Hate Thy Neighbor: An Enemies-to-Lovers Standalone Romance

by S. M. Soto

  Clearing my throat, I drop my gaze, avoiding those pewter eyes that feel like they brand me each time his gaze bores into me. “I was joking.”

  “I know that. I’m not an idiot,” he snaps. The color drains from my face in mortification at his brash coldness. I truly don’t think I’ve ever met a bigger asshole. “And his name is Max, not Maxie.” His voice lightens. Hardly, but I can tell he softens his tone, just enough not to sound like an angered caveman.

  You know the saying, ‘love thy neighbor’? Well, I’m really starting to fucking hate thy neighbor.

  “I understand that. I’m not an idiot,” I shoot back.

  I can’t tell if it’s the dark playing tricks on me, but I swear I see the stirrings of a smirk tug at the corner of his mouth. I can’t be too sure, though, because it’s gone now, and he’s back to his blank, aloof mask.

  Fixing my gaze on Max, I pet between his beautiful eyes and scratch more around his ears. “What about yours?” I find myself asking. I keep my gaze trained on his dog, too afraid to look up at him and see the disgust for me written all over his face.

  “Roman.”

  My gaze flits up to him in surprise. I didn’t expect him to answer. It takes me a few seconds to process this and gather my wits. It figures that such a hot guy like him would have such a hot name like Roman.

  “Got a last name, Roman?”

  “Does it matter?” He quirks a brow. We wait each other out, and when I get the sense that he has no intention of telling me his last name, I wash my hands of him for the night.

  “Well, Roman,” I breathe out, feigning bravado. “I’m Olivia. I would say it’s nice to meet you, but I’d be lying.”

  I give Max one last pat on his head, before I push upright, avoiding Roman’s intense gaze. Pivoting on my heels, I head back up the deck steps and enter the house. I let the screen and the back door slam shut behind me, just like he’s done so many times.

  My heart is pounding like steel drums. Electricity is swirling through my veins, and butterflies are roaring in my stomach. I chalk it up to me doing something unexpected for once. Though, I know it may be because of something else entirely. Leaning my back against the wood, I feel a smile pull across my face. It’s a deep grin, one I feel causing my cheeks to ache with the force of it.

  It feels good to be bad. Being the one to turn around first and leave that asshole in the dust.

  Guess two can play that game, neighbor.

  “A Thousand Bad Times”—Post Malone

  Pain ripples through the soles of my feet, as I climb out of my car. I would say I’m used to standing and working all day, but back at the last veterinary clinic I worked at, it wasn’t nearly as busy as the Bennett clinic is. By the end of each day, my feet are throbbing in my tennis shoes. It feels like I’ve been walking around in six-inch stilettos, instead of shoes with comfortable soles.

  Using my aching foot, I kick my car door open and make a feeble attempt to get out. It doesn’t work. I collapse back onto the seat, tossing my head back against the headrest and closing my eyes.

  “Olivia! Hi!”

  My eyes spring open at the sound of the jubilant voice. I refrain from groaning when I see my neighbor, Mona, waving wildly at me with a smile plastered across her face, as she cuts through our lawns, closing in on me.

  Heaving a tired sigh, I grab my keys and purse, pushing out of the car and slamming the door behind me. I muster a semblance of a smile on my face for her benefit. It’s all I’m capable of after the long day I’ve had.

  “I just wanted to come by and invite you to our annual block party. Allison, our neighbor up the street, and her husband throw it every year, and usually, everyone who lives on our block congregates at her house and brings a dish to pass. Allison’s been a bit busy, so she hasn’t had a chance to come over and invite you herself, but the party starts tomorrow around three. Can’t wait to see you there!” With a quick pat on my shoulder and a squeal of excitement, she’s gone, leaving me standing there, outside my car, my body and feet aching, mouth agape.

  So, apparently, I won’t be spending my day off lying around being lazy tomorrow. Looks like I will be attending a block party that I was just invited to—as more of an afterthought.

  Great.

  The next morning, the day of the “block party,” I drag myself out of bed and get to work in the kitchen, whipping up something quick to bring with me. I’m in dire need of a trip to the grocery store, but I’m crunched for time, so my options are limited.

