The Seasons of Callan Reed: An Enemies-to-Lovers Office Romance

by S. M. Soto

  Much like it was last time, the hood is popped, and my neighbor is ducked under, working on something beneath it. I don’t know what because I force myself to glance away.

  “Ignore him. He’s an asshole who isn’t worth your time,” I chant to myself, as I grab my house keys and lift my purse from the passenger seat. It’s a wonder I can keep my gaze straight ahead the entire time I walk from the car to the house. When I’m inside, the door safely locked, I rest my back against the wood and blow out a sigh. The only bad thing about the move? So far, it’s my neighbor.

  Figuring it’s safe to do so now, I sneak a glance over at his house, but I can’t see inside his garage from here, which is probably a good thing. The last thing I need is another reason to keep making myself look stupid in front of my neighbor.

  The next few days at work are a breeze. Each day, I find myself coming home with a wide grin on my face. I’ve even made friends with the other assistants who work at the clinic. What’s even better is I’ve finally found my routine of ignoring my neighbor. I hardly ever see him now, but I do hear his dog, Max, barking up a storm every now and then. The animal lover in me wants to go next door and get playful with him, but I stop short, remembering what a dickhead his owner is and just how cold the animal was toward me that first time.

  That’ll need to be rectified.

  I get back to the task at hand, taping the plastic over the floors. I honestly don’t understand why I even bother. The floors are about as ugly as they’re going to get, but in all the videos on painting I’ve watched on YouTube, I figure it’s best to follow a professional’s instructions. I may not be Chip or Joanna Gaines, but I sure as hell plan on painting and decorating my house to at least a fraction of their standards.

  Yesterday, after work, I stopped at the hardware store and picked up some primer for the walls. I’m still volleying between colors, but I figure getting the ball rolling by throwing on the primer is as good of a start as any.

  See? That’ll show my parents. Only a true professional would know about primer.

  With all my supplies laid out, my back door and windows open, and the music blasting, I get to work. I have my furniture in the living room all bunched together in the center to avoid any paint mishaps. I dip the paint roller into the tray and roll it, allowing the paint to soak into the fiber. My hips sway to the beat of Bell Biv Devoe’s “Poison.” I belt out the lyrics, rolling the white primer over the hideous eggshell. With each dip and swipe, more of the wall gets covered, and I can’t contain my grin.

  A new slate.

  One that’s mine and mine alone.

  Before I realize it, two walls in the living room have been primed, and I’m on to the third. “Saturday Love” by Cherrelle blasts over the Bluetooth speakers, and I bob my head.

  Singing along to the lyrics, I’m so lost in the task and the upbeat song that I don’t hear the banging on the screen door for a good few minutes. Nor do I hear the sharp bark or the deep baritone of a male’s voice.

  I whirl around, completely startled. In the process, paint splatters against my coffee table, and I hiss.

  “Shit, shit, shit.”

  The banging on the front screen door starts up again. With a growl, I drop the handle, letting the roller drop into the paint. I wipe my paint-smothered hands on my shorts and tank top. I don’t know where all the paint came from. I could’ve sworn I was doing a superb job, but as I glance down at the droplets of paint covering the floor and my shoes, I realize it’s a lot harder than I originally thought.

  My heart lurches when I close the distance from the living room to the screen door. Something stirs in my stomach, the effects of the sensation travel through my veins, and I refuse to acknowledge what it is, as I open the screen door, coming face-to-face with my neighbor. His face is pulled taut with frustration. His eyes are narrowed, practically incinerating me with the glare he’s shooting my way. His plump lips are pressed in a grim line. He has a small amount of stubble dusted along his sharp jawline. His black T-shirt hugs his muscles to perfection, and even though I can feel his anger, I find myself struggling not to gape at how handsome he is.

  When I finally meet his gaze, I’m startled by the intensity reflected back at me. I thought his eyes were a stark, deep blue, but I was wrong. Today, his eyes, though still blue, have taken on a lighter gray hue. Those pewter eyes glare into me, drilling holes into my skull, and I swallow thickly, forcing an awkward smile.

