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

by Eve Pendle

Why did her hair offend some men so much? As though the act of dyeing it was an offence towards them, specifically.

But honestly. She called herself an influencer, and she didn’t recognise a billionaire television chef? Fail.

If the sleep deprivation didn’t kill him, the frustrated horniness might.

“What the hell do you know about menstrual cups?” “I know my ex-girlfriend swore by hers and persuaded my big sister to get one, and she likes hers too.” “You…” He was talking about menstruation. A man. Casually discussing it. “I don’t know if this is an appropriate topic of conversation.” He shrugged. “Why not? I don’t faint at the sight of tampons, or blood. If you don’t have a cup, you should give it a go.” He grabbed two off a high shelf. “Try both sizes.” He tossed the boxes into the basket and looked at her impassively.

Nina Coeur: It’s six weeks to FanCon. Do you think I could get a sheep shifter romance done by then? Ellen Harris: Is that a threat, or an aspiration? Nina Coeur: Sort of both??!

He casually pulled off his boots and stalked towards her, as predatory and calm as a Tinder con artist. “What have you done to my shower? Starved it? Let it loose on the road? Accidentally murdered it because it tried to trample you to death?”

Fuck. He wanted her so much, beyond reason. It wasn’t just her smart mouth or the chemistry that crackled between them, or even how gorgeous she was. It was a feeling of rightness, that all her splintered, sharp edges fit his. Like a badly broken bone, if they could line up perfectly they’d stop grating and mesh together.

But surely her need for basic funds trumped Kit’s neurosis?

I mean, not really but ok girl because NOT HER DOWNPLAYING THIS MAN'S TRAUMA FROM BEING STALKED.

Fuckwit. Entertainment is not like nutrition. You don’t have to have a balanced diet, of whatever combination of art produced by mainly dead white men he approves of, to be healthy.” “Do you ever think about anything that’s not food related?”

Kit Morton: Glad to hear your reign of terror is nearly over. I’ll be there. Ellen Harris: Hardly a reign of terror. Kit Morton: For you. Ellen Harris: More a regency of mild concern. Kit Morton: A tyranny of horror, despair, and alcopops.

“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.”

“Tell yourself that. Just like Clara was not involved with her billionaire, and Ellen wasn’t sleeping with Kit.” Keri raised one eyebrow. “Can you put the eyebrow of fear away, Keri,” Trish grumbled.

“Oh, thank God, I was about to call the police,” she exclaimed when he opened the door. “So was I.” Apparently, he only knew two love languages: food, and threats to call the police. When had a threat to call the police become a love language? A very fucked up one.

“What’s your costume?” It was as close to, what are you doing here, as she dared venture. “Complete fuckwit.” “Oh yeah.” She matched his dry tone. “I see it now. Spot on.” Her narrator’s caption was: she did not see.

“Whatever you want, we’ll go after it together like we did that bloody goat.”