Page 40 of The Cul-de-Sac War

It was only as she was settling into her own bed, blinking wearily as she checked the clock, that she saw the time: 3:13 a.m.

Chapter 8

Chip

It wasn’t supposed to be this fun. But honestly, the woman asked for it.

“Midnight. Not one millisecond past.”

He could still hear her condescending tone as she whipped her braid over her shoulder and slammed the screen door. As if he were that desperate for whatever she had to say. As if all of his career hopes and dreams rested in her slender hands. As if the sprightly little Barter fairy could have anything that valuable to tell him.

Fact was, he woke up, got out of bed, and snatched up his shovel at three in the morning for the pure joy of ruffling her feathers.

Over an hour he wasted pulling out that old phone line and dragging it through the yard as if the fence were moved. Sure, the second she was out of the driveway he dropped his shovel to do actual work—the demolished upstairs bathroom being proof, along with the Pepto Bismol–pink tub in the bed of his truck weighing down old plumbing lines, crushed Sheetrock, and shattered tile.

The reality was, he could already tell annoying her was going to become one of his fondest hobbies. He was starting to love it with every fiber of his being.

The way those pink circles rose in her cheeks. The way her nose scrunched up in disgust.

It was flippin’ fantastic.

He had been annoyed, however, when he hadn’t received so much as a “thank you” for spending hundreds of dollars on the electric fence. The water line was mandatory reparation, but the fence wasn’t, and he had tried to make things right. Why? Because he was a good neighbor. To quote Mrs. Lewis herself, he was “a nice chap.”

But did Bree seem to care? No.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me! It’s three o’clock in the morning!” Bree’s roar had traveled loud and clear through her wall, past the easement between their houses, and right into his bedroom. He chuckled to himself a few times in the darkness, staring at the ceiling, his hands resting behind his head.

She’d swung at him with a bat, but this reaction was so worth it.

He had to be up in three hours, and still, it was so worth it.

His head hurt a bit from that pot, and yes, it was so worth it.

But what was with that man? The guy who had stepped out of his Tesla as if his feet had never touched gravel. The way he took deliberate, slow steps to make sure his perfectly polished shoes didn’t end up touching the grass. He lifted the hems of his Armani trousers like a prom girl lifting her ball gown to avoid grass stains.

So that was the kind of man Bree Leake dated?

You know? It suited her.

It oddly did.

He could imagine the two of them now, looking through the sunroom window of some McMansion, talking in low tones as they watched a neighbor’s hired men mow the twenty-acre lawn horizontally instead of on the diagonal. How they’d tsk as they sipped their espressos from tiny porcelain cups, saying they really should get out of the neighborhood before it went completely to pot.

Chip pulled his sleeping bag higher over his shoulders and turned over on the otherwise bare mattress. Russell stood at the window, per usual, his breath frosting the glass as he stared at Bree’s bedroom. The thoughts rolled through his mind.

Mr. Richardson wanted a contractor who was also artistic. In this town, he’d be hard-pressed to find a contractor with a hobby like art, that was certain. But then, if anyone could demand fine art in the CV and actually succeed in hiring such a jack-of-all-trades, it was Mr. Richardson. Wouldn’t be long before he’d conduct a nationwide search, and the Barter would have a line stretching all the way to the Martha of men in tailored suits carrying drills in one hand and easels in the other. Well, he knew a thing or two about tailored suits. And he may not be selling oil paintings at Laurel Springs Studios, but—

Chip’s thoughts stalled as he caught sight of a curious item hanging in Bree’s window. He propped up on his elbow and squinted.

Sure enough, he could see a piece of paper taped to the glass.

A simple piece of printer paper with bold, black, handwritten letters:

THIS ISN’T OVER

He grinned and lay back down, putting his hands back behind his head.

This isn’t over.