Neighbors with Benefits (Anderson Brothers, #2)(7)
He opened his mouth as if to respond, but snapped it shut.
She yanked the band from her ponytail and fluffed her hair. “Of course it was. I’m probably an entry in his perfectly organized, up-to-the-minute day planner: Call and report Mia.” She scraped her hair back from her face and wound the band around once. “Make Mia lose her place to live.” She tightened the band another time with a snap. “Make her life a living hell.”
Mr. Grant simply stared at her. After a moment he shook his head. “You really don’t get it.”
Angry prickles rose on her neck. She wasn’t sure what made her madder: the condescending tone of the Super, the leash comment from Michael Anderson, or the fact she was undeniably physically attracted to her bossy neighbor and wanted a do-over.
Definitely the latter. Being hot for the control freak would result in nothing but a shit show. She’d clearly lost her last miniscule thread of common sense. Instead of responding to the Super, she slumped into a chair.
“Mr. Anderson’s not really that bad,” he said. “He’s just detail oriented. Powerful men often are.”
Oh, now the guy was a philosopher. Great. She buried her face in her hands. “Powerful is right. He’s powerfully obnoxious.”
“Can I give you some advice, Miss Mia?”
Like saying no would stop him? “Sure.” She lifted her head and gritted her teeth. She’d heard this speech a hundred times before. Focus. Pay attention. Straighten up. Get it together. How many new ways could it be said by different people? Everyone, even strangers, felt compelled to chime in about her flakiness. She didn’t need to hear it again. She was a mess and she knew it. Pointing it out didn’t change things.
“Give Mr. Anderson a chance. He’s a lot like you.”
Well, that wasn’t what she’d expected. A choked laugh escaped. “Are you kidding? He’s like me? In what alternate dimension would that not be a joke?”
“I’m serious. I’ve been up here several times a week since you moved in, for one disaster after another, and I’ve known Mr. Anderson since he bought his place a couple of years ago. I stand by my statement. You two are very much alike. You’re both set in your ways. He wants order, and you want…” He gestured to the splattered canvas and general mess of the room. “He’s all about success and responsibility and you’re avoiding responsibility every chance you get.”
Ouch. “That doesn’t sound like we’re alike at all.”
He grinned, white teeth peeking out from under his mustache. “Yeah, you are. You’re both unmovable and stuck in your ways.” He waved an arm in the air. “Just alike.”
What the hell? “What, do you moonlight as a shrink, Mr. Grant? That was impressive psychobabble.”
“Call me Eddie.” He pointed at his head. “I’ve been around. I see things. I know stuff.” Before he could lumber out the door, he paused. “And Mr. Anderson didn’t call to report you. He asked me to come make any needed repairs and to not write it up or call Ms. Braxton. He said he’d pay to put things back right again.”
And she’d thought Michael’s leash remark had been the most painful thing so far that day. What a fiasco. She’d screamed and yelled at him—while flailing the Panty Pointer of course, and what had he done? Something nice.
Men sucked.
“I’ll bring the dehumidifier back up in a bit.” He paused at the door. “You okay?”
“Yeah, great.” She grabbed the stereo remote and hit play. “Just perfect.”
Chapter Three
Michael checked his watch again. His meeting with a potential new client from Japan was in less than thirty minutes and he needed to get back up to the office to review the file. He liked to know as much as possible about business contacts before meeting with them. At this rate, the client would beat him to the office.
“For God’s sake, dog. Just piss already.”
Instead, the creature stood next to the tree nearest the Anderson Building and ignored him completely. Michael wasn’t used to being ignored and he didn’t like it. He didn’t like any of this, and his mood wasn’t improved by the fact he hadn’t slept at all last night. Between his frustration over his encounter with his neighbor yesterday, and the dog tearing up two Bloomsberg Businessweek magazines, a Wall Street Journal, then somehow getting into the pantry and eating a full box of saltine crackers before shredding the box into confetti last night, he was exhausted.
The dog appeared no worse for wear, though, as it strained against the leash—the pale blue rhinestone-studded leash that made Michael cringe—and barked at another dog walked by a woman in a business suit half a block away.
This was ridiculous. The dog had cried to go outside, and now, nothing. Michael didn’t have time for this, but Dr. Whittelsey said he had to take care of the dog himself. The goal of this dog therapy bullshit was to loosen him up, not make him late for meetings. Enough was enough; he had to get back. As he neared the entrance to his building, the dog came to an abrupt halt and struck a serious take-care-of-business pose.
People passed on either side, and he pretended not to be bothered by the fact the beast with a pink bow that matched its pink nail polish on the end of a bejeweled leash was taking a dump on a public sidewalk right outside the Anderson Building.