  I settle on making a charcuterie board filled with finger foods I usually like to snack on, while I read and drink a glass of wine. Not quite sure what to expect from today, I dress casually in a halter sundress and opt out of the heels for sandals instead. The dress might be overkill, so the last thing I need is a pair of heels to really drive the point home that I’m a newbie in the neighborhood.

  When I step into Allison’s backyard, it’s a lot bigger, and the barbecue is a lot more extravagant than I was expecting. There are lights strung up that crisscross, casting a soft glow throughout the space. Groups of people from the neighborhood congregate around tables, and kids run on the wooden playground and swing set, while Allison’s husband mans the grill, clinking beers with the fellow men from the neighborhood.

  I fidget off to the side of the yard, near Allison’s immaculate rosebushes, feeling completely out of place here. The only two people I’ve shared conversations with so far are Mona and the asshole next door, and calling that a conversation is being generous. He’s the last person I want to run into here.

  Twisting the cap off the water bottle that I grabbed from the cooler earlier, I glance around, my gaze stalling on a group of women huddled together near a table. My back goes ramrod straight, and my stomach twists with unease, when I clearly spot some of them glancing my way, inspecting me up and down, while whispering in hushed tones.

  Why are women like this? Why do they congregate in cliques and feel the need to belittle someone they don’t even know? I wave my hand at the group, hoping one of them will extend the olive branch my way.

  No one does.

  “Don’t you worry about them, sweetheart,” Mona says, drawing my attention to her with a pat on my shoulder. Holding a wine cooler, she has a disgruntled expression on her face, as she watches the group of catty women.

  “Are they always like…this?”

  She laughs, but it’s without humor. “Oh, honey. This isn’t even the worst of it. I wouldn’t take it too personally, though. I think they’re just jealous that you scored the house next to Campbell’s most eligible bachelor.”

  My face scrunches with confusion.

  She could only be referring to one person, and I refuse to believe anyone thinks that man is, in any way, shape, or form, an eligible bachelor. She must see the confusion that’s written all over my face because she laughs, nudging me in the side.

  “Oh, c’mon. You mean to tell me you haven’t met your other neighbor yet? Roman, the tanned god. The man is a stunner. Watching him during the summer is our favorite pastime. I mean, those muscles. Have you ever seen anything like it?”

  I roll my eyes. “I’ve met him, all right, and I’m not impressed. He’s been nothing but a grade-A asshole—”

  “Oh, my God. There he is now,” she whispers, her voice taking on a husky note, as she watches Roman stride into the backyard. The collective gasp from all the women around us is resounding. I feel it in the way the atmosphere around us changes. Tension cackles in the air. As much as I hate to admit it, he has a presence that demands your attention. It sucks the air from your lungs, obliterating you entirely.

  I’m robbed silent when the group of snobby women spot him and, quite literally, go crazy. My brows rise incredulously, causing my eyes to grow twice their size. My mouth drops open, gaping, when Roman strides over and indulges in a conversation with them. An actual goddamn conversation. With words. And a fucking smirk.

  “Is he…is he actually having a conversation
with them? What in the actual hell is happening?”

  Mona snaps out of her ogling, shooting me a quirked brow. “Not only is the man sweet on the eyes, but he’s also a hell of a gentleman to everyone. He helps out a lot in the neighborhood. Though most of the stuff he gets asked to do is for the bored housewives and divorcees who live in this area.”

  Something indignant burns in my gut. “He was rude to me during our first conversation. Hell, he’s been nothing but rude to me since I moved in next door.”

  Disbelief passes over her face. “Roman? No. I can’t see him being rude to you, sweetie. Maybe you just caught him on an off day?”

  My gaze narrows on the man in question, as I watch him walk around, saying his hellos to everyone. He’s dressed ridiculously in bulky black biker boots, another pair of frayed jeans, and a black T-shirt that does nothing to hide the hard slabs of muscle I know are underneath. He looks like a ridiculous dickhead. A hot, ridiculous dickhead.

