazy tradie comment," I admit. "Even if he did wish my dog luck dealing with me."

Naomi nods. "He does sound like a bit of a jerk, but you don't want to make an enemy out of your new neighbour. And I do think you'll have more luck getting him to listen to your noise concerns if you eat a little humble pie and apologize for what you said."

I blow out a breath, knowing she's right. "Fine, I'll take him some muffins."

"That's the spirit."

I stick my tongue out at her playfully.

"You know I'm just trying to help."

"And you have. Thank you. Without you or Jess, I'd be lost."

Naomi shakes her head. "It would have just taken you a little longer to figure it out on your own."

No, more likely, I would have ended up starting World War III in a tired rage, maybe even throwing dog poop over the fence. But Cricket makes it impossible for me to ignore the man. If I don't want to dread running into him every single day, I need to make a peace offering.

"And," Naomi continues, "maybe he can give you a hand with your dog. From what you've said, Cricket is a handful."

My relationship—or lack thereof—with my dog is reaching a breaking point. I need to do something, and I can't put it off any longer. The problem isn't going away or improving. Several times this week, I've come close to calling Jess's aunt and uncle and asking if they'd take Cricket back. But as frustrating as the whole situation is, I'm just not ready to give him up yet.

Or talk to my neighbour about it.

"He is a handful," I agree. "But I really don't want that grumpy man's help. I don't want him to think I don't know what I'm doing."

Naomi raises an eyebrow. "Well, you don't know what you're doing. You know what they say, 'pride comes before the fall.'"

Yes, pride does come before the fall, but pride isn't always a bad thing. Sometimes it can be useful. I hate giving up on anything. That's another reason I finished my Bachelor of Business.

Admitting I'm not cut out to be a dog owner would crush me. I mean, it shouldn't be that hard to make a dog like you. And if my parents were to find out I've given up the dog, they'd be quick to remind me they were right all along—that animals are too much trouble and that I should have known better.

Besides, the reasons I had for getting a dog in the first place haven't changed or gone away. Just over a month ago, I stepped on the bathroom scale and was horrified by the number of kilos I'd put on since I last weighed myself.

I scolded myself for letting my weight spiral out of control, excusing my lack of exercise by telling myself it hadn't stopped my ex-boyfriends' eyes from wandering to Jess. But now my weight is higher than ever, and I'm disgusted that I've sacrificed my health because I'm not interested in attracting a man. My weight has nothing to do with men and everything to do with my health.

Meaning, I need to keep exercising daily. Cricket not only provides excellent motivation, but he's also supposed to be my protection when we go for walks after dark. I could join a gym, of course, but the idea of working out in front of all those fit people puts me off. I much prefer the idea of getting fit in the privacy of my own home or neighbourhood.

Yes, Cricket has failed miserably as a guard dog so far—I don't even know if he's capable of being anything but friendly—but I still hope I can win him over. Then, maybe, he'll keep the bad guys away or at least stop running away from me to lick them.

So, I'm not ready to give up on Cricket, but I know I must do something. Dog obedience lessons might be my only option. I'd rather find the number for them myself, though, than ask my neighbour.

"You're full of sayings today, aren't you?" I say to Naomi.

She smiles. "Sorry, can't help myself. Anyway, I'll drop the subject for now."

I check my watch. "In that case, you'll have time to update me on everything that's new with you."

I listen as Naomi tells me stories about her clients at the public relations firm she works for. Once she's finished catching me up on the difficulties her rival has been causing her, I bid her farewell. Then I clear the dishes, serve the few last-minute customers who want an afternoon coffee, and pack the leftover muffins and cake from the display case.

Since I only get paid for the items customers purchase, the leftovers are mine to do with as I please. Jacqueline, the owner, insists on everything being fresh, which leads to a lot of waste.

Is it any wonder I've put on so much weight? I hate wasting food, so I end up donating most of it to the local homeless shelter and eating the rest.

After placing the muffins and cake in a large brown paper bag, I lock up the café and step outside. The scent of freshly cut grass hits me as I close the door behind me. It's a warm Sunday, and everyone seems to be out mowing their lawns. The combination of warm sun and fresh air is invigorating and relaxing at the same time. I smile as I walk past people taking strolls or tending to their gardens.

Carrington Bay, my neighbourhood, may be a little run-down, with a few unsavoury characters hanging around, but it's a pretty seaside town. Located thirty kilometres south of Melbourne, it's generally quiet and peaceful.

Well, it is when my neighbour isn't banging and hammering away at his house.

