Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 108862 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108862 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
DOWN BAD
—Prologue—
I’d be so easy to murder.
I never lock the door. Even when I sleep.
Who needs to, living in a peaceful town like Spruce, Texas?
Then one night, you’re wide awake at 2 AM shucking thorns off roses at the kitchen sink because you run a flower shop, your to-do list fills faster than you can empty it, and you are incapable of saying no. You hear a sound. You investigate it in the way every horror movie has taught you not to, stepping out onto the porch.
Next thing you know, your back’s against the wall, and your low-key hot, high-key hotheaded neighbor bears down on you, his big hand planted in the brick right by your head, a set of furious charcoal eyes piercing your own.
You have no idea what you did.
Only that you wish you hadn’t dropped the floral knife.
But now you’re gifted with a close, intimate survey of his eyes, which surprise you. Had you ever noticed how sensitive and deep they are? To be fair, you’ve only seen them glaring at you across the lawn whenever you dared to wave, smile, or—god forbid—put way too much effort into an unwelcomed welcome basket he likely threw out the second you turned your back.
This is what all your good neighborliness has earned you.
Getting murdered at 2 AM by your hot new neighbor.
And the worst part is, you only finished a third of the roses.
“Why are you doing this to me?” he asks. No—growls.
Until this point, I wasn’t aware of doing anything at all. Unless he’s still pissed about the welcome basket. Do you think he’s allergic to papaya?
I never thought my next-door menace would murder me.
Stare daggers at me all day long across the yard, sure.
But this seems awfully dramatic—even for him.
“Why …” He draws closer. Closer than he already is, I mean. “… are you doing this to me …?”
“Doing … what …?”
What else am I supposed to say?
How do I diffuse this ticking bomb? Which wire do I cut?
I don’t know if it’s the meekness in my voice, or my dull and uninspired choice of words, but he hisses a breath out through his teeth—his disbelief or agitation, I can’t tell. “You’re somethin’ else, Wyatt, y’know that? Somethin’ else.”
I should be more concerned about my wellbeing. But in this moment, I’m just surprised he remembers my name.
“And I think you know exactly what you’re doing.”
I meet his eyes.
But before I can ask what the hell that means, his gaze drops.
Not to the roses scattered on the ground.
Not to the floral knife by his foot.
To my mouth.
“Diego …” I murmur. It comes out more sensual than I meant. Less like a warning. More like an invitation.
He reaches for my hair.
For half a second, I think he means to caress it.
Then he pulls out a thorn.
Holds it between us.
“You always this careless with things that can hurt you?”
His question digs into somewhere unexpectedly sensitive.
I don’t know if he’s making fun of me, warning me, or actually concerned with my lack of care around sharp objects.
Like a floral knife.
Thorns.
His eyes.
“I … I don’t know what you want,” I whisper. Again with that unintended sensuality.
“Yes, you do.”
And before I can decide whether survival is still my priority, he leans closer, and his lips descend to mine.
—1—
Wyatt
The curtains are gone.
In their place: a set of ugly-ass lopsided blinds.
That’s the first crime Diego Valdez commits.
I knew about Diego before he arrived. Mr. and Mrs. Valdez—or Marcos and Lottie to anyone lucky enough to live next-door to the two of them—told me their nephew would be staying in their house until it sold. He’d look after it. Keep it alive. Tend the yard. Hopefully “get back on his feet” … whatever that meant.
“He’s a bit rough around the edges,” Lottie warned me.
That’s neighbor-speak for: something very bad happened, and despite how long we’ve lived next to each other, we are absolutely not telling you the whole dang story over apple crumble.
So I prepared myself to be kind. To exercise grace. To wear a smile and be my good ol’ neighborly self.
Then he ripped down the curtains.
I used to enjoy the sight of them every morning through my kitchen window, coffee in hand. Tiny blue flower print. Cheerful without trying too hard. I even helped Lottie pick them out three summers ago at a store in Fairview while poor Marcos followed us around, grumbling about getting back to Spruce in time for lunch before Biggie’s Bites got too crowded.
Now that window wears uneven blinds with the bottom half all bent and out of whack like some pissed-off cat had beef with it.
I guess everyone has the right to ruin their curb appeal.
Even if those blinds are an offense to God, Texas, and basic fucking geometry.
The second crime happens at four in the morning on Tuesday.
A car engine roars. I’m jolted awake so hard, my soul departs my body in sheer terror before I fall right out of my bed. I stumble to the kitchen window while scraping the sleep out of my eyes.