  “Sorry, can I help you?”

  He chuckles darkly, without humor, resting one large hand along the doorframe, and shakes his head. “Yeah, you can, by turning down the fucking music. I can’t even hear myself think.”

  The ire in his gaze and the way he regards me with such disgust make me want to curl in on myself and hide. Everything about him is intimidating. His height, his build, just how handsome he is. It’s typical really. A good-looking man with a shit attitude. What else is new?

  Instead of curling in on myself like I want to, I square my shoulders, not letting him see how much he gets to me. How much his constant blatant rudeness bothers me.

  “I’ll turn it down, but for future reference, maybe people won’t think you’re such a dickhead, if you ask nicely.”

  The corners of his mouth tip into a cold smile. “Listen, I couldn’t really give a shit what you think about me.”

  My mouth drops open in shock. Without sparing me another glance, he fixes his gaze on the mess of paint behind me in the living room and shakes his head again, before he turns, heading back toward his house. The entire way, I watch him, the muscles in his back flexing and straining against the fabric of his shirt. His hands are curled into fists the entire way. I flinch at the finality of his door slamming shut behind him.

  “What a prick,” I whisper to myself. And, of course, just like the pleasing neighbor I am, I lower the volume of my music to a reasonable level and get back to painting.

  Hours later, I take a step back, surveying the entirety of the living room, and I grin. The white primer covers the eggshell beautifully. Now, all I need to do is pick a color to go over this, once it’s dry, but obviously, that’s a decision for another day.

  After I get everything cleaned up, washing and storing the paint supplies in the closet for later use, I make myself something to eat. I settle on the Adirondack chair in the backyard on the newly cleaned porch and watch the sunset. It’s beautiful, the way the orange and purple blend harmoniously.

  I used to spend a lot of time outdoors back in the place I shared with Reid. At first, we’d share our dinners out on the deck together, doing exactly this, watching the sunset. I don’t exactly know when it happened, but at some point, we stopped doing those things together. We stopped enjoying each other’s presence. After a while, I got used to sitting out there alone with my dinner, wrapped in silence.

  The only difference now? I don’t feel as lonely as I did then. It got to the point where I hated the dynamic of our relationship. The fighting. The avoidance. I think those silent, lonely dinners taught me how to be on my own. How to enjoy my own company. It’s exactly why I can sit here now, with a smile on my face, enjoying such a simple day and a simple meal.

  This is the life I’ve always wanted. An independent one.

  Nothing and no one can change that.

  I tense on the chair when I hear the telltale sound of nails scraping against the wood, and when I glance toward my neighbor’s fence, I’m not even surprised when Max slips in through the loose board. I’m on immediate alert, especially since our last encounter didn’t go over so well, and he acted like I was a piece of raw meat he wanted to attack.

  Max prowls across the lawn, his wolf instincts on high alert. As he gets closer, I start to hear the deep rumble of his growl. Slowly, I push up from the chair, and unlike last time, I drop to my knees and cautiously put my hand out between us for him to sniff. Either that or maul. It could honestly go either way, knowing how aggressive his owner is.

  “Not this time, bud
dy,” I mumble to myself.

  Max closes the distance between us, and a smile crests on my face, when I feel his wet nose poke at my hand.

  “That’s it, sweet boy. There you go. I knew deep down you were a teddy bear, Maxie.”

  He seems to enjoy the soft lilt I use in my animal talking voice, because he rubs his whole head against my hand, trying to get me to pet him. To which, I oblige, of course. He’s just too handsome not to. I scratch behind his ears and pet his coat. My brows jump into my hairline at how well-groomed he is. I guess I didn’t expect the asshole to be a decent owner, but I can tell by the lack of shedding, the shine of his coat, and how wet Max’s nose is that my neighbor is, in fact, a good owner.

  “Too bad I planned on taking you away from your jerk daddy.”

