Page 2 of Three Wickedly Bad Neighbors and a Very Grumpy Girl (Three Guys and a Girl Volume 2, #8)

? Chapter Two

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A very

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W hat in the trespassing heck is going on next door?

I met the owners, Mr. and Mrs. Ambrose—such a lovely couple, by the way—on the day I moved in, and they moved out.

They seemed very attached to each other, finishing each other’s sentences and holding hands at every opportunity, which I guess is impressive after fifty years of marriage.

But what do I know? I don’t have a romantic bone in my body, and I like it that way.

Apparently, they were leaving to replicate the first year of their marriage when they traveled across Europe with no clear destination in mind. They were so in love that it didn’t matter.

If I were the romantic type, I would have oohed and ahhed, but all I could think about were the logistics of their endeavor. Nothing is the same after fifty years, and they’re now well into their seventies.

I cautiously asked about their itinerary, expecting a detailed plan, only to learn that they had no such thing, as it would defeat the entire purpose of replicating the trip.

I also tentatively inquired if someone else would be traveling with them. Nope. They were going to camp out under the stars or sleep in their RV, going wherever the road took them.

If I say my anxiety turned up a notch, I’d be putting it mildly. The thought of not knowing when, why, or what to do next is enough to give me hives. Did I mention they’re in their seventies? What if something happens to them?

I, on the other hand, could have provided them with laminated itineraries, meticulously plotting their trip down to the last minute. It would have been perfect. But no, I can’t go around arranging other people’s lives unless they hire me to do so. I’ve learned that the hard way.

I managed to keep my impending system failure in check in front of the Ambroses and insisted they put me in their phone and take my card, urging them to call me day or night if they needed any kind of assistance.

I check in with them—just friendly hellos to make sure they’re still alive.

They send me silly photos of the two of them, and then I send care packages with practical items I can think of: Band-Aids, sunscreen, a bottle of Vitamin D, and teas for constipation.

Hey, you never know. Anyway, it makes me feel better, but I still shudder at their impulsiveness.

Right, back to business. The Ambroses mentioned they might let their home out for short spells, but to date, their house has remained empty.

If new tenants were moving in, it would have been announced in our local online social group.

The woman who runs it is also the mayor of Bluely Lane and a real estate agent.

Mayor Shelly Burns shares everything in the group chat—even when her dog has a favorable bowel movement—so this would have been massive news if there were newcomers moving in next door.

All that means is a bunch of wayward teenagers are throwing a party at the Ambroses’ beautiful Cape Cod-style home. Don’t they know trespassers will be prosecuted? This is private property, and they have no right to just drop in, and for all I know, vandalize the place too.

I debate calling the police. I don't want to be that much of a terror just yet, so I opt to handle the situation myself. It’s fine.

I’ll tell them to leave, or I’ll involve the police.

They’ll leave, and I’ll recreate my ultra-tranquil night.

I’m excellent at damage control, of course.

Plus, I need to sleep, or I won’t be able to function well at my new job.

I slip my feet into a pair of fluffy slippers with cute little kitten heels and toss a thick white terry cloth robe over my silk nightie.

As I make my way next door, I draw up my most serious, no-nonsense expression.

I plan to wag my finger at these teens while delivering a stern lecture about respecting other people’s property.

I’ll also ask if they really want a record on their names before they even get started in life. I think not.

Veronica, my best friend, says I have a natural resting bitch face. I don’t know what she means by that; it’s just my normal face. But she proved her point once.

She took me to a bar, and not one guy hit on me. They hit on Veronica while I sat next to her, but not a single one asked to buy me a drink or for my number.

Her analysis at the end of the night? I ward off guys within a one-mile radius with my ice-maiden grump face.

I love Veronica. We met when we were ten years old, and even though I didn’t stay in one place for long, we’ve always kept in touch, so she probably knows me best. I call that a superpower.

I’m not interested in anyone anyway. Men and dating are just not my thing right now.

My sole focus—let me emphasize that—my sole focus is my career.

Getting this job at Obsidia Tech is everything, and nothing else matters.

I cross into the Ambroses’ front garden and go around to the back to the entertainment area, which has been modernized with a giant pool.

Okay, find the unsubs and send them on their merry way.

Easy. Except, if I thought I would find drunken teenagers, I’m wrong.

The people at this party are clearly adults.

And I might add, the kind of adults who fit the golden ratio.

My gosh. How can all the most beautiful people in the world be gathered in the backyard of Mr. and Mrs. Ambrose's house?

Just as well I have no issue being on the average-looking side of the world, or I’d have an existential crisis right now, surrounded by a catwalk of beautiful people.

I didn’t miss being invited to parties at school anyway, where every girl could be a cheerleader if they weren’t already, and every guy had the ability to win medals in all sorts of sports and model designer underwear in commercials.

Yeah, I choose books over drooling over guys in boxer briefs. No regrets.

The music is so loud that I basically scream my words as I begin my investigation into the identity of the instigators.

“Hello, hi!” I shout at a tall, leggy model in a skimpy dress whose skin gleams like diamonds under the powerful fluorescent lights.

“Can you point me in the direction of the ringleader hosting this party, please?” I really wanted to ask who the hoodlum throwing this illegal rager is. Yes, I’m familiar with the term rager.

“What?” she shouts back, leaning closer. I repeat my words verbatim.

“Oh, the guys? You’re going to love them,” she says, her smile so perfect that even her teeth shimmer in response.

And nope. I’m not going to love them.

At this moment, I loathe them because I should be in bed, replenishing myself for a big, big day tomorrow, not breaking up a couple of house crashers.