I Love You, My Neighbour: Chapter 5
I feel like a voyeur, watching him
Kristy
"How's the diet going, darling?" Mum asks within minutes of my arrival at the house she and Dad have lived in for the past two years.
According to my bathroom scales, I've actually lost three kilos. When I stepped on them this morning, I'd been so excited by the new number that I jumped in joy, tipped the scales, and nearly fell on my butt.
After recovering from my near fall, I put on my favourite clingy purple and silver top. Judging from my mother's disapproving expression, I'm not quite ready to pull off such a close-fitting clothing.
Right now, I feel every bit as fat and frumpy as I did as a teenager. My mother is 5'2", blonde, with delicate features and a petite frame. Next to her, I feel huge. And once I met Jess, who is tall and gorgeous, I felt like the odd one out whenever I was in the same room as them. Hearing my mum chastise me for eating too much sugar and carbs didn't help either. Her constant "warnings" to take care of my health grated on my nerves constantly as I grew up. I religiously weighed myself when I was a teenager to remind myself I wasn't overweight.
"I thought that mutt of yours was supposed to be helping you exercise," Dad says, sliding his glasses down his nose so he can peer at me over the top of them.
"The weight is coming off," I tell both of them. "And his name is Cricket, not 'that mutt'."
Sometimes I refer to my dog as a mangy mutt, but I hate it when my parents call him a mutt. And I hate it even more tonight, now that my relationship with my dog has improved - thanks in large part to Logan and his advice. Every day since I took him a peace-offering, Logan chats with me about Cricket, and he is coaching me on how to interact with my dog.
Yes, my dog still runs away from me just to see Logan. My dog still ignores me a lot of the time, but there are moments when he doesn't - moments where it feels like we have a breakthrough. I even wanted to bring Cricket with me to Mum and Dad's tonight, since he's already been on his own at home while I worked at the café all day. Even though I returned home to check in on him after my shift, I didn't want to leave him alone again. My parents, however, both said no when I asked to bring him.
"What's for dinner?" I ask Mum, hoping to change the subject from my weight and my dog.
"Grilled fish and salad. I think I've kept the calorie count low since you're worried about your weight."
"That's great," I tell her, forcing a smile.
I'm starving after being on my feet all day. I've cut down on lunches and leftovers from the café. Consequently, my stomach is empty and I don't think fish and salad will cut it.
Looks like I might be making a McDonald's run on the way home. My mouth is already watering at the thought of a Big Mac.
"And come help me in the kitchen," Mum orders.
I leave Dad reading his newspaper at the dining table and follow Mum into her spacious kitchen. It has everything a chef needs. That's one thing I do share with my parents - a love of preparing good food. But not baking. That is strictly my department. My parents liked to have fancy dinner parties when I was young, and Mum would create these elaborate and beautiful dishes. It might have been the only time I saw my Mum as a creative person.
"How are things at the café?" Mum asks after I ask her about her job as a student advisor at Blake University.
As usual, her question has a thread of contempt woven through it. My job has been a sore spot between us since I graduated. Mum and Dad have never approved of it being my full-time job. They were fine with me working there while I studied, but when I graduated, they wanted to see me taking over the corporate world - something I had and still have zero interest in.
"They're great, Mum."
"How many days are you managing the place? Still just the one?"
"Yep," I say, ignoring the scorn in her voice as she hands me some vegetables to start chopping.
Since the owner is on the premises every day except Sunday, there's no reason for me to manage the café the rest of the week. It's something that doesn't bother me but does bother my mother. After all, there isn't any prestige in baking or serving others, is there?
She sighs heavily, indicating she's gearing up for a lecture. I put my hand up to halt her before she starts. "I don't want to hear it, okay? I'm happy. That should matter more to you than the title I have."
Her gaze sweeps up and down me before coming back to rest on my face. "I just don't understand how you can be so happy with just baking and waitressing." She shakes her head, returning her attention to flavouring the fish she's pulled out of the refrigerator. "I mean, you're so different from your father and me. Sometimes I wonder if our baby was swapped with someone else's at birth."
"Wow. Thanks, Mum."
I'm used to that sort of comment these days. Over the years, it has hurt less and less. Mum and Dad love me, I know that, but they aren't the affectionate, straightforward type of parents. They are academics, both successful in their fields, and I admire both of them. But it's not like I have zero goals or ambitions. One day, I want to buy a little shop and run my own café. I just haven't mentioned this to my folks because my father would lecture me on how most small businesses fail in their first year, and my mother would probably insist that running a café is beneath me.
"I just want you to do well," Mum says.
"I know, but I feel like I am doing well."
She doesn't make any attempt to hide her scepticism. "How's Jess?" she asks after a moment, changing the subject.
"She's fine."
