I tried. I tried like hell, but the woman was everywhere. Pacing the yard and taking measurements of god only knew what. Leaving all the windows and curtains open, all the time, and the lights on too. Emptying the garage out onto the driveway and then, apparently, shoving it all back in there.
There was no avoiding Jasper.
Even when I tried my damnedest to pretend there wasn't a flamethrower of a woman next door, I couldn't ignore the hammering.
Hammering fucking everything. Everything. And I had no clue what she was pounding but she did it day and night for three days straight.
The real kicker was the curb. Without fail, every time I left in the morning or returned in the evening, Jasper was dragging something out to the curb. Trash bags—so many trash bags—boxes, wrecked furniture, rolled-up carpet, all kinds of shit.
I couldn't look away from it if I tried. I couldn't close my eyes and pray I managed to steer my truck into the driveway without incident. I had to go in with eyes wide-open and force myself to stare through Jasper.
As if that was even possible.
As if I hadn't formed a mental catalog of her dresses and high heels and the coordinating cardigans she wore as summer gave way to the crisp bite of autumn. As if I didn't growl at the sight of her, waves hanging loose over her shoulders. As if I didn't lie awake at night, wondering whether it was time to take this situation in hand.
Every time I spotted her in the yard or at the curb, there was a split second where I was finished playing by her rules. Just fucking finished.
That split second hit me as I drove down the street this afternoon and found Jasper lugging a huge, water-stained box out from the house. It was so big she disappeared behind it, leaving only her arms and legs visible.
The closer I came, the longer that second stretched. It continued on like a long thrum of hunger deep in my belly and it didn't stop when I pulled into my driveway.
I watched as she followed the comma curve of the walkway, moving with more grace than anyone who couldn't see ahead of them had any business. She almost made it too but that box was doomed. The bottom fell out in a sodden rush, leaving a heap of wet, damp-browned papers at her feet.
She kept her hands fixed on the sides of the box as she lowered it, her lips folded in a line that spoke of her intense displeasure. As if a box had any business failing her. Then she closed her eyes, turned her face to the sky, and let her shoulders drop. I was certain I could hear her sigh all the way over here.
Before I could stop myself, I was out of my truck and crossing into her yard.
Before I could stop myself, I was shouting, "Mind telling me what the hell you're doing?"
6
Jasper
I knew he was watching. I knew he saw today's disaster and filed it away with all the other disasters he'd watched from his front-row seat next door.
There was no escaping the man. Everywhere I turned, he was there. Lurking in his windows, lingering in his yard, staring from inside his truck. I couldn't breathe without a scowling audience.
It was all he could do, the scowling. As if he was forever sucking a lemon while looming in my shadows.
Then— "Mind telling me what the hell you're doing?"
I kept my eyes shut a moment longer. My dress and shoes were soggy and the box's contents smelled vaguely fungal but I needed a minute.
Just a minute to absorb the sun's warmth and pretend I wasn't covered in damp basement trash. One quick little minute to myself before going another round with the ever-present hot neighbor.
The ever-present hot neighbor who could've had me on his kitchen table last week if he'd asked nicely. Or not so nicely.
I turned my face from the sun to stare at Linden Santillian in all his tree-doctoring glory. Plaid shirt rolled up to the elbows, jeans that fit just right, ball cap shadowing his hazel eyes. The cap made it difficult to tell for certain but his eyes seemed bright today, almost feral.
Where I was from, wolves were bad news. They decimated chicken coops and spooked horses. They were the reason, or so I was told, my uncle stored a handgun in the cupholder of his truck.
Yet the odd thing about wolves and all the bad news they brought along with them was they didn't exist. Not really, not after decades of hunting, not where I was from.
But this man right here, he was all wolf.
Everything about him was large and dark, like a new moon in human form.
And the most overlooked quality of wolves—and moons—was their beauty. There was no law prohibiting predators from being both beautiful and deadly. This man was both—in the best ways. He'd destroy you, he'd wreck you, he'd tear you apart and watch you bleed, and he'd smile about it.
Wolves were nothing like foxes or coyotes or mountain lions or any of the creatures known to stalk farms and rural spreads.
Wolves weren't sly or cunning, and they weren't exactly brazen either. They were bold in a simplistic sort of way. They went after what they wanted—and that was that.
When coming face-to-face with a wolf, you had to square up and stare them straight in the eye. Running scared was to feel fangs sinking into your skin.
I wasn't going to run.
I set the remains of the box down, dusted off my hands, and straightened the ribbon belt at my waist. I wasn't afraid of this wolf, even if I knew he'd go for the throat if I gave him the chance.
He blinked at me with those eyes, wordlessly repeating his question. He didn't have to do anything but stand there to command my attention and he knew it.
"Did you say something?" I asked. "I couldn't be sure. I heard some grumbly sounds but not actual words. Was that you? With the grumbly sounds? Are you making those noises?"
"You"—he shook both hands at me—"that"—and the disemboweled box—"what-what-what the bloody hell are you doing?"
I glanced at the mess in front of me. "Does it truly require explanation or do you simply enjoy having everything narrated for you?"
"Yeah, it requires some fucking explanation, Jasper. Why are you hauling this stuff yourself?"
"Because I can." And I was in no position to hire out for every little job.
He motioned toward the wet, fungal midden. "Obviously not."
"That was the box's malfunction, not mine," I shot back.
"You should not have been moving that box in the first place."
"Unravel that one with me, if you please. First, you're hot and bothered because I wasn't here to handle these things sooner. Then you're mad I came—and stayed. And now you have feelings because I'm taking care of the place? Do I have that right?"
His hands resting on his hips again, he turned a frown up the street. After a pause, he said, "Are there more?"
"Excuse me?"
"Are. There. More." When I didn't respond, he added, "Boxes, Jasper. Are there more boxes you need to be moved?
"Yes, however, I—"
"They're in the basement?"
I glared at him. "I'm not interested in your assistance."
"I'm not interested in watching another moldy carton disintegrate. Holler at me all you want," he said as he took off toward the house. "But that's all you're going to do."