I Love You, My Neighbour: Chapter 1

He thinks I'm a moron

Kristy

If it seems too good to be true, it usually is.

Whoever came up with that saying knew what they were talking about.

“Cricket! Cricket, come back here!” I shout, staggering up the hill my dog just disappeared over.

When I offered my friend’s aunt and uncle money for their purebred Borzoi, Cricket, they’d told me no. That alone should have caused alarm bells to ring. But I was so taken in by the hound’s big brown eyes and soft white and brown fur that I convinced myself I was receiving a generous gift. 

Idiot! I roll my eyes at my naiveté.

Cricket doesn’t like me, and the feeling is quickly becoming mutual. He refuses to follow my orders, and he chases after everything. Everything!

Currently, he’s obsessed with a white plastic bag from the local supermarket. Admittedly, I wanted a dog to motivate me to exercise every day. Chasing after the dog after he pulls free from my grip, however, is not the type of exercise I had in mind. 

Massaging the cramp in my side with one hand, I shade my eyes with the other and looked towards my house at the bottom of the incline. Is it too much to hope Cricket has called off his chase for the bag and is sitting patiently waiting for me?

I sigh with relief when I see him giving an enthusiastic tongue bath to a man standing outside of my place. At least, my dog’s propensity for licking strangers has saved me a trip to the pound today. I might not have had to buy him, per se, but bailing him out of Carrington Bay Lost Dog’s Home every time he runs away is quickly adding up.

Willing my tired and shaky legs not to give out on me yet, I start walking towards Cricket, more than ready to rescue the stranger from my rambunctious dog and go home, where I can climb into a hot, soapy bath.

“Where’s your owner, hey, boy?”

The voice of the stranger floats over me, warm and affectionate as he kneels and scratches Cricket behind the ears. I can’t see his face, but I can see that he was something I am not – in peak physical condition. Dressed in brown work boots, shorts and a tank top, his muscular calves stand out, as does his spectacular back muscles, shoulders, triceps and biceps. My gaze flicks over to the neon green Ute in the driveway next door. Perhaps the guy is a tradesman of some kind.

Whoever he was, he’s no stranger to hard work—a good thing if he’s working on the death-trap my best friend and I call the house next door. The property sold about a month ago. I have no idea what the settlement date is, but the new owner has a long way to go to make the place habitable. The dilapidated fence, overgrown shrubbery, crumbling brickwork and busted pipes made it less of a renovator’s dream and more of a health hazard. I hope that the renovations happen quickly and quietly since I’m up at the arsecrack of dawn and in bed not long after sun-down.

Seeing me approach, Cricket lets out a short, sharp bark, startling the crap out of me and making the stranger spin around to see what my dog is excited about. Clapping eyes on me, the man rises to his feet.

He has to be 6’2 at least, and his face is just as impressive as the rest of him. His stormy-grey eyes stand out between his high cheekbones and the medium-length dark blond hair falling across his forehead. He looks to be around the same age as me, late-twenties. The small amount of stubble darkening his angular jawline only adds to his appeal.

A long time ago, I would have felt tongue-tied and shy in the presence of such male beauty. But I now know better than to be sucked in by good looks. In my experience, men in this man's league are vain and superficial at best. And at worst, they realise they can do better and move onto someone more in their league at first opportunity, which in the case of my exes happened to be my best friend, Jess.

So, I shrug off his beauty, smile at him politely – a smile he doesn’t bother to return, mind you – before returning my attention to Cricket.

“Is this your dog?” the stranger asks before I have a chance to summon Cricket.

“Yes,” I wheeze. “Thanks for keeping him here until I caught up. I try and hold onto Cricket’s lead, but he’s so much stronger than I am.”

His brows draw together. “Cricket?”

“It’s the name his previous owners gave him. Apparently, his favourite pastime involved chasing down cricket balls at a local cricket club. I didn’t want to call him by a name he wouldn't recognise.”

“I see.”

I smile at him again, hoping he’ll find some humour in the situation. When he continues to frown, the smile slides off my face. What’s the bet that if I looked like Jess—if I had her perfect body and face—he would smile back at me? They always smile back at Jess.

“So, how long have you had…Cricket for?” he asks, wincing as he says the name —as though saying it out loud equals dog abuse.

