Neighbors with Benefits (Anderson Brothers, #2)(6)

His features hardened. “Come on, dog,” he muttered from the doorway.

She placed her hands on her hips. The guy was clueless. And handsome as hell. Ms. Braxton had made him out to be a horrible man—a monster, which was why she’d begun tormenting him in the first place. In her head, Mia had pictured him like an ogre in a movie—not young, fit, and friendly. Oh, yeah, she’d felt those muscles, as well as other hard things, beneath that designer suit, which was why she hadn’t connected his first and last name. This was the dreaded Michael Anderson. The Grand Poobah of “My way or the highway.”

Though, as she stood there watching him try unsuccessfully to coax Clancy by promising him treats that the dog knew would never materialize, she found herself fighting back a smile. Maybe doing it his way wouldn’t be all that bad.

Wait. What was wrong with her? Never again would she make allowances for a man being a jerk. Just like Jason, this guy was heartache in a pretty package. Better to run him off right away while the running off was good.

She picked Clancy up and shoved him into Michael’s chest. “Maybe next time, you’ll be responsible and put him on a leash.”

His bright blue eyes widened, then narrowed. “The only thing that needs to be on a leash around here is you.”

A line like that should have been followed by a graceful exit. Maybe even a dramatic door slam, but perfectionist Michael Anderson’s grand exit consisted of stubbing his bare toe against the doorframe while balancing a dog in one arm and holding his pee-filled shoes out in front of him with the other.

As she shoved the chair aside and closed the door, Mia’s feelings ping-ponged back and forth. Hate or like. Laugh or cry. Hate and cry were in the lead. Her obnoxious, uptight, tattletale next door neighbor had gotten the last words in… and they stung.

All her life, she’d been told she was impulsive, flighty, reckless, and irresponsible Obviously, Michael Anderson thought so, too. Well, screw him. Screw all of them—especially her ex, Jason Tipton.

Slumping down on the sofa, she stared at the canvas in front of her, the fifth in a series commissioned by the owners of Heart’s Home, called “Life in the Sun.” Happiness was what it conveyed—bright, and carefree and full of joy, which was exactly what she’d been going for when she painted it. And exactly what she wanted for herself, but somehow it never happened. Without fail, she always fell short. Just like this time.

With a sigh, she pitched the rescued underwear on the sofa cushion, then walked to the wet bar and pulled her paint brushes out of the sink.

Why did the hot guy with the hard body and pretty face have to be Michael Anderson? Why couldn’t he have been some other neighbor—one who she hadn’t been warned against, one who she hadn’t intentionally baited and tormented for weeks, one who didn’t smell so freaking good. Closing her eyes, she remembered his scent—like expensive aftershave. And he felt like…

Nuh uh. She opened her eyes and slammed her brushes down on the granite counter. She wouldn’t allow herself to do that. Not over a man who could cost her a place to live. Not for any man. Not ever again.

Hopefully, he wouldn’t call security about the music. This time wasn’t her fault, really. Unlike at night, she wasn’t intentionally bugging the guy. Ms. Braxton had told her he was never home before eight at night on weekdays. She thought she could work without disturbing anyone.

If she hadn’t dropped her wireless headphones in the toilet the day she moved in, none of this would have happened. Once she completed this series of paintings, she’d have enough cash to replace the headphones. She just had to find a way to stay there that long.

She jumped when a knock sounded on the door. Maybe the high-and-mighty Mr. Anderson had returned for something—like to sling another insult, perhaps.

Instead, she found the building super, Mr. Grant. He was a huge guy dressed in blue coveralls. She assumed the full beard was an effort to compensate for his receding hairline.

“Hi, again, Miss Mia,” he said. “I hear you had some more trouble.”

Oh, God. If someone called him, they probably notified Ms. Braxton. She’d put money on the snitch being Michael Anderson. The jerk. She took a deep breath through her nose and caught the faintest lingering hint of his cologne. The hot, good-smelling jerk. Maybe she shouldn’t have been so rude. He might have been able to help her out with Ms. Braxton. And he certainly was easy on the eyes. “Yeah. I burned some bread and overflowed the tub.”

He shook his head. “You need to stop doing this kind of thing.”

“It’s not like I do it on purpose.” She gestured for him to enter.

“It’s also not like you don’t do it on purpose,” he grumbled as he passed her on the way to the bathroom.

Zing! He and Anderson should work up a duet act: How to make Mia feel like crap.

“You’re going to need a dehumidifier,” he called from the bathroom. “Looks like no harm done. Did you burn anything other than the bread?”

“Only some bridges.”

“Pardon?”

“No.”

He emerged wiping his hands on the front of his chest, keys jangling from the huge ring strung through a loop at his waist.

“Who called to report this?” she asked.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does to me. It was that uptight jackass Michael Anderson, wasn’t it?”