  Who wears leather to a goddamn barbeque?

  He’s actually quite handsome, when he isn’t glowering or shooting a glare your way. The smile that’s spreading across his face, showing his straight teeth, brings out a slight dimple in one of his cheeks. Hell, it even seems his eyes are sparkling. A different air surrounds him right now, but when our eyes collide, it all evaporates. His gaze sparks embers of hate between us. It’s like a match has been strategically sparked to life.

  When Mona’s husband waves her over, she pats me on my hand, giving me a sympathetic smile, and leaves me to my own devices. I shift awkwardly on my feet, off to the side of the party for a while longer, feeling like the odd one out. I have a few stagnant conversations with people, but they don’t last very long.

  I thought being new to the neighborhood would mean more of the community would be a lot more welcoming and inviting at this thing, but I couldn’t be more wrong. The reception has been cold. I guess if you haven’t been living in the neighborhood longer than a year, it’s easy to be skipped over and ignored.

  After standing around for another fifteen minutes like a loner, I decide to cut and run. I’m on my way out of Allison’s backyard, when I crash into something warm and solid. By the delicious clean and woody scent, it’s obvious it’s a man, one you’d expect to reach out and catch me. That isn’t what happens.

  At all.

  Instead, I crash into a solid wall of muscle and stumble back onto the grass. My backside slams against the ground, sending a pang from my tailbone up my spine.

  I hiss in pain and slowly drag my gaze up. The first things I spot are biker books, frayed jeans that hug powerful thighs, and finally, a face I could go without seeing for the rest of my life. I mean, sure, it would suck not to admire the handsomeness, but the glare that’s being sent my way? I wouldn’t miss that one bit.

  It’s obvious the guy hates me, but I’ll never understand why. The glare he shoots my way is eviscerating, and I feel it slicing into me. Damn near flaying my skin open. Flames lick at my heart, burning me up from the inside out. I can’t fathom why it bothers me as much as it does—the fact that he doesn’t like me—but somehow, just from a few horrible conversations, he’s gotten under my skin. He continues to get under my skin and drive me crazy, every time I see him.

  A scowl ripples across my features. “It’s you.”

  I can’t tell if it’s just from the angle I’m in, but I swear there’s stirrings of a smirk on his face. But I know I must be imagining it, when the cold glower he’s shooting my way somehow intensifies.

  “It’s you,” he parrots back, his upper lip curling in disdain.

  When he doesn’t offer his hand to help me up, I stumble up from the ground, much more ungracefully than I’d like, wiping off my backside with a huff.

  “You know, an apology would be nice.”

  His brow quirks. “And what the hell would I be apologizing for?”

  Indignation burns in my gut. “You bumped into me, and I fell on the ground,” I reply dryly. “Or do you think I enjoy spending my time at your feet?’

  “I couldn’t care less what you do on your knees, or rather, what you do at my feet.”

  Heat rises to my cheeks. My gaze narrows into thin slits.

  “Are you always such a dick?”

  “Never had any complaints before,” he counters, infuriating me to no end.

  With a frustrated growl, I storm past Roman, leaving Allison’s backyard and the barbecue filled with all my asshole neighbors.

  This has been fucking peachy.

  With my shopping cart semi-stocked with groceries, I turn down the aisle, searching for bleach. There’s a faint smell coming from the bathroom in the hallway, and I want to give it another deep clean. I’m not sure who lived there previously, but it’s obvious, they didn’t clean as often as they should’ve, if the mold gunk along the windows is any indication.

  There’s a handful of shoppers down the aisle, making it impossible to get through with my cart, so I park it off to the side and weave through the other shoppers toward the bleach. I push onto my tiptoes, reaching for the last bottle. My hand is just closing around the handle, when a dark shadow falls over me, and like a cartoon when the sun has been cruelly yanked away, the bleach is ripped from my hand. When I whirl around, I see why.

  My gaze narrows. Indignation burns at my throat. “Excuse me, that’s mine.”

  Roman, my brutish neighbor, turns his back on me like he didn’t hear me. Resentment sparks in my veins, and I hike the strap of my purse over my shoulder and follow him.

