Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Lucian
Tactical Play: Break Her with Charm
I should be used to rejection by now.
It comes with the job.
Sometimes I hit the hole and get stuffed before making it past the line of scrimmage.
Other times I break free, only to be dragged down before reaching the open field.
It happens.
But never—not once—have I met someone this immune to me or my charm.
Until now, of course.
Olivia—whatever her last name is—hasn’t cracked so much as a smile, and I’m running out of options.
Did her sister fall for it when I met her?
I glance at her, and for the life of me, I can’t remember.
I was too busy taking care of my number one girl, Luna Crawford.
When that bundle of joy is within a five-mile radius, I don’t have eyes for anyone else.
No one should blame me.
She’s the tiniest, most incredible creature, plus we’re both redheads.
We redheads have to stick together.
I spare a glance at Aspen, who’s cute and .
. . right. Remembering her.
She’s the one with the big, scary boyfriend.
I’m not a small guy, but her boyfriend isn’t just tall—he’s built like he was sent straight from the gods to make men like me question their choices.
A guy like that could knock me out cold with one punch, and I’d probably thank him for it.
So, yeah, I kept the Crawford charm locked away when I met her.
Self-preservation and all that.
But the sister?
I’m trying to get her to at least smirk at me, perhaps acknowledge that I exist beyond the role of ‘man whose dog has hijacked my kitchen.’ Didn’t I just move her couch before she broke her door?
And nothing. Nada. Not a crack in that composed little exterior of hers.
It’s ridiculous because I’ve got the whole package working for me today—shirtless, post-run, with a slight sheen of sweat that usually does the trick before I even open my mouth.
And when I did open my mouth?
It was charming. Teasing.
Harmless.
And yet, here I am.
In her kitchen. Dog stolen.
Pride wounded. Not leaving.
Sarah, my traitorous Vizsla, is sprawled across her tile floor, legs stretched out like she’s doing a centerfold shoot for Dogs Who Betray Their Owners Monthly.
Smug as hell. In no time, she’s already made herself at home, belly-up, tail thumping against the cabinets.
And Olivia?
She holds her ground as if she’s not facing a man who bulldozes linebackers for a living.
“You do realize,” I say, leaning against the counter, arms crossed, “that you can’t actually keep my dog, right?”
Olivia mirrors my stance, crossing her arms, expression locked on maximum disinterest. “Says who?”
“Says the law.”
“Hmm,” she muses, tilting her head as if she’s actually giving it thought.
“I’m pretty sure there’s a legal precedent for this. Finders’ keepers, perhaps. Squatter’s rights. She’s already made herself at home. Would be cruel to uproot her now.”
I grin, enjoying this more than I should.
“Damn. Didn’t realize we had a thief moving in next door.”
She sighs long and exaggeratedly as if this entire conversation is detracting from her busy day.
“If I were stealing your dog, you’d never know. I’d be strategic about it. Subtle. One day, she just wouldn’t come home, and you’d assume she finally tired of your nonsense.”
Sarah’s tail thumps against the cabinets as if she agrees.
Traitor. I swear if this dog could talk, she’d have a British or Hungarian accent and many opinions about my life choices.
She’d probably say right now, “Be a dear and disappear, won’t you? I’ll summon you when I require your services again.” Okay, she might sound a bit more feminine, but she definitely has a thick accent and a big attitude.
This is absolutely not happening.
Sarah won’t be taking advantage of the situation and the new hot neighbor .
. . I’m still deciding how I’m going to handle her.
“So let me get this straight. You thought about stealing my dog?”
“No,” she deadpans.
“But now that you mention it, I could write a foolproof plan in about five minutes. I have a very strategic mind.”
I let out a slow whistle.
“Now, that sounds like a challenge.”
“Not a challenge,” she clarifies, giving me a pointed look.
“Just an observation.”
There’s something about the way she says it that makes me grin.
Because damn, this is fun.
Usually, I can crack a woman’s resolve in record time.
By now, she’d be giggling and playing with her hair, already considering whether she should offer me a drink or just get naked in her bedroom.
It’s simple—a few well-placed smiles, a little teasing, and boom.