  A deep throat clears, jerking my attention away from Max and toward the source. “I’d like to see you try.”

  The asshole in question is leaning against the fence, his forearms propped against the weathered wood, his gaze fixed on me petting his dog. A flush rises to my cheeks, burning the tips of my ears. I’m glad my hair is down to block the evidence of my reaction toward him.

  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.

  Enjoying Hate Thy Neighbor? Want more Roman and Olivia?

  Grab your copy here!

  To my readers, old and new, thank you for going on this journey with me. I know Daisy and Callan’s story wasn’t an easy one to fall in love with. When I said Callan Reed was the biggest asshole I’d ever written, I hope you all took it seriously. LOL. And more than anything, I hope I was able to deliver a story you could all keep close to your hearts and adore.

  And for my readers that love their men mean, I sincerely hope I was able to deliver a deliciously mean hero for you all to enjoy.

  These characters were definitely some of the toughest I’ve ever had to write. At times, while writing, I had the urge to slam both of their heads together and tell them to love each other already. (*inserting all the frustrated emojis here*) Daisy and Callan were the epitome of frustrating, but they made it so worth it in the end. I couldn’t be prouder of this story and the journey these two have been on together.

  It certainly wasn’t an easy story to tell. There were many sleepless nights, days I spent sitting in front of my computer, hellbent on throwing the whole doc away because my characters weren’t acting the way I wanted them to. (Do they ever, though?) You guys don’t know how many times I read through this book just searching for ways to make Callan a nicer human, but every time I tried, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Making him nicer felt like I was taking the easy way out with his character progression. I needed the readers to fall in love with him, brashness and all.

  There are so many people I have to thank for helping me shape this story into what it is today. I’m going to try to keep this as short and sweet as possible, but for those that know me, you know I never know when to shut up. So, here it goes:

  My Beta Babes, thank you for your invaluable feedback. Your love for Callan is what lifted my spirits during such an incredibly tough year. Thank you for being a part of my team, for being my number one cheerleader’s. I love you all so forking much.

  My editing team, there aren’t words that can adequately express how thankful I am for each and every one of you. Paige, you take my work at its lowest form with open arms and I’m forever grateful. Jenny and Rebecca, your attention to detail is impeccable and unmatched. Rumi, your comments were hilarious, and your input is invaluable. Oh, and #TeamAsshole for life.

  To Najla, my cover goddess, and Stacey, the formatting queen, thank you for making all my stories pretty inside and out. I love y’all!

  My assistant Melissa, you are incredible. I mean, should I just call you Wonder Woman from here on out?! Words can’t express how grateful I am for all that you do. I am so fortunate to have you in my life. Don’t leave me. Like, ever. Mmkay?

  My Selenites and Baddies, you ladies are the best of the best and if I could squeeze each and every one of you, I would. Thank you for shouting out my books from the proverbial rooftops, it means the absolute world to me.

  My friends and family, THANK YOU. Without your support, creating stories like this would never come to fruition. I love you all so damn much.

  My Social Butterfly family, I adore you! Sarah, Jenn, Catherine, Shan, and anyone else I’m missing, from the bottom of my heart, thank you. My releases would be a hot ass mess without your help.

  To the readers and blogger babes, y’all are the real MVPs. Spreading the word about Callan and his delicious asshole-ish ways wouldn’t be possible without your help. From the bottom of my heart, thank you. I say this with each release, but it rings true every time—thank you for making a small pipedream turn to reality. I’m forever grateful.

  Please consider leaving a brief and honest review.

  With so much love,

  Selena (S.M.) Soto xoxo

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  S.M. Soto was born and raised in Northern California where she currently resides with her son. Her love for reading began when she was a young girl and has only continued to grow into adulthood. S.M. lives for reading books in the romance genre and writing novels with relatable characters. She refers to herself as a bit of a romance junkie. S.M. loves to connect with readers and eat copious of
donuts that will surely lead to her demise.

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