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

by Eve Pendle

Four, her hair was distracting, and his favourite colour. Admittedly, he hadn’t realised teal was his favourite colour until now, but that was hardly the point.

She had a retort for everything. Getting the last word in their arguments was as savagely satisfying as eating the last piece of cake when you knew someone else wanted it.

It had taken two and a half weeks, but the pigs finally didn’t think Ellen was going to eat them. However, given she was vegetarian, she had surprisingly murderous thoughts.

Gorgeous bane of her life Kit Morton was kissing her. Her head was spinning, and it had been all of three seconds of kiss.

Two humiliations within five minutes: almost being trampled to death by pigs, and being rejected by Kit Morton. No one would see the bruises to her pride from that second humiliating incident, but they’d hurt more.

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

“I’m a chef, not Christian Grey. I’m not going to let the food burn, and you’re wasting time.”

“Quickly. You can perv on me later.” His eyes held amusement as well as arousal.

“I’m supposed to be a professional, and then I get distracted by a woman with hair she cut from a My Little Pony.”

A bloody control freak, he’d made the time specific. Turn up at one minute before quarter-past for sex, or quarter to eight just for dinner.

“Lean forward,” he whispered into her ear. And like she was his marionette, she did, pushing into his hands, and complete with a little wiggle of her hips, pushing out her bottom.

“Sit,” he commanded when she didn’t move. “I’m not a dog,” she grumbled as she sat, him easing it in behind her like he was her date. And fully clothed. “Evidently. A dog would be grateful for food, shelter, and attention.”

“Sorry about Mum,” Kit murmured into her ear. “She’s quite a lot.” “Your mum? She’s amazing. I love her. I’m surprised you don’t have an Oedipus complex.” “That’s gross, please never say that again.”

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

He wanted to rewind time and go back to when he’d thought Ellen and he would probably have a ridiculous blue-themed wedding where he stared at her the whole time thinking how lucky he was. Then after that, they’d have three children, chaos and laughter and things dyed blue that wouldn’t naturally be blue, and a sedan.

It wasn’t hate he felt. Just a profound sense of depression, like a soufflé taken from the oven too soon. A sunken mess that might give you salmonella poisoning. Only fit for the bin.

Apparently, he only knew two love languages: food, and threats to call the police.

“Open my heart? Yeah, because that doesn’t sound terrifying at all. Non-essential surgery without anaesthesia.”

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.

“Good.” His heart was medium rare, the perfect amount of tenderised and cooked.

The scariest night of the year was finally over. And all that remained, after the fear was stripped away, was love.

A colleague of mine called Ellen’s piece about country-living next to Kit Morton delicious but not salacious, and speculated that the job she was after was not features writer, but Mrs Kit Morton. Having met them both, I can say comprehensively that article was not a job interview. But it might have been a love letter.