The Neighbors by Ania Ahlborn Read Free Book Online Page B

with a smile, a hand pressed against the center of his back to keep him moving as he gazed at pastel-colored walls and antique photo frames. The inside of the Wards’ house matched its faultless exterior. He marveled at the fact that he had been right, it
did
smell like home cooking, and the delicate scent of cut grass drifted through the open windows. Sheer white curtains shivered in the breeze, drawing drifting shadows across a meticulously vacuumed carpet, as white and perfect as an undisturbed blanket of snow. The place was a museum, and while Andrew was overwhelmed, he also found himself enchanted by its freshness.
    Placing the plate on the kitchen counter, Harlow turned to face Andrew with a warm smile. “Since I have you here, perhaps you could help me with something?” she asked.
    Drew looked away from a rack of spices, each bottle carefully hand-labeled, and gave her a nod.
    “I need a bookshelf moved,” she told him. “Follow me.”
    Directing him to what looked like a home office, the gentle pressure of her hand was at the small of his back. It was the kind of room that looked like it came out of a magazine: deep mahogany-toned furniture, a green glass banker’s lamp sitting next to a leather desk blotter. “There’s the culprit,” she said, motioning to a large bookshelf, a thing that looked to weigh a good two orthree hundred pounds empty. “I’d move it myself, but the last time I tried to move furniture on my own I just about killed myself.
    “Do you think you can manage it?” she asked. “I hope we don’t have to take everything off it. That would just cause a mess-load of work, don’t you think?”
    Drew blinked at her impossible suggestion. The shelves were heavy with entire collections—Stephen King, Dean Koontz, a thick volume of Poe’s complete works. And yet he found himself considering it, contemplating how he could make this hopeless task happen.
    “You like horror?” he asked, casting a sidelong glance at the gorgeous woman beside him. Her classic look implied literary tastes running to the likes of Mark Twain, Emerson, and Thoreau; it was thrilling to think that she cozied up with the likes of
The Shining
, fantastic to imagine her curling up on the couch to indulge in old horror movies Andrew held dear:
Dracula
,
The Haunting
,
Night of the Living Dead
.
    “It’s more my husband than me,” she said. “He’s a bookworm. I would have asked that fellow you live with...what’s his name?”
    “Mickey.”
    “But since he wasn’t home...” She paused, taking a moment to consider her words. “Honestly, I’m a bit relieved. I wasn’t too keen on inviting him over without anyone home.”
    Andrew gave her a questioning look.
    “Oh, you know how it is,” she continued, offering the conversation a dismissive wave of the hand. “Word gets around, small town like this. You don’t know?”
    “Know what?”
    Harlow cleared her throat, a manicured hand gingerly touching the back of her neck. “I really shouldn’t have said anything,” she said. “Anyway.” Her smile returned. “Shall we?”
    She stood beside Drew, scoping out the bookcase ahead of them while that tiny seed of suspicion about Mickey dug itself deep into the soft tissue of his brain.
    “Mrs. Ward...”
    “Harlow,” she said. “Please.”
    Drew shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He considered mentioning the uncertainty he’d been feeling around Mickey. It seemed like, from what Harlow had just mentioned, he was right in having reservations. But he didn’t want to seem petty; he didn’t want her to think of him as a gossip, as someone who, like Mickey, should be kept at arm’s length. Instead, he decided to focus on the task at hand.
    “Harlow,” he said, feeling both odd and exhilarated at being allowed to use her first name. “I really want to help.” He met her gaze, his heart fluttering when their eyes locked. Had she been a brunette rather than a blonde, she would have looked like