His Princess (A Royal Romance)(78)

I have neighbors. Behind me are the Lincolns. On the driveway side of my house are the Bartons. Across the street are the Moores.

I don’t know who lives on the other side. I’ve never met them and, as far as I know, the house is empty. I’d have assumed it was abandoned, except that it’s clearly furnished and somebody must be paying the bills, or else there’d be a notice from the sheriff tacked to the door.

Somebody has apparently moved in, though. There’s a car in the driveway. A big, obnoxious muscle car, a nineteen-sixty something, black with lots of shiny chrome.

“I’ll have to say something,” Todd says.

Of course. The home owner’s association. There are so many rules in this place. Don’t do this, don’t do that. You can’t actually park in your driveway, the car must be in the garage, unless it’s within three years of the current model year. We wouldn’t want Mrs. Campbell the block captain to be offended by the sight of a four-year-old car.

“Let me handle it,” I sigh.

I don’t know why I keep piling other people’s problems on myself. I should just let Todd handle it, stumble into my house, and flop on the floor for a nap.

Of course I can’t.

“What?”

“Yeah, I’ll say something. He must have just moved in. Seriously.”

“Right.” Todd shrugs. “If you insist.”

I step out of the cart. “Thanks for the ride.”

He gives me a curt nod. “Anytime.”

As the golf cart buzzes off toward the front gate, I trudge up to the door of my neighbor’s house and knock lightly. This is a bad idea. Maybe if he or she doesn’t notice me I can just go home and forget about this. I have enough trouble keeping my own place up to snuff.

I can’t afford a landscaper like everyone else on the block, and I’m constantly fighting my youngest, Kelly, over her fixation on getting a pool. We can’t get a pool. It’s in the rules.

No answer. I start to turn away from the door when I hear the lock rasp and it swings inward.

“What?” the man inside snaps.

I blink.

He’s, um. He’s wearing pants, I mean that’s a start. Nothing else. Barefoot, but I’m not paying much attention to his feet. I’ve never seen anyone so muscular in person, like an underwear model, but he’s covered in tattoos, almost to the point I’d think he was wearing a transparent shirt.

There’s a dragon on his chest and chains around his belly and figures tattooed down both arms, stopping where they’d be covered up by a dress shirt. I can’t make them all out, because he’s swathed in bandages. He towers over me and bores into me with startling blue eyes.

“What?” he says again.

“You can’t park your car there,” I say meekly.

He glares at me then at the car. “What?”

“Is that the only word you know?” I snap, anger bubbling to the surface through a thick layer of fatigue.

“Lady, it’s my driveway. I’ll park my car in my f*cking driveway if I damn well please.”

He slams the door in my face.

I clench my fists, and my teeth.

You *. I go through all this shit to live in this stupid neighborhood with these people that look down on me and call me a slut behind my back. I work for that perverted weasel and eat ramen noodles three times a week so my kids can have real food, and I try to do you a courtesy and keep the stupid block captain off your back for their stupid rule, and this is what I get?

I pound on the door with my fist.

It swings open again.

“What?” he bellows, louder.

“Listen, *,” I snap at him, rising on my toes to stand a little taller. “It’s not my rule, okay? If you don’t move that jalopy, Postimia Campbell is going to file a complaint with the HOA board and tow the goddamn thing and give you a fine.”

“What the f*ck is a HOA board? What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m trying to help you, you obnoxious jackass.”

“Did you call my car a jalopy?”

“Yeah, I did.”

“Who the hell are you, anyway?”

“I live next door. I’m your neighbor.”

“Great. Go read the neighborhood watch meeting minutes or something.”

He rolls his eyes for emphasis.

“I told you—”

He slams the door in my face.

Then opens it.

“Get off my porch, lady.”

Slam.

I stand there fuming for a second and then stomp down the front walk, down to the driveway and then to the street. There are no sidewalks in Hunter’s Run. People aren’t supposed to walk here. If you own a house in this craphole you should have a fancy car to drive.

When I finally get back to my own house, my oldest daughter, Karen, opens the door before I even touch the knob.

“Hey, Mom,” she says brightly. “We made dinner.”

Oh come on.

I trudge wearily into the house, and I can smell burnt food. When I walk into the kitchen, Kelly is standing in front of the stove, stirring a pot of macaroni and cheese. Judging from the marks on the stovetop, it boiled over repeatedly while she was cooking the noodles. Karen has a full pack’s worth of hot dogs rolling around in butter in a frying pan.