My parents would have been happier with Jess as a daughter. My friend is, after all, far more ambitious than I am. Not only is she one of Australia's favourite supermodels, but she's fluent in several languages and she also has a communications degree under her belt. With her looks, education, and personality, she is extremely accomplished. Is it any wonder my parents love her?
"What's she up to in Italy?"
Jess and I often message each other, but we also have a date where we speak once a week. We don't break that date for anything.
"When I spoke to her on Tuesday, she told me she's met another model there. His name is Alfredo, and they're spending a lot of time together."
She broke up with her boyfriend of three months - Simon - before she went to Italy. He was shattered, but I was only too happy to see the back of him. I'd overheard him ask Jess why they had to hang out with me instead of the other models Jess knew. I disliked him before then, but after that, it was an effort to pretend I liked the guy.
My mother frowns. "I hope she doesn't plan on staying there. You'll be stuck with all the rent, and you can't afford it on your wage."
That's my mother for you, never the romantic and every bit the pragmatist.
"If Jess decides to stay, I'll just advertise for another housemate."
I don't even bother mentioning that I could probably afford the place on my own. I easily make my share of the rent and bills and save a large amount. I live with Jess because she's my best friend, but I could live alone if I wanted to. All the hours I work earn me a very decent paycheck. Of course, working seven days a week isn't always enjoyable, but what else would I be doing with my time if I wasn't at the café or baking? Jess is in Italy. Naomi is always busy with work. My group of friends rarely gets together these days, except for special occasions. And it's not like I have a boyfriend to take up my time. I lost pretty much all interest in hanging out with the opposite sex after my last relationship went south.
So, between work and my goal to lose weight and get fit, there isn't time for much else. Mum might not consider me successful, but watching the nest egg I'm building grow bigger and bigger is incredibly gratifying. One day, I'll have enough to buy my café.
"Anyway," I say to Mum, "they're just hanging out at this stage. There's no need to worry about her staying there. She loves Oz."
Appeased, Mum goes back to what she's doing, and our conversation turns to news headlines. We don't always agree on politics and other news events, but we do enjoy debating things.
The rest of the preparation time passes quickly, as does dinner. Dad amuses me with stories of how he's been attempting to keep himself busy during his days off.
Once dinner is over, I thank them both and make the twenty-minute drive from Carrington Bay to Leaf Gardens, the gated community where my parents live. I add five minutes to my trip home tonight, however, because I go the long way to avoid McDonald's.
I pass Logan's place before I pull into my driveway, unsurprised to see his car still in the driveway. It isn't uncommon for him to stay longer at the house on weekends, though he never makes noise past eight o'clock at night.
A few times this week, I've even wondered if he is trying to keep the noise down. It doesn't seem quite as intrusive as it did the week before. On Wednesday, I even went to lay down for a nap at my usual time and managed to squeeze in forty minutes before the sound of a drill pierced my sleep. But I'm probably imagining Logan being quieter.
"I'm sorry, Cricket." As soon as I'm through my front door, I find him waiting for me, and I bend down to scratch him behind the ears. "I think we're going to miss our walk tonight, buddy."
It's after nine and very dark outside. Besides, I'm exhausted.
When I don't make any move to go and get his leash, Cricket starts barking and running around the room, emptying his toy bucket and nearly knocking Jess' favourite vase off the small table in the lounge.
"I'll tell you what, Cricket. We'll go out in the backyard instead."
With Cricket on my heels, I grab my keys and walk into the laundry, turning on the outside light and opening the back door. Cricket bolts into the yard immediately and starts running laps. I inhale deeply as I step out, enjoying the scent of all the herbs and flowers I have lined up on the veranda. Before, the veranda looked like a sanctuary for plants, but now it's littered with Cricket's toys. I pick up the closest tennis ball and throw it to Cricket. The grass is so long it needs cutting. But before I can dwell on it too long, I'm distracted by the noise coming from Logan's. Turning my head in that direction, I see my neighbour's backyard is lit up with floodlights.
Curiosity gets the better of me, and I walk over to the fence and climb onto the first rung. I can't remember how old I was when I last climbed a fence. Feeling both like a child and a peeper, I step up onto the second rung so that I'm high enough to peer over the fence.
Hopefully, Logan won't mind me popping my head over to see what he's up to, and—Holy mother of... Wow. I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry as I focus on Logan digging up his backyard, his muscles rippling and flexing with each swing of his shovel. The temperature outside is cool, but he's only wearing a pair of work boots, socks, and shorts. And judging from the sheen of sweat on his tight abs—abs that would make a male model jealous—he isn't feeling the cold air at all.