As soon as I turn into Elizabeth Road South, our street, I can hear the noise. He probably has more workers there today, just like yesterday. I assumed they were his friends since it was a Saturday, and they weren't wearing uniforms or driving work trucks. But then again, I made the wrong assumption about my neighbour being a tradie based on his appearance and tools.

I stop walking and open the brown paper bag, quickly counting the muffins inside. Seven. Hopefully, that's enough for my neighbour and his workers. They can divide them up and keep the leftovers for themselves. At least they'll save my waistline by taking them off my hands.

My heart starts pounding faster as I resume walking, adrenaline coursing through my body as I try to anticipate how my neighbour will react to my peace offering. I don't particularly enjoy apologizing, but someone has to be the bigger person. And I do feel bad about the lazy tradie remark.

About halfway down the street, I spot my neighbour standing on his roof, shouting something to the three men standing on the ground below.

Is it better to hand over my muffins now and bluff an apology while his friends are there to witness it, or should I leave it until later, after his friends have gone home? The part of me that wants to get our confrontation over with is louder than the part that wants to wait. Hopefully, having witnesses to our conversation will minimize the potential for disagreement or argument.

The men assisting my neighbour remain focused on what's happening on the roof as I approach. Once I'm behind them, I have to clear my throat to get their attention. I swallow hard as the three of them turn around together. All three men are topless, muscular, and very good-looking. There is so much testosterone in front of me that the sudden rush of suppressed hormones and female desire makes me feel light-headed. The last time I saw so much exposed male flesh was probably about two years ago, before Marc hit on Jess and we broke up.

Agonizingly, my face and body heat up, and my gaze ping-pongs between handsome faces, chiselled abs, and rock-hard pecs. I don't know where to look. Nowhere feels safe. I could have handled one man, but it's a real effort to string words together with all three of them watching me. I force myself to think of Marc and how he hurt me, but I still feel the urge to reach out and touch the sculpted men in front of me. Clearly, after avoiding the opposite sex for the past two years, this situation is too much for my poor brain to handle.

"Hello," I finally manage, forcing myself to focus on the guy with the kindest blue eyes I've ever seen. "Um, I want to talk to..."

I don't even know my neighbour’s name.

"Hey, what are you guys doing?" my neighbour yells down at us. "What am I paying you slackers for?"

The guy with close-cropped black hair and brown eyes looks up at my neighbour. "I don't believe you're paying us at all."

"I told you there'd be a slab in it for all of..."

My neighbour stops short when he walks to the edge of the roof and sees me standing there. Cool grey eyes meet mine, and my already racing heartbeat speeds up further with the extra shots of adrenaline his appearance sends through me.

"Well, we've got company, Mr. Boss, Sir," the guy with kind blue eyes says, winking at me and smiling.

I can't help but smile back at him since he seems so friendly. He looks somewhat familiar, like I've seen him somewhere before.

"So, I see," my neighbour replies, climbing down the ladder.

The other men part as my neighbour approaches. "Is there a problem?" he asks when he's finally in front of me.

Despite the irritation that flickers through me at his less-than-welcoming glare, I can't help but notice that his pecs and abs are just as impressive, if not more so, than the other men's. I blame the surge of repressed hormones still swimming in my head and body for making me focus on things I don't want to focus on.

"There's no problem," I force myself to meet his gaze, trying to sound a lot calmer than I feel. "I just wanted to bring you some muffins."

"Muffins?" he repeats as I hand him the brown paper bag. He opens it and briefly peers inside before closing it and searching my gaze. "Do they have arsenic in them?"

My lips quirk up at the thought of him believing I want to poison him. "No poison," I promise. "I just... I want to apologize for the other day. For what I said, specifically."

He crosses his arms. "Why?"

Clearly, he isn't about to let me off the hook that easily.

"Walking into your house and yelling at you wasn't my finest moment. I don't normally do things like that, and I'm not usually so rude to strangers. I regret what I said, and I hope we can put it behind us."

He continues to stand there, watching me, as though he's waiting for me to say more. I don't know what else I'm supposed to say, so I force a smile. "Well, thanks for listening. Hopefully, you guys have worked up an appetite and will enjoy my peace offering."

"Thanks, I guess," he says.

Seriously? I've just apologized, and the guy still can't muster a response resembling gratitude.

I look at his three assistants.

Their expressions are a mixture of curiosity and amusement. Chances are good they'll interrogate my neighbour about this conversation, but I won't be here when they do.

