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, stumbling up the hill after my dog, who just disappeared over it.
When I offered to pay my friend's aunt and uncle for their purebred Borzoi, Cricket, they flatly refused. That alone should have set off alarm bells. But I was so captivated by the hound's big brown eyes and soft white and brown fur that I convinced myself it was a generous gift. What an idiot! I roll my eyes at my own naiveté.
Cricket doesn't like me, and I'm starting to feel the same way. He refuses to obey my commands and chases after everything. Absolutely everything!
At the moment, he's fixated on a white plastic bag from the local supermarket. Granted, I wanted a dog to motivate me to exercise every day, but chasing after him when he breaks free from my grip is not the kind of workout I had in mind.
Rubbing the cramp in my side with one hand, I shield my eyes with the other and glance toward my house at the bottom of the incline. Is it too much to hope that Cricket has given up the chase and is patiently waiting for me? I let out a sigh of relief when I see him enthusiastically giving a stranger a tongue bath outside my place. At least, his fondness for licking strangers has saved me from a trip to the pound today. Although I didn't have to buy Cricket outright, rescuing him from Carrington Bay Lost Dog's Home every time he runs away is quickly draining my wallet.
Urging my tired and shaky legs to keep going, I start walking toward Cricket, more than ready to rescue the stranger from my rambunctious dog and head home for a hot, soapy bath.
"Where's your owner, hey, boy?" the stranger's warm and affectionate voice floats over to me as he kneels and scratches Cricket behind the ears. I can't see his face, but one thing is clear—he's in far better physical shape than I am. Dressed in brown work boots, shorts, and a tank top, his muscular calves, back, shoulders, triceps, and biceps stand out. I steal a glance at the neon green Ute parked next door, guessing he might be some sort of tradesman.
Whoever he is, he's no stranger to hard work. That's a good thing if he's working on the death-trap my best friend and I call the house next door. The property was sold about a month ago, and I have no idea when the settlement date is. The new owner has a long way to go to make the place liveable. The dilapidated fence, overgrown shrubbery, crumbling brickwork, and busted pipes make it more of a health hazard than a renovator's dream. I hope the renovations happen quickly and quietly since I'm an early riser and in bed shortly after sunset.
As I approach, Cricket lets out a short, sharp bark, startling me and causing the stranger to spin around. When he sees me, the man stands up.
He must be at least 6'2", and his face matches the rest of him in terms of impressiveness. His stormy-grey eyes stand out against his high cheekbones and medium-length dark blond hair falling across his forehead. He appears to be around my age, late twenties. The hint of stubble on his angular jawline adds to his appeal. Long ago, I would have felt tongue-tied and shy in the presence of such male beauty, but I've learned not to be swayed by good looks. In my experience, men like him are often vain and superficial at best. And at worst, they realize they can do better and move on to someone more their type, like they did with my exes—my best friend, Jess.
So, I shrug off his attractiveness, flash him a polite smile (which he doesn't bother to return, mind you), and turn my attention back to Cricket.
"Is this your dog?" the stranger asks before I have a chance to call Cricket.
"Yes," I wheeze. "Thanks for keeping him here until I caught up. I try to hold onto Cricket's leash, but he's much stronger than I am."
His brows furrow. "Cricket?"
"That's the name his previous owners gave him. They said he loved chasing cricket balls at a local cricket club, so I didn't want to confuse him with a different name."
"I see."
I smile at him again, hoping he'll find some humour in the situation. But when he continues to frown, my smile fades. I can't help but think that if I looked like Jess—perfect body and face—he would smile back. They always smile back at Jess.
"Well, I should get Cricket home. Come on, Cricket."
Thankfully, my lungs no longer feel as if they've shrunk, allowing me to sound slightly more authoritative than a deflating balloon. However, Cricket lies down in the grass, resting his face on his paws and giving me a pleading look.
"Cricket, come on," I plead, realizing I'm failing miserably at convincing this surly stranger that I have any control over my dog.
Before I can physically drag Cricket away (which all the training tips advise against), the man asks, "When was the last time you owned a dog?"
Straightening up, I meet his gaze. "This is actually my first time."
"You might want to consider taking him to a dog training course. An irresponsible dog owner can get themselves hurt, their dog hurt, or even hurt someone else. It's a miracle Cricket didn't run out onto the street and cause an accident."
Heat surges through my already flushed body. I'm well aware of the danger Cricket poses every time he escapes, but I do my best to hold onto him. And it's not like I haven't thought about taking him to a training course, but I wanted to establish a stronger bond with him before venturing out in public together. It's embarrassing when others can see that he hasn't warmed up to me at all. I don't want to look like a complete fool when I give him commands he refuses to obey. Besides, I can't risk going to the local dog park, fearing Cricket will bolt after something—or someone. It seems he likes everyone else more than me.
"Thank you for your opinion," I say, forcing a stiff smile. "I'll take it into consideration."
"You do realize that walking him every day isn't enough, right?"
Wow. He really thinks I'm an idiot. Well, I'm not. Yes, I'm still learning about dogs, but I'm not stupid. And who does this guy think he is, being so bossy and nosy? The dog police?
Gritting my teeth, I walk up to Cricket and grab hold of his leash. "I know there's more to taking care of a dog than just walking him." I give the leash 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 dog training program in a park not far from here," the stranger offers, glancing between the dog and me. "I have their number if you want it."
"Thanks, maybe I'll get it from you another time."
Translation: never. Even if I do need help with training Cricket, I don't particularly like this man.
He shrugs, still managing to look annoyed with me. "Suit yourself." He bends down to stroke Cricket again. "See you, Cricket."
I'm sure I hear him whisper, "Good luck with her," before he walks toward the house next door.
Once the stranger opens the front door and steps inside, Cricket whines, stands up, and finally gives me his attention.
"Now you decide to get up," I scold. "Couldn't you have done that earlier?"
Glancing at the house next door one last time, I cross my fingers, hoping the renovations will be completed soon—or better yet, that the new owners hire a different tradesman. I don't want to see that man again any time soon.