Her Grumpy Neighbor Until Halloween (Secrets of Wildbrook, #2)

by Eve Pendle

“You’re not eating my salad, you little thieving waste bin of an animal,”

OH-

The first press of his lips was hard, brutal. Frustration and irritation in a clash of his mouth on hers, maybe enough to bruise.

This kiss feels out of nowhere, take it out, OUT.

“When someone is sobbing on the ground, I carry them.”

This is sweet ish.

“That’s not what you’d be doing in my bed.” He glanced around and pierced her with a hot look that raked over her body, lingering on her mouth. Her mind caught up with the meaning of their bantering conversation at the same moment her body did. Did he just… Flirt with her? Surely not.

Sounds like a flirt, looks like a flirt, might be a flirt. (Hope this helps :))

“Show you what I was doing while I watched you on TV…” she repeated his words in a low sultry murmur and eased her fingers down her stomach.

This didn't take long, it is enemies to lovers so I'll give it that.

He blew out the breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding.

Ha, ha, your turn cook boy

arse.

I keep forgetting this is British.

You wouldn’t know she’d been there at all.

I would leave so quickly.

“They’re closer than you think, love and hate.”

She's not wrong.

“I might be sued by the publisher for showing you that with so many cameras around. It’s for you. It’s… Well, you’ll see. A book.” He said the words as though they had weight, significance well beyond the neat white pages. “Cooking for Her,” she read from the top page. No author name underneath. What did that mean? The second page was blank, but for a dedication. For Ellen. All the words I wish I’d said. She shot him a confused look, but he just swallowed and nodded. It took her a moment to identify the expression on his face, so far was it from Kit’s usual repertoire of irritated, smug, amused or curious. He was… Apprehensive. She went to the next page. An introduction maybe? There was no title. Men are notorious for finding it difficult to express their feelings, and as a chef, I’ve always found it easier to deal with biological imperatives. Providing for those you care about often feels easier than saying things with actual words. Providing material needs: sustenance, shelter, security. These feel like appropriate ways for men to express the complicated and occasionally terrifying sensations that lodge in our chests. It’s not enough, or good enough, and we know this, and continue all the same to believe these basics are an adequate way of expressing ourselves. They’re not, of course. I provide these recipes (we’re ignoring the shelter and security bit—I’m a chef not an architect or a bodyguard—) with the hope they can provide those who need it (not just men) wi...

See, why can't men be like this.

I will cry, do not make me cry.