I’m in. Not even in a cocky way.
Just . . . I know my strengths.
But Olivia?
She’s not impressed.
Which means I have no choice but to up the ante.
“Alright,” I say, pushing off the counter.
“I see how it is. If I can’t win you over with my charm, I’ll have to settle for good old-fashioned labor.”
Her brow lifts.
“Labor?”
I jerk my head toward her moving boxes, which are still sitting outside.
“What kind of neighbor would I be if I didn’t help you move in?”
She eyes me with open skepticism.
“You really want to help me carry things?”
“I’m a giver, Olivia. It’s a flaw.”
She huffs a laugh under her breath but doesn’t stop me when I head for the door.
This is how I find myself hauling her stuff inside, box after box, getting a firsthand look at the state of her new place.
The floor creaks under my feet as I set down a particularly heavy box, and then it cracks under me.
I freeze. Look down.
The damn floorboard just snapped clean through.
Olivia stares at it.
Then at me.
“Well,” she says, “at least now I know who to send the repair bill to.”
I groan.
“Oh, no, that wasn’t me. Not at all.”
Her lips twitch.
“That’s what they all say, but you broke my flooring.”
This is ridiculous.
I’m trying to convince her to .
. . I don’t know what I want—at least a smile or something.
Instead I just broke her flooring, and I don’t even know how I did it.
“Listen, why don’t we move the rest of your boxes?” I suggest, because right now, I need to focus on damage control.
“Afterward, we’ll find a good contractor to fix the floors. I’ll even help pay for half of it.”
Olivia doesn’t look impressed.
Actually, she looks like she’s debating whether or not to kick me out entirely.
“You broke it,” she says flatly, arms crossed like she’s preparing a case against me in small claims court.
“Maybe the floors are rotten,” I offer, with what I hope is a convincing shrug.
Her eyes narrow. “You’re just making things up to get out of this mess.” She gestures at the boxes.
“Move first, fix later. Let’s go.”
Fair.
I rub a hand over my jaw, trying to piece together what, exactly, I’m doing here.
This whole situation started with my dog committing a home invasion.
Then it turned into a battle of wills between me and a woman who, apparently, cannot be swayed by my usual arsenal of charm, good looks, and well-timed humor.
And now? Now, I’m standing in her soon-to-be decrepit house, negotiating my way out of an unexpected construction bill.
What am I even doing?
Actually—what do I even want with her?
The answer should be simple.
Maybe it is. But before I can untangle whatever this is, I settle for the only thing I do know for certain—I’m not losing my bonus because I tried to be a good neighbor.
“Did you have an inspection before moving in?” I ask, because maybe—hopefully—this is an Olivia problem, not a me problem.
She exhales, and for a second, something flickers in her expression.
Not annoyance. Not amusement.
Something else.
“Yes,” she finally says.
I wait.
She stares back at me.
I raise an eyebrow. “And?”
“And what?”
“Did it warn you that your floorboards were one bad decision away from collapsing underfoot?”
She tilts her head, considering.
“I believe the exact phrasing was ‘historical charm with original fixtures.’”
I snort.
“That’s just a pretentious way of saying, ‘Surprise, you’re living in a death trap.’”
“Well, congratulations,” she deadpans.
“You’re the first victim.”
Perfect.
Just what I needed—an injury waiting to happen, a bill waiting to be paid, and a woman who stubbornly refuses to acknowledge my charm.
Still, I don’t move.
And neither does she.
Her arms remain crossed, her mouth still set in that unimpressed line, but there’s something in the way she’s looking at me now.
It’s as though she’s waiting to see what I’ll do next.
Like maybe—maybe—she’s curious.
So, I roll my shoulders, shake off the embarrassment, and shoot her my most devastating grin.
“Tell you what,” I say, grabbing the nearest box.
“I’ll move the rest of your things, but only if you admit I’m at least a little charming.”
She steps aside and watches as I haul the first box toward the hallway.
“No deal.”
I huff out a laugh, more entertained than I should be.
“Guess we’ll see,” I mutter, already reaching for the next box.
And just like that, I realize that I’m having so much fun annoying the fuck out of her.