Down Bad Next Door

—Prologue—

I’d be so easy to murder.

I never lock the door. Even when I sleep.

Who needs to, living in a peaceful town like Spruce, Texas?

Next thing you know, your back’s against the wall, and your low-key hot, high-key hotheaded neighbor bears down on you, his big hand planted in the brick right by your head, a set of furious charcoal eyes piercing your own.

You have no idea what you did.

Only that you wish you hadn’t dropped the floral knife.

But now you’re gifted with a close, intimate survey of his eyes, which surprise you.

Had you ever noticed how sensitive and deep they are?

To be fair, you’ve only seen them glaring at you across the lawn whenever you dared to wave, smile, or—god forbid—put way too much effort into an unwelcomed welcome basket he likely threw out the second you turned your back.

This is what all your good neighborliness has earned you.

Getting murdered at 2 AM by your hot new neighbor.

And the worst part is, you only finished a third of the roses.

“Why are you doing this to me?” he asks. No—growls.

Until this point, I wasn’t aware of doing anything at all. Unless he’s still pissed about the welcome basket. Do you think he’s allergic to papaya?

I never thought my next-door menace would murder me.

Stare daggers at me all day long across the yard, sure.

But this seems awfully dramatic—even for him.

“Why …” He draws closer. Closer than he already is, I mean. “… are you doing this to me …?”

“Doing … what …?”

What else am I supposed to say?

How do I diffuse this ticking bomb? Which wire do I cut?

I don’t know if it’s the meekness in my voice, or my dull and uninspired choice of words, but he hisses a breath out through his teeth—his disbelief or agitation, I can’t tell. “You’re somethin’ else, Wyatt, y’know that? Somethin’ else.”

I should be more concerned about my wellbeing. But in this moment, I’m just surprised he remembers my name.

“And I think you know exactly what you’re doing.”

I meet his eyes.

But before I can ask what the hell that means, his gaze drops.

Not to the roses scattered on the ground.

Not to the floral knife by his foot.

To my mouth.

“Diego …” I murmur. It comes out more sensual than I meant. Less like a warning. More like an invitation.

He reaches for my hair.

For half a second, I think he means to caress it.

Then he pulls out a thorn.

Holds it between us.

“You always this careless with things that can hurt you?”

His question digs into somewhere unexpectedly sensitive.

I don’t know if he’s making fun of me, warning me, or actually concerned with my lack of care around sharp objects.

Like a floral knife.

Thorns.

His eyes.

“I … I don’t know what you want,” I whisper. Again with that unintended sensuality.

“Yes, you do.”

And before I can decide whether survival is still my priority, he leans closer, and his lips descend to mine.