To be honest, I'm not feeling the cold right now either. Last weekend, when I took Logan my peace offering, he wasn't wearing a shirt, but my irritation and focus on apologizing meant I was able to concentrate on him and not his body. Now, however, I can't tear my gaze away.
Shamelessly, my eyes cling to the spectacular male body in view—the broad shoulders, the eight-pack and obliques, and the hips that I have the strangest impulse to lick. A surge of heat swirls low in my belly, spreading throughout the rest of my body as I imagine dragging my tongue over him and tasting the salt of his sweat. Like a fire finally given oxygen, my libido runs riot. Suddenly, I'm picturing him above me, thrusting into me and giving me everything my body seems to want and crave. As my temperature soars, my heart races, and a shallow breath escapes my lips.
It's been a long, long time since I've felt anything close to what I'm feeling now. Men and sex haven't been on my radar or interested me at all since the last relationship that shattered my self-confidence with men. Perhaps I should have expected my libido to roar back to life at some stage, but the simple truth is that I hadn't expected it at all. And the fact that it's Logan making me feel hot and bothered? Well, I don't understand it. And I don't like it. I hate it, in fact. The man is gorgeous, grumpy, and way out of my league. In other words, desire is the last thing I want to feel around him.
So why can't I stop looking at him? Watching him? Wanting him and treating him as if he's my very own peep show.
Cricket's sudden bark startles me, and I nearly slip as Logan looks up and straight at me, catching me standing on the fence, staring at him. My stomach clenches as his grey eyes meet mine. I hope he can't see my face reddening. Sure, there's no way for him to know what I've just been thinking. But I know.
Blank-faced, he asks, "Everything okay?"
"Saw the lights on and thought I'd say hi," I say, trying to ignore the roughness in my voice and how awkward and embarrassed I must look.
He drags his hand through his hair, causing it to stick up in all directions before pushing the shovel into the ground so that it stands by itself.
Walking toward the fence, he says, "Didn't see you go out for a walk earlier."
"No, I went out tonight."
"Right," he says, his mouth turning downward.
"To my folks," I add quickly.
Our truce and pleasant interactions this week have revolved entirely around Cricket. I don't want Logan to think I've ignored my dog in favour of a date or anything.
And if I want to stay on good terms with Logan, it's only because I don't want to go back to standing in front of his house, feeling awkward every time my dog gives Logan a tongue bath. That's the only reason I want to stay on his good side. Well, that, and the fact that it's nice not to dread every interaction with the guy.
"Right," he repeats, but his frown has disappeared.
"Ruff!" Cricket exclaims, putting his two front paws up on the fence so he can say hello to Logan too.
"Hey, Cricket," Logan answers.
"He hasn't been for a walk today, and I wanted him to burn off some energy. Tossing a ball around the yard seemed like the next best option."
"Yeah, it's a bit late to be going out walking," Logan nods. "Wait a second, I'll just go get my ladder."
A minute later, Logan returns with a ladder, which he props against the fence about a foot away from where I'm perched. A foot isn't far enough. He smells like a man and deodorant, and I'm acutely aware that he's close enough for me to reach out and touch him as he climbs up.
He leans over to pat Cricket. It's not like Logan smiles as he does so, but there's something about the way he talks to my dog and strokes him that makes me think he likes Cricket just as much as Cricket likes him.
"Do you have a dog?" I ask impulsively.
"Had one," he says gruffly, his eyes still fixed on Cricket.
He doesn't elaborate, and I desperately want him to, but the raw emotion in his eyes when they briefly meet mine stops me. Something bad happened. Something I'm sure he doesn't want to talk about with me. While our interactions this week have been an improvement over the previous two weeks, we've never shared anything personal with each other.
"I guess that explains how you know so much about dogs," I offer.
He shrugs. "Yeah."
"Thanks for all your advice, by the way." I want to erase the unhappy expression from Logan's face.
"You're welcome. Anyway, it's late, and I should start packing everything up," Logan says suddenly, jumping down from the ladder. "I'll see you around, okay?"
"Sure, okay."
I drop onto the ground on my side, ignoring the pang of discontent and guilt I feel over the way our conversation just ended.
Did I say something wrong?
I sit down on the back porch and watch Cricket sniff the yard, run around, and mark his territory. But as I listen to Logan shuffling around next door, probably packing up after my interruption, I can't stop remembering the raw emotion in his eyes when he told me he'd had a dog. I could swear that it was grief.
The guy is a walking misery machine, and tonight isn't the first time I've thought it. He barely laughs or smiles, even around his mates. Has Logan always been like that, or did something happen that made him like that? Are the shadows and gloominess in his eyes about a dog, or are they about more than that?
I haven't thought much about Logan's past before, but I can't stop thinking about it now. Logan has secrets, I'm sure, and for some stupid reason, I can't stop contemplating what they might be.