"Bye, then."

With more pep in my step than usual, I walk across his driveway and onto my property, quickly opening my front door and disappearing out of view. Leaning against the door, I sigh.

Cricket ambles off the couch and walks over to me, thumping his tail a few times. "You need to go out, boy?"

Taking Cricket out into the backyard for a toilet break, I listen to the muted talking and laughter coming from next door. Are they talking about me?

I'm glad I can't hear them. I have no idea whether my apology has made a difference. Nor do I know if he'll eat my muffins, but at least I can say I tried to fix things. No doubt, I'll run into him again when I walk Cricket tonight, and I'll gain some idea of whether my peace offering has helped. Either way, the ball is in his court. He can choose to forgive me, and we can move past what has happened, or he can hold a grudge, and our every meeting will continue to be awkward.

The choice is his.

Chapter 4

Logan

Setting down my electric saw, I retrieve my vibrating phone from my pocket and check the display before answering the incoming call.

"Hi, Mum," I say, stepping out of my house to get better reception.

"Logan, honey. How are you? How's your week been?"

Every Friday at five o'clock, without fail, my mother calls me. Even in the two years since my fiancée passed away, she hasn't missed a weekly check-in. After I moved out of home, we sometimes went weeks, or even months, without talking, but when I needed her—when I couldn't see a way through the days—she was my rock. As I've needed her less over the past two years, the frequency of her calls has decreased, but she still hasn't stopped calling on Fridays.

"The week wasn't too bad. No detentions, and I've made good progress on the house," I reply.

"How soon can I come for a visit?"

Turning around, I survey the wreckage behind me. "As soon as I'm sure the roof won't collapse on you."

She chuckles. "You always exaggerate, Logan."

"Did you see the photos I sent? It's going to take months to restore this place, even with help."

"Do you think you've taken on too much? Wouldn't it be easier to hire contractors?"

"Perhaps, but where's the fun in that? I can handle it; it just requires time."

And time is something I have an abundance of these days. This project helps me fill the void. What else would I do? Stay home, watch TV, and drown my sorrows? I've done enough of that in the past two years. If I keep drinking that much, I'll end up damaging my liver. After teaching countless high school Health classes, I have vivid images of poisoned livers etched into my brain.

"No, Cricket! Come back! Don't! Damn it, not again."

My mother continues talking, but I struggle to focus on the conversation as I watch the dog sprinting down the hill to my right. Since I started working on this house a couple of weeks ago, my neighbour’s disapproving glares have become almost as consistent as my mother's calls. Every day for the past fortnight, she has shot invisible daggers at me as she jogs down the hill and finds Cricket at my side, waiting for her.

It's not my fault that her dog seeks me out, although I'm sure my neighbour blames me in her head. It clearly upsets her that Cricket prefers my company over hers. Perhaps I should have kept my opinions to myself about her inadequate dog-handling skills. Even if she knows nothing about dogs, it wasn't my place to tell her.

People who neglect or mistreat their pets infuriate me. Izzy used to work as a vet at the local RSPCA, and she often shared stories of pet owners who didn't properly care for their animals. I was just as invested in the cause as she was. I still make regular donations to the RSPCA shelter she worked for, but it never feels like enough to honour her passion—to honour her memory.

Telling my neighbour to step up and enrol her dog in obedience classes won't compensate for anything or bring about any significant change. I'm well aware of that. But since Buster, Izzy's dog, passed away a few months after Izzy, Cricket's striking resemblance to him makes me feel like I should help the poor mutt. Somehow, I believe it's a way of doing right by both Izzy and Buster, becoming an advocate for Cricket.

Only half-listening to Mum's account of a picnic she went on with her latest boyfriend, I crouch down to pat Cricket, keeping my neighbour’s approach in my periphery. Her dark brown curly hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and her grass-stained white t-shirt and grey sweatpants give away her recent jog. As always, her blue eyes flash irritation and annoyance as she approaches me. When she notices the phone in my hand and realizes I'm on a call, the stiffness in her posture dissipates. Thankfully, that means we won't have to endure our usual stilted conversation today.

"Hi," she mutters, pointing at the leash in my hand.

Reluctantly, I hand her Cricket's leash, waiting for the obligatory thank you. This time she whispers it before tugging on the leash and coaxing Cricket to move. Every day, she follows the same routine, never altering her approach, repeating the same risks. Stubborn woman. Biting my tongue, I suppress the lecture welling up inside me about how much she would miss her dog if anything happened to him. Instead, I retreat indoors to continue my phone call, where I don't have to face such unwavering obstinacy.

