Neighbor From Hell Read Online Georgia Le Carre

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Billionaire, Contemporary, Erotic Tags Authors:
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Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 100423 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
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I start running towards my gorgeous new lodgings.

I pause at the doorway, my bag at my feet, looking in at a space that is unrecognizable. The smell of fresh paint lingers. An AC unit, compact and modern, is being fitted in the living room; it’s cool air will cut the summer heat when it comes. It’s perfect and better than anything I could have dreamed of.

Hugh is standing in the kitchen, his linen shirt rolled to his elbows, his biceps flexing as he directs a worker installing the cream refrigerator I had asked for.

“Thank you, Hugh,” my voice is quiet, heavy with everything I can’t say.

He turns, his gray eyes meeting mine, and smiles, easy, warm. “No problem,” he says, but there’s a flicker in his gaze, something soft, almost reluctant, and I wonder if he feels it too, this shift, this ending to our story.

“I’ll go look upstairs,” I say, and run upstairs to see my bedroom and bathroom. I clasp my hands together with joy. My bedroom is cozy and pretty, and the new bathroom is sleek and marvelous. I move to the gold taps and trail my fingers over the gleaming metal and hear voices float up from downstairs. I look out of the window and see Mrs. O’Brien and two maids from the manor, their arms full of cleaning supplies and buckets. Confused, I traipse downstairs.

“What’s going on?”

Hugh’s leaning against the kitchen counter, his posture casual, but his eyes sharp. “They’re doing a deep clean,” he says in a matter-of-fact voice. “With all the construction dust, it’s not livable yet. They cleaned yesterday, but it was rushed. I found dust on the sills—not good enough. You’ll have to stay another night at the manor.”

I raise an eyebrow, a smile tugging at my lips, because I know him now, know his obsession with perfection, the way he notices every detail, demands excellence in everything, from his horses to his home, but dust on the window sills. Hmmm.

“Dust?” I tease.

He shrugs, but there’s a glint in his eye, like he’s pleased I’ve caught him, like he’s stretching this moment, keeping me in his manor a little longer. I laugh, grateful that he even tried to keep me one more day in his home.

Mrs. O’Brien’s girls get to work immediately, scrubbing floors, polishing windows, their sponges squeaking, their voices a soft hum as they erase every trace of construction. Their mission is focused and clear: get the cottage gleaming and pristine to the standard expected by their master.

By evening, all the work is done, the refrigerator is humming, the AC is whispering cool air, and the house is sparkling. I decide to cook for Hugh, a thank-you, a gesture, something to hold onto before I’m alone.

I choose a Chicago-style deep-dish pizza, a taste of home—thick crust, layers of mozzarella, spicy Italian sausage, peppers, and a rich tomato sauce, the kind I grew up eating on Friday nights. I set up in the kitchen, the new granite counter smooth under my hands, and Hugh settles in on the sofa, a gorgeous marshmallow pink piece I picked out, its color blending with the cottage’s neutral walls. He’s watching a rugby match on the small TV, and I steal glances, my heart catching at how he looks here, relaxed, like he belongs in my space. Like he has always been here. I realize without him, the place would be missing something.

He wanders over. “Can I help?” His voice is warm and earnest.

I laugh, shaking my head, because he’s my guest, because this is my gift to him. “No. There is nothing to do,” I say, stirring the sauce, its tangy aroma filling the air, but he insists, his eyes bright, and I finally relent, handing him a cutting board and a green pepper.

“Slice this, thin as you can,” I say.

He takes the task seriously, his hands careful, precise, the knife glinting as he works. I watch him, amused, enchanted, because when he’s so focused, his brow furrows. I can tell his heart is in it, like he’s building something, not just chopping vegetables.

My chest tightens with a pang of longing, because he’s perfect—careful, attentive, warm—and I wish, God, I wish he weren’t a billionaire shadowed by rumors of leaving a trail of broken hearts. I wish he wasn’t a risk I can’t take.

I feel things for him, things I’ve never felt for anyone, things that scare me, because they’re real, and I know better, know I can’t trust this fleeting moment, no matter how much I want to.

I turn back to the dough, kneading it, my hands sinking into its warmth, and tell myself I know better, I know better as if it’s a magic mantra that’ll keep me from falling completely, even as he stands beside me, slicing peppers, his presence a quiet fire I can’t ignore.


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