Page 29 of The Cul-de-Sac War

Honestly, both ideas were a bit too scary to examine.

He flicked on the faucet and the icy water nearly froze his hands.

One nice thing about Ashleigh was that she did try. This construction stuff was about as far out of her wheelhouse as Kate Spade was from his, and yet she made the effort to visit him, to compliment him. To pick up terms here and there so she could use them to say things like, “That tankless water heater was a great choice for Jim and Tara’s home, Chip. And the way you got it to work with that flex hose . . .”

He had to give her credit; if there was one thing a man loved, it was getting a little self-esteem boost from a woman who took his work seriously.

Two days ago, when Chip had told Ashleigh the news that the Barter was about to open bids for a major renovation, she was nothing but supportive, overwhelmed with excitement. They’d spent the whole evening talking strategy. It didn’t matter to her that his father—king of Abingdon construction—was going to be his competition. Or that the eccentric Mr. Richardson was the illogical sort of fellow who had once bought up and renovated an entire row of dilapidated houses simply because they made his wife sad when she drove by.

Chip could almost feel like these facts didn’t matter to him either. Almost.

Yes, he was coming to realize a supportive woman was one of the best things a man could have in life.

Enthusiasm.

Kindness.

Respect—

“You’ve gotta move that fence.”

Chip swiveled around to see all six feet of his neighbor standing in the doorway beside Ashleigh and shaking a pointed finger at him. Bree’s hair was in more of a strangled bun than usual, and she wore a gigantic deep-blue alpine parka with what appeared to be muddy bear-claw marks down the length of the coat. Ashleigh was clutching her chest and leaning into the rickety doorframe as though the deranged woman was the greater danger.

Which, to be fair, was probably true.

Bree—or possibly just Bree’s humongous coat—pushed Ashleigh aside as she marched toward him.

“You move that fence. Or I’m going to move your house.”

It was hard at the moment to decide what to do. Part of him wanted to laugh hysterically, and part of him felt the smile slipping off his face. He turned off the water.

“How exactly do you plan to move my house?”

“And can we talk about the Frisbee for a second?” Bree said, breezing past his question. “Because, honestly”—she whipped the disc up next to her crazy eyes—“giving your neighbor a Frisbee with the instructions to ‘roll down your window and throw it as far as you can before you step out of your car’ is not a real solution to my problem here. And for the record, it also doesn’t work.” She motioned to her muddied coat, enunciating each word. “As. You. Can. See.”

His smile wilted.

He had meant the offering to be a playful joke, even hoped it might represent a clean slate. Honestly, he figured Russell’s overenthusiastic greetings toward Bree would have calmed down by now. The dog wasn’t trying to maul her. He just loved her. Like, really, really loved her. If she could just understand, pet the dog a little, Russell would calm down . . .

“Do you know he’s watching me all night now?” Bree’s eyes narrowed. “All. Night?”

Chip laughed. “No, he’s not. He sleeps in my room—”

“At the foot of your bed,” she continued. “Sitting on that blue sleeping bag of yours. Staring at me through the window. Every time I open my eyes, he’s watching.”

He watched her for a few moments. Waiting for her to blink.

She didn’t.

“Um.” Chip swallowed. One glance to Ashleigh confirmed he would be getting curtains from her in the next hour. “Ashleigh, I want you to meet my next-door neighbor. Bree. Bree. Ashleigh.”

Bree’s eyes stayed on Chip as she nodded. “Hello.”

“Hello,” Ashleigh replied.

Chip put up a finger. “Shall we not overlook the fact that this means you look into my room all night? ‘Staring’?”

It was disconcerting. A little bit intriguing. But also disconcerting.