  “Hey! I’m talking to you!” I call after him, turning the heads of a few other customers. Of all the stores in Campbell, did I seriously have to shop at the same one this asshole does? When he doesn’t stop, I reach out, gripping his arm. He jerks to a halt, his body going rigid beneath my touch. Slowly, he turns, pinning me with a dark glare. Those bright eyes drill holes into me, pointedly staring down at my hand that’s clasped on his arm. I get the memo and release him, but I don’t back down.

  “I know you heard me. You purposely yanked that bottle of bleach out of my hand. It’s mine.”

  Roman raises the bottle. “I don’t see your name anywhere on it.”

  I scoff. “Don’t be such a child. Haven’t you ever heard of ladies first? I had it in my hand, and I can assure you, I need it more than you do.”

  Roman clenches his teeth together, causing the muscle in his jaw to jump, highlighting the sharp lines and angles of his face. “I don’t see any ladies anywhere around here.”

  His words are a slap to the face. They’re said so cold and brusquely, it takes me a few seconds longer than normal to gather my wits. “Excuse me?”

  Stepping into me, Roman bends down the slightest bit, leveling our gazes. “You heard me.”

  “What the hell is your problem, dude?”

  “Dude?” He laughs, but the sound is awful and cold, with no humor in it whatsoever.

  “I’m not your dude. You didn’t have it first, and plenty of other stores around here sell bleach. You’ll survive.”

  With that, he turns on his heels, leaving me standing there in the middle of the grocery store, gaping after his retreating form.

  That didn’t just happen, did it? There’s no possible way I just argued with my neighbor over a bottle of bleach. I glance around, realizing a few patrons are still staring at me, likely wondering the same thing. Swallowing thickly, I tamp down the embarrassment and do the walk of shame back to my cart. Oh, yeah, I’m sure I look like that crazy lady right now.

  Heaving a frustrated sigh, I steer my cart out of the aisle and finish gathering the remainder of my list, so I can get the hell out of here. When I have everything except for my bleach, the one item I needed most, I head to the checkout lines. I blow out a sigh of disappointment, when I see how long they are. There are about nine lanes in total, but only two are open. The lines are unbelievably long, so long, I glance down at my cart filled with groceries and wonder if I should leave everything and just ca
ll it a day and head home.

  As much as I’d like to do that, I sort of need to eat, and takeout every night isn’t exactly ideal. Steering my cart toward the shorter of the two lines, out of the corner of my eye, I spot an employee opening a new lane. We make eye contact, and she waves me over.

  Heading toward her now open lane, I book it there, trying to be the first in line, so I can get in and get out. I can almost taste the victory. That is, until another dark shadow passes over me and a large looming mass cuts in front of me. A sharp pin from the wheel rolls over my foot, and I jerk my cart to an abrupt halt, glaring daggers at the perfectly unkempt dark head of hair that is now in front of me.

  When I spot the bleach in his cart, amongst other random things, I snap. My lips curl over my teeth, and I round my cart, pressing my finger into his back, aggressively, to get his attention.

  “Hey, you just cut me. Again.”

  Roman turns, leering down at me with a look of utter contempt. “How can you possibly think I cut you, when all I did was beat you here?”

  “You all but ran over my goddamn foot to get here. I mean, would it have killed you to get behind me?”

  “Believe me, that’s the last place anyone wants to be.”

  I grit my back teeth together so hard, I swear I hear a tooth crack. “You’re such an asshole,” I hiss under my breath, so only he can hear. I can feel the unwanted stares of everyone around us, but I just don’t care. I’m tired of this guy. I’m tired of him glowering at me like I shit in his Cheerios, when I’ve literally done nothing at all.

  “You think so?” he asks the question so quietly, I thought I imagined it, but I didn’t. I about blow a gasket when he stares down at me pointedly and waves the woman who’s waiting behind me in front of him. I choke on a breath, my lungs restricting air, with the torrent of absolute rage flowing through my veins.

  This isn’t happening.

  No. This asshole did not just run over my foot, cut me in line, and allow someone else to cut him, just to be a spiteful shit.