“What now?” Dread floods her voice. She pushes her door shut with disgruntled energy. I’m more gentle with my car, but to each to their own.
Holding up the box, my unimpressed facial expression should already explain it all to her. “When the fuck will this stop, Miss Pines?”And when will you stop wearing jeans that mold to your body, with your hair framing your face with those whispering gray eyes?
Her hands find her hips. “Well, when will you be a normal welcoming neighbor, Mr. Roth?” She moved in a few months ago, taking the house from her aunt Margerie who left her the place in her will.
My eyes bug out. “Says the woman who gave everyone on the street a cherry pie except me.”
She snickers. “You don’t deserve one. Besides, I forgot that you live here. Just assumed it’s your holiday house. Don’t you normally reside by the gates of Hell?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose with my free hand. “Oh, because you are such an angel, making the dirtiest choice of desserts. Pie. Really?” I scoff. “Following the cliché pin-up girl vibe?”
She points her finger at me with a glare to accompany it. “Who the fuck brings a sexual reference to baking a pie? Oh… oh yeah, the neighbor who can take his fine suits and his noisy car to another street. Shall I arrange the for-sale sign for your yard?”
I stand taller to correct her. “It’s a Ferrari, so yeah, I’m going to rev the engine.”
“Is that what you say to women when you are about to deliver your 30 second performance?” she asks dryly.
We both step closer, the tension boiling as it always does in one another’s presence.
“Actually, the clock doesn’t have enough numbers to time me. Would you like references?”
“Ugh, you are piece of work,” she grumbles.
In the corner of my eye, I notice old lady Mrs. Tiller staring at us from next door to Esme’s house, pretending to garden. And Kelly from across the street? I just learned to ignore that she’s always watching us and standing by her garage still holding the leash to her Labrador. The dog just sits there with his ears perked, staring at us. Oh hell, did her husband just come out to enjoy his cup of coffee and watch the scene?
Doesn’t matter. I shove the box to Esme, and she snatches it out of my arms.
“Fix this mail situation,” I grind out.
Her eyes grow big. “Not my fault the mail system could use improvements. I bet you don’t even give the mailman holiday cards.”
Shaking my head, I’m now in agony. We can only go in circles for so long.
“What is even in these envelopes and boxes?”
Esme’s head lolls to the side. “Things for work. Some of us actually have a happy job. Bringing joy to others instead of spitting out boring legal terms, or even worse, defending douchebag hockey players who get caught cheating, with photos online to prove it.”
I step even closer at that reminder. We still haven’t found the culprit of leaking the photo, nor do we care, as you can’t destroy facts. Still, it was a PR nightmare, and to be honest, dealing with the player’s shitty behavior was not my happiest day, but in truth, it was a career win on many fronts considering I got to bill extra hours. “Really? Low blows?”
“Fine… the packages are lenses for my camera or hardware for my laptop. Photographers need these things. Other times, the boxes are just heavy blunt objects in case I need to murder you. I’m stocking up.” Pure attitude is written all over her face.
I sigh, exhausted. “Well, you can save your money on the handcuffs. You can borrow mine.” As soon as that flies out of my mouth, she inhales a sharp breath. We pause and both seem to ponder something, and we probably shouldn’t share what.
Her tongue swipes along her teeth, and she pretends to look down at the address on the box. “Aren’t you the gentleman,” she says softly, sarcastic.
Rubbing my face in my hands, I debate if we should end this Saturday quarrel yet. But I get my kicks out of making her day miserable.
“I’m serious. Fix this address situation.”Or don’t.
Her shoulders rise. “I have. Well… at least the address part. I double-check and recheck when I enter my details. Maybe the automatic system thing when you enter a zip code changes it on their end.”
I throw her a pointed look. “Yet, everything is fine on my end. Are you receiving my mail?” My finger lands on my chin to contemplate. “No,” I sharply inform her.
Esme growls again. “That’s not true and you know it. I got one of your envelopes the other week. Anyhow, I would say sorry, but you’re incapable of feelings and manners.”
One more step. This time from her end. Bringing us dangerously too close, my cologne and her light flowery perfume mixing.
“Hmm. Funny that.” I glance to my side. “Kelly, didn’t I bring the best of the best Blisswood wine to your holiday party and treats for your dog, all while giving you a genuine smile?” I call out.