"What the hell," I mutter to myself as the circular saw in my hand abruptly sputters to a stop. Catching sight of a shadow moving behind me, I turn around and let out a sigh when I realize that the saw is not the problem—it's the power that has been shut off. My next-door neighbour has let herself into my front door and now stands before me, hands on hips, her long curly dark brown hair cascading over her shoulders. Her blue eyes are filled with rage, her cheeks flushed, and her lips moving at a million miles an hour.

I assume she's yelling at me, but with my earplugs in, I can't hear a word. For a moment, I contemplate leaving them in, but I know she won't leave without some sort of acknowledgment.

Reluctantly, I put down my power tool and remove my earplugs.

"Have you heard a word I've said?" she yells.

"Nope. What were you saying?" I reply, unfazed.

She throws her hands up in the air and rants at the ceiling before turning back to me. "I said, some people are trying to sleep around here."

"At five in the afternoon?"

"Yes, at five in the afternoon! I wake up at four in the morning. Then I go to work, and when I come home, I take a nap so I can bake all the orders for the following day. But ever since you started working here, I can't take my nap, and I end up falling asleep while baking. Then my cakes burn. And you know who buys burnt cakes? No one!"

Her overreaction to burnt cakes is rather excessive, to say the least.

"I think you need to take a breath and calm down," I suggest.

"Don't tell me to calm down! It's been weeks since I had a proper afternoon nap, and the noise from that saw is the most irritating, annoying sound in the world."

Well, at this moment, she is the most irritating and annoying person in my world.

"Sorry that you're missing out on your nap," I say, insincerely. "This is the only time I have to work on the house."

According to local government laws, I'm prohibited from using power tools after eight, which works out fine as I don't want to risk any accidents working late into the evening.

Her mouth drops open, resembling a gasping fish. "You're here all day. You should be leaving at four, or at the latest, four-thirty. Lately, you've been finishing after six, and eight hours of noise is more than enough, don't you think?"

"Eight hours? I don't even arrive until quarter to five," I retort.

It takes me about twenty minutes to commute from the high school where I teach, so I'm never here any earlier than that.

"Shouldn't you be starting earlier in the day? Isn't eight in the morning the typical time for tradespeople to start making noise? Or are you just a lazy tradie who shows up whenever it suits you?"

Her comment strikes a nerve, and I feel my temper flaring. Crossing my arms over my chest, I take a step closer to her. "Woman, I am not lazy. Some of us have day jobs, you know?"

She takes a step back, tucking her hair behind her ear. "How many jobs do you have?"

"Just one."

"Then you should take pride in your work and show up at a decent hour, and leave at a decent hour."

She mirrors my posture, crossing her arms over her chest, and tilts her nose up as if she's superior. Not only is she stubborn and prideful about her dog, but she also enjoys making snap judgments about people. A lazy tradie? With that assumption, she has made a complete fool of herself, and now it's time to set her straight.

"I do show up for work at a decent time, lady," I say, taking another step towards her, relishing the sight of her taking another step back. "And then I leave and come here to work on this place. I just bought it, and as you can see, it's a bit of a mess. But it's my house, and I'd like to move into it eventually, not that I can say much about the neighbours I've encountered so far."

I look at her pointedly, waiting for my words to sink in. Watching the gears turn in her head as the reality of the situation dawns on her is the highlight of my day, perhaps even my week. The widening of her eyes and the look of horror that washes over her face are worth the interruption to my work.

"You're moving in here?" she stammers.

"Yup."

Well, I will be once I've fixed the countless problems this place has.

Izzy's life insurance money went to her parents, which I had no issue with. In fact, I expected all her money to go to them. But the savings she had accumulated—money intended for our first home—she left to me.

For years, Izzy and I talked extensively about what our first house would look like. We discussed saving up for a spacious mansion, a house filled with children. Then we entertained the idea of purchasing a property near the city, the kind of couple that dines out every night and hires a nanny for our future kids.

We envisioned our life in various ways. The last time we seriously discussed our plans, we agreed to buy a fixer-upper like the one I currently stand in and renovate it. That was our dream, our plan. We would transform the place to suit us, and then we'd get married and have children—ideally, at least three of them. My fiancée loved kids as much as she loved animals.