“Ah, I’ve had him for around three weeks.”

And I’m in over my head. I can admit it to myself, even if I’m not about to confess this to the man in front of me. I’ve spent night after night on the internet, searching for information about Borzois, as well as printing out and studying basic dog training tips and watching dog training videos. But I’m not making headway. I don’t have the calm confidence I need to make my dog listen to me, and I’m not always one hundred percent sure I can trust him not to bite me. Not that he’s tried to, but he barks at me randomly and not at the people who come to my front door. That’s not normal, right?

“What happened to his previous owners?”

“They didn’t have enough space for him. They were downsizing, and when they heard me say I wanted a dog to walk every day, they offered him to me.”

He crosses his large arms over his chest, letting his gaze skim my sweat-soaked appearance. “Right.”

I probably look every bit as gross and unfit as I feel. The short ten-minute walk to and from the café where I work doesn’t do a thing to burn off all the calories I consume while quality testing the food I bake. Likely, he’s thinking I need to run and keep running to lose the weight I’ve stacked on recently. After all, the man is built like a gorgeous footballer, and I’m built like, well, not like any kind of athlete at all.

If Jess were here, she’d take the focus off me. Not only is my best friend gorgeous, but she’s smart and bubbly, and easy to get along with. Faced with the same situation, Jess would flirt with this man, make some light-hearted comment, and dismiss the whole situation with a flick of her wrist. But my friend is currently one month into a three-month modelling contract in Italy. Leaving me to deal with this man who hasn’t stopped frowning at me once during our exchange.

“Well, I should get Cricket home. Come on, Cricket.”

Thankfully, my lungs have quit feeling as though they’ve shrunk in my chest, which means I sound slightly more authoritative than a balloon seeping air. Cricket, however, lays down in the grass, rests his face on his paws, and simply looks at me.

“Cricket, come on,” I plead, aware I’m failing miserably at convincing this surly stranger that I know what I’m doing.

Before I can physically drag the dog away—something all the training tips tell me I should not do, the man says, “When was the last time you owned a dog?”

Standing straighter, I look him in the eye. “This is my first time.”

“You might want to consider taking him to a dog training course. A reckless dog owner will get themselves hurt, their dog hurt, or someone else hurt. It’s a miracle Cricket didn’t run out onto the street and cause an accident.”

Heat explodes through my already flushed body. I’m aware of the danger Cricket had been in when he escaped my care, but I tried my best to hold onto him.

And it isn’t as though I haven’t thought of taking him to a training course, but I want to bond with him a little more before we go out in public together. It’s embarrassing to have others know the dog hasn’t taken to me at all. I don’t want to look like the world's biggest idiot when I give him orders that he refuses to follow. As it is, I can’t go down to the local dog park for fear Cricket will run off chasing something.

Or someone.

I swear he likes everyone else more than he likes me.

“Thank you for your opinion,” I say, offering him a stiff smile. “I’ll take it into consideration.

“You do realise that you need to do more with the dog than just walk him every day, right?”

Wow. He really thinks I’m a moron. Well, I’m not. Yes, I’m still learning about dogs, but I’m not stupid. And where does this guy get off being so bossy and nosy? Who is he, the dog police?

Gritting my teeth, I walk up to Cricket and take hold of his leash. “I know there’s more to caring for a dog than just walking him.” I give the lead a gentle tug. “Time to go home, Cricket.”

Of course, the dog refuses to budge. Why can’t he make things easy for me, just this once? I feed him. I’m nice to him.

“I know some people who run a training program down at the local park,” the stranger says, looking between the dog and me. “I have their number if you want it.”

“Thanks, maybe I’ll grab it off you another time.”

Like when hell freezes over. Even if I do need help with training my dog, I don’t like this man.

He shrugs, still managing to look annoyed with me. “Suit yourself.” He bends down to stroke my dog again. “See you, Cricket.”

I’m sure I hear him whisper, “Good luck with her,” before he walks towards the death-trap.

Once the stranger opens the front door to the house and walks in, Cricket whines, stands up and offers me a doggy bow.

“Now you get up,” I chide. “You couldn’t have moved before?”

Shooting one last glance at the house next door, I cross my fingers and hope the renovations will be over quickly, or, better yet, that the new owners hire another tradesman. Because it will be too soon if I have to see that man again.