Home for the Holidays. Sarah Mayberry

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      He forced himself to cross the room and slit the tape on the top carton. The boxes weren’t going to unpack themselves. He peered inside. Books. Good. Books he could handle.

      He’d stacked half the contents onto the shelves of the built-in entertainment unit when he found the photo frame. It had been wrapped in several layers of tissue paper, but he recognized it by feel because of its chunky shape. Beth had made it herself as part of a framing workshop and even though it was just the slightest bit off center, it had always held pride of place on the mantel.

      He folded the tissue back and stared at the photo inside the frame. They’d been on a family picnic and Beth had asked a passerby to take the shot. The kids were much younger—Ben eight or so, Ruby only five—and Beth’s blond hair was long, well past her shoulders.

      He stared into her face. Sometimes he forgot how beautiful she’d been. How could that be when he still missed her like crazy?

      His head came up as the low, throbbing rumble of an engine cut through the quiet of the house. A motorbike. A really noisy one. He waited for it to pass by, but the rumble grew louder and louder. Just when it seemed as though the bike was about to race through the living room, it stopped.

      Unless he missed his guess, the owner of the world’s noisiest motorcycle was also his new neighbor. Which meant he could look forward to the roar of a badly tuned engine cutting into his peace morning, noon and night.

      “Great.”

      There ought to be a rule when a person bought a new house: full disclosure. The vendors should have to reveal everything about the house and the neighbors so there weren’t any nasty surprises on moving day. Leaky roofs, yapping dogs, motorcycle gang neighbors, Peeping Toms.

      It seemed unnaturally quiet after the racket of the bike. He put the frame to one side. He’d find a place for it later. He reached for more books, then tensed as the motorbike started up again. He gritted his teeth, waiting for the bike to roar off into the night. It didn’t. Instead, the engine revved again and again, the sound so loud he guessed the guy must be parked inside his garage, the roller door open, the sound amplified by the space.

      Over and over the bike revved and Joe grew more and more tense. His kids were asleep, but they wouldn’t stay that way for long if this kept up. Surely the moron next door must have some idea that this was a residential neighborhood, a quiet middle-class suburb full of quiet, middle-class people who liked a little peace at the end of the day? Surely—

      “For Pete’s sake!”

      He slammed the box shut. He was barefoot, but he didn’t bother putting shoes on, simply threw open the front door and headed next door. As he’d guessed, the garage was open, light spilling out into the night. A motorbike stood propped on its stand toward the rear of the garage. A man squatted beside it, his back to Joe as he worked on something near the exhaust pipe.

      Joe stopped on the threshold as he registered the guy’s leather pants and long hair and the Harley-Davidson jacket thrown over the rusty frame of a second bike. It was every bit as bad as he’d suspected—he’d moved in next to a longhaired redneck. No doubt Joe had noisy, boozy parties, visits from the cops and loud domestic arguments to look forward to in the future.

      Fantastic. Just what he goddamn needed.

      “Hey, buddy, you want to keep it down?” he yelled over the roar of the bike.

      The guy didn’t even lift his head from whatever he was doing. Joe took a step closer.

      “Mate!” he yelled. “You want to shut that thing off?”

      Still nothing. Joe’s temper began to burn. He didn’t consider himself a short-fuse kind of guy, but he was tired and unpacking all the old stuff was tough and he needed this added aggravation like a hole in the head.

      He strode forward and reached over the guy’s shoulder for the ignition key. One twist and the bike fell silent. The guy jerked in surprise, then shot to his feet and spun around.

      Joe took an involuntary step backward as he realized that he’d miscalculated somehow. The leather jacket, the pants, the bike. He’d just assumed …

      But he’d been wrong. Because his new neighbor was a she, not a he.

      Her chin came up as she stared at him.

      “Who the hell are you?”

      She was tall—almost his height—with brown eyes and long, wavy brown hair.

      He frowned. “I’m sorry. I thought … I called out but you couldn’t hear me over the engine. I came to ask you to keep the noise down. My kids are asleep.”

      She blinked at him, then he saw comprehension dawn in her face.

      “You’re the guy who bought the Steveway place,” she said.

      “Yeah.”

      She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. His gaze dropped to her breasts, then her waist. She had a good figure. Long legs, full breasts.

      He looked away. He didn’t care what kind of figure she had.

      “I didn’t realize you’d moved in,” she said. “The Steve-ways were happy for me to work on my bike anytime.”

      “Then they must have been deaf.”

      He knew he sounded like a cantankerous old man but he couldn’t seem to help himself. Her being a woman had thrown him off balance, one too many curveballs on what had already been a trying day.

      “It isn’t usually this noisy,” she said. “There’s a problem with the muffler.”

      “Maybe you should leave it to the experts to fix, then.”

      Her eyes narrowed. “Thanks for the advice. I know just what to do with it.”

      He’d pissed her off. Seemed only fair, since she’d roused him out of his home with her racket.

      “So you’ll pack it in for the night?”

      “Like I said, I didn’t know you’d moved in.”

      She put her hands on her hips and her T-shirt stretched over her breasts. Again he pulled his gaze away.

      “Thanks, I appreciate the consideration,” he said flatly.

      He turned away.

      “Welcome to the neighborhood,” she called after him as he walked down the drive. She sounded about as sincere as he had when he’d thanked her.

      He stopped in his tracks when he reached the privacy of his own driveway, a frown on his face, aware that he’d overreacted and not sure why. He stood there for a long moment, breathing in the cool night air. Then he shook off his unease and returned to his sleeping children.

       WHAT A JERK.

      Hannah Napier pushed her hair off her forehead then grimaced when she remembered her hands were greasy. She wiped her hands on a rag then hit the button to close the roller door. She’d wanted to get to the bottom of the СКАЧАТЬ