After Izzy's passing, those who didn't know how to deal with my grief told me that life goes on. Unfortunately, they were right. Time doesn't heal all wounds—that part they got wrong—but life does move forward, and I need something to occupy myself. Even though buying this house and fixing it up intensifies my longing for the life I once envisioned with Izzy, it provides a small measure of comfort, knowing that I'm following through on our plans. I need this house, this project—a distraction.

So, the woman standing in my house, growing less certain of herself by the second, will simply have to deal with it.

"Check out the EPA website," I advise her. "I reviewed the noise regulations for residential areas before buying this house, and I'm not breaking any laws. I turn off all my power tools by eight. I have every right to make noise until then."

She swallows, her shoulders slumping. "This conversation was pointless."

"I wouldn't say that."

I've brought my neighbour up to speed on what's happening here, and although I dislike the idea of starting off on the wrong foot with my future next-door neighbour, her attitude leaves much to be desired. Whether I decide to keep this place or sell it once I'm done, I don't know yet. I can't envision sharing this house with anyone else or starting a new chapter here. But that's a problem for future me. Right now, I have a deadline to meet. My friends have offered to help me whip this place into shape. Hopefully, with the four of us working on weekends, we'll make significant progress before my current lease expires.

And no one—especially not my too-proud neighbour—will stand in my way.

She seems to be hugging herself now. "Is this really the only time you have to work on the house?"

"Yup. And this 'lazy tradie' needs all the time available to get this house into shape," I retort, throwing her insult right back at her. With a show of triumph, I insert my earplugs again, switch the power back on at the wall where she turned it off, and pick up my saw.

She flinches as I restart it. Then, with a defeated expression on her face, she slinks out the door, tail between her legs.

With her gone, I resume sawing through the wood and tiles I had measured and stacked against the wall earlier. And as I recall the shocked expression on my neighbour’s face when she realized that not only am I working here, but that I've actually bought the place, something I haven't done in a very long time happens.

I laugh.

Chapter 3

A steamy friends-to-lovers romance…

Kristy Hill has given up on love. When your best friend is a supermodel, it’s hard to keep a man’s attention. At least, that’s what history has taught Kristy. That’s okay, she doesn’t need a man to keep her busy. A slight workaholic on a mission to up her fitness level, she’s adopted a dog. Unfortunately, the dog seems to prefer her annoying and grumpy neighbour to her!

After the death of his fiancée, Logan James is looking for a distraction. Buying a house that’s falling apart and doing it up with his mates seems like the answer to all his problems. That is until he runs into the shrew living next door. Not only did she call him lazy, but she’s stubborn and refuses to seek help in looking after her dog. Neither Kristy nor Logan are looking for love. Too bad they might just find it anyway.

First in the Neighbours In Love Series!

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Kristy

If it seems too good to be true, it usually is. Whoever came up with that saying knew what they were talking about.

"Cricket! Cricket, come back here!" I shout, stumbling up the hill after my dog, who just disappeared over it.

When I offered to pay my friend's aunt and uncle for their purebred Borzoi, Cricket, they flatly refused. That alone should have set off alarm bells. But I was so captivated by the hound's big brown eyes and soft white and brown fur that I convinced myself it was a generous gift. What an idiot! I roll my eyes at my own naiveté.

Cricket doesn't like me, and I'm starting to feel the same way. He refuses to obey my commands and chases after everything. Absolutely everything!

At the moment, he's fixated on a white plastic bag from the local supermarket. Granted, I wanted a dog to motivate me to exercise every day, but chasing after him when he breaks free from my grip is not the kind of workout I had in mind.

Rubbing the cramp in my side with one hand, I shield my eyes with the other and glance toward my house at the bottom of the incline. Is it too much to hope that Cricket has given up the chase and is patiently waiting for me? I let out a sigh of relief when I see him enthusiastically giving a stranger a tongue bath outside my place. At least, his fondness for licking strangers has saved me from a trip to the pound today. Although I didn't have to buy Cricket outright, rescuing him from Carrington Bay Lost Dog's Home every time he runs away is quickly draining my wallet.

Urging my tired and shaky legs to keep going, I start walking toward Cricket, more than ready to rescue the stranger from my rambunctious dog and head home for a hot, soapy bath.

"Where's your owner, hey, boy?" the stranger's warm and affectionate voice floats over to me as he kneels and scratches Cricket behind the ears. I can't see his face, but one thing is clear—he's in far better physical shape than I am. Dressed in brown work boots, shorts, and a tank top, his muscular calves, back, shoulders, triceps, and biceps stand out. I steal a glance at the neon green Ute parked next door, guessing he might be some sort of tradesman.

