The Neighbours: A gripping, addictive novel with a twist that will leave you breathless. Hannah McKinnon Mary
Liam tensed at Nate’s romantic gesture or had I imagined it?
Nate frowned. “You okay? You were gone for ages.” He went to the kitchen and put the bags down on the table.
“Uh, it was busy.” I tore my gaze from Liam’s and focused on my husband. “And, uh, then a rabbit or something ran in front of the car.”
“Shit, did you hit it? You okay?” Nate put an arm around me, and I wanted to shake it off.
“No, and I’m fine,” I said instead. “Spooked me a bit, that’s all.”
Liam cleared his throat. “I’d better go.”
A few seconds ago I wished he wasn’t in my house. Now I almost told him to please sit back down and have another drink, but I managed to keep my mouth closed.
“Thanks for the beer and the games,” he said to Nate. “Appreciate it, even if I was a crap opponent.”
Liam, a crap opponent? He could have gone professional when we were going out. The local pool club had hailed him a prodigy, and ran under-the-table bets whenever he showed up. Why was he lying about that?
“No sweat,” I heard Nate say as they moved into the hallway. “And I’ll stop by on Friday.”
Friday?
“Sorry?” Liam turned, and I saw his blank expression that probably matched my own.
“Yeah.” Nate laughed. “You know, the heating?”
Liam smacked his forehead with his palm. “Brain overload. Yeah. Friday. Thanks.” He looked at me. “Bye, Abby. Nice to see you again.” He lingered for a moment, and I half expected him to say something else, but then he walked out, so I fled to the kitchen.
I’d barely started functioning again when I heard Nate’s footsteps coming toward me. I tried to make myself look busy and normal by grabbing plates, cutlery and glasses.
“Mmm... This smells delicious.” Nate ripped open the paper bags. Why did he have to tear into them like an animal? He could have easily lifted the containers out, then folded the bags and put them in the recycling bin.
I suppressed what would have been a churlish sigh and smiled instead. “Samosas, lamb korma and chicken vindaloo,” I said, plopping paper napkins on the table.
“Korma and vindaloo?” Nate raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t think you liked either.”
Another smile. “They’re your favorites. I wanted to do something nice for you.”
His grin was so genuine and full of love, I could feel a lump rising at the back of my throat. I turned and grabbed the jug of lemon water from the fridge, then sat down when I was sure my eyes weren’t glistening anymore.
Once we’d filled our plates, as casually as I could I said, “What’s this about Friday?”
Nate waved his fork around, then swallowed. “Problem with the heating. I told Liam I’d have a look.”
“I thought Barbara only had it installed last year? It’ll be under warranty, won’t it?”
Nate shrugged, dipped a samosa into the little plastic container of green sauce. “Maybe they don’t know. I’ll remind him. It’s probably nothing anyway. He sounded a bit vague.”
The knife in my hand felt like it weighed a ton, so I put it down. “What were you talking about when I came in?” I tried not to snap, telling myself for the twentieth time that day Nate was not at fault, he’d done nothing wrong. He never did anything bloody wrong.
“My family.”
I sat a little straighter, reminding myself to breathe. “What did you say?”
“Not much. Told him a bit about Nana and Granddad, that’s all.”
It dawned on me that Liam must have been trying to size up the competition. Then I almost laughed out loud at how obsessive that sounded, as if I were the center of everybody’s universe. Still... “You told him about your grandparents? Why?”
When Nate shrugged it made me want to slap him. If his attitude was any more laissez-faire, he’d be permanently horizontal. “It was a conversation, Abby. We had a couple of beers, played some pool. We got to talking. Why are you so bothered?”
“I don’t like him.”
“Liam?” He raised his eyebrows. “You’ve only known him five minutes.”
I swallowed hard. “He’s smug. I get this bad vibe from him.”
How long could I keep this pretense up? Was I such a good actress that Nate couldn’t see straight through my lies? Then again, it wasn’t the first time I’d kept things from my husband. Secrets he’d never know about, could never know about. Secrets that would destroy him.
“Ah, crap.” Nate mopped the sauce running down his chin with a napkin. “Well, you’re going to have to give him another chance.”
“Why?” My heart thumped wildly again as I wiped my clammy palms on my trousers.
“He said something about Nancy planning on cooking for us and—”
“I don’t want—”
He held up a hand. “Nothing’s planned yet. And it’s just dinner. It’s not like they asked us to move in. They seem nice to me. Give them a chance. Let the kids hang out, too.”
“No.” My voice came out louder than I’d intended. “No,” I said, more quietly this time. “Sarah told me she hates Zac.”
Nate laughed. “Sure she does.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? Did she say something to you?”
“No, but he’s a good-looking kid, and—” Nate must have caught my startled look because he leaned over the table and put his hand on my arm. “Seriously, are you okay?”
I tried a smile, feeling like one of those clown dolls with a permanently painted-on grimace. All I needed was the ruffled shirt and polka dots to go with it, maybe a monkey with a pair of cymbals. “Yes, fine. Headache.”
“Again?” Nate frowned.
I cleared my throat. “I think I had some trail mix with hazelnuts at work. You know how bad it can get when I eat those.”
“I’ll run you the bath after dinner.”
“You don’t need to, Na—”
“’Course I do.”
His kind smile made me want to scream at him, shout that I didn’t want him to run me the fucking bath and could he please, for once, not be so fucking nice and stop trying to fucking fix me all the time. Instead I said, “That would be lovely. Thanks, Nate.”
As I desperately tried to stop my mind from rushing back to the past and everything it represented, I wished my husband could prepare a container of sulfuric acid for me to slip into instead.
SIMPLY RED’S STARS played softly in the background of the Kettle Club Tea & Coffee Shop, lending the place a slightly cooler atmosphere than it actually deserved. Tom sat at the old wooden bar, a mug of steaming hot chocolate in front of him, complete with marshmallows, whipped cream and chocolate drizzle. I watched him sink his spoon into the fluffy top layer, take a big scoop and put it in his mouth.
“Mmmm.” His eyes closed for a second. “Despite your dubious music choices, you make the best bloody hot chocolate in the world, Shabby. No wonder Stu asked you to run the place.”
“Thanks,” I said, thinking that at almost twenty-two, perfect beverage-making was about the only thing I could put on my anorexic-looking