Whoever he is, he's no stranger to hard work. That's a good thing if he's working on the death-trap my best friend and I call the house next door. The property was sold about a month ago, and I have no idea when the settlement date is. The new owner has a long way to go to make the place liveable. The dilapidated fence, overgrown shrubbery, crumbling brickwork, and busted pipes make it more of a health hazard than a renovator's dream. I hope the renovations happen quickly and quietly since I'm an early riser and in bed shortly after sunset.

As I approach, Cricket lets out a short, sharp bark, startling me and causing the stranger to spin around. When he sees me, the man stands up.

He must be at least 6'2", and his face matches the rest of him in terms of impressiveness. His stormy-grey eyes stand out against his high cheekbones and medium-length dark blond hair falling across his forehead. He appears to be around my age, late twenties. The hint of stubble on his angular jawline adds to his appeal. Long ago, I would have felt tongue-tied and shy in the presence of such male beauty, but I've learned not to be swayed by good looks. In my experience, men like him are often vain and superficial at best. And at worst, they realize they can do better and move on to someone more their type, like they did with my exes—my best friend, Jess.

So, I shrug off his attractiveness, flash him a polite smile (which he doesn't bother to return, mind you), and turn my attention back to Cricket.

"Is this your dog?" the stranger asks before I have a chance to call Cricket.

"Yes," I wheeze. "Thanks for keeping him here until I caught up. I try to hold onto Cricket's leash, but he's much stronger than I am."

His brows furrow. "Cricket?"

"That's the name his previous owners gave him. They said he loved chasing cricket balls at a local cricket club, so I didn't want to confuse him with a different name."

"I see."

I smile at him again, hoping he'll find some humour in the situation. But when he continues to frown, my smile fades. I can't help but think that if I looked like Jess—perfect body and face—he would smile back. They always smile back at Jess.

"Well, I should get Cricket home. Come on, Cricket."

Thankfully, my lungs no longer feel as if they've shrunk, allowing me to sound slightly more authoritative than a deflating balloon. However, Cricket lies down in the grass, resting his face on his paws and giving me a pleading look.

"Cricket, come on," I plead, realizing I'm failing miserably at convincing this surly stranger that I have any control over my dog.

Before I can physically drag Cricket away (which all the training tips advise against), the man asks, "When was the last time you owned a dog?"

Straightening up, I meet his gaze. "This is actually my first time."

"You might want to consider taking him to a dog training course. An irresponsible dog owner can get themselves hurt, their dog hurt, or even hurt someone else. It's a miracle Cricket didn't run out onto the street and cause an accident."

Heat surges through my already flushed body. I'm well aware of the danger Cricket poses every time he escapes, but I do my best to hold onto him. And it's not like I haven't thought about taking him to a training course, but I wanted to establish a stronger bond with him before venturing out in public together. It's embarrassing when others can see that he hasn't warmed up to me at all. I don't want to look like a complete fool when I give him commands he refuses to obey. Besides, I can't risk going to the local dog park, fearing Cricket will bolt after something—or someone. It seems he likes everyone else more than me.

"Thank you for your opinion," I say, forcing a stiff smile. "I'll take it into consideration."

"You do realize that walking him every day isn't enough, right?"

Wow. He really thinks I'm an idiot. Well, I'm not. Yes, I'm still learning about dogs, but I'm not stupid. And who does this guy think he is, being so bossy and nosy? The dog police?

Gritting my teeth, I walk up to Cricket and grab hold of his leash. "I know there's more to taking care of a dog than just walking him." I give the leash a gentle tug. "Time to go home, Cricket."

Of course, the dog refuses to budge. Why can't he make things easy for me, just this once? I feed him, I'm nice to him.

"I know some people who run a dog training program in a park not far from here," the stranger offers, glancing between the dog and me. "I have their number if you want it."

"Thanks, maybe I'll get it from you another time."

Translation: never. Even if I do need help with training Cricket, I don't particularly like this man.

He shrugs, still managing to look annoyed with me. "Suit yourself." He bends down to stroke Cricket again. "See you, Cricket."

I'm sure I hear him whisper, "Good luck with her," before he walks toward the house next door.

Once the stranger opens the front door and steps inside, Cricket whines, stands up, and finally gives me his attention.

"Now you decide to get up," I scold. "Couldn't you have done that earlier?"

Glancing at the house next door one last time, I cross my fingers, hoping the renovations will be completed soon—or better yet, that the new owners hire a different tradesman. I don't want to see that man again any time soon.

Chapter 2