Page 5 of Enemy Daddy Next Door

“I write kids’ books, dad,” I say. “That’s hardly enough to qualify me as a ‘famous author.’”

Dad narrows his eyes. “Don’t sell yourself short, Amy. You’re a famous author. Say it.”

“I’m a…” The words make me want to gag. “…famous author.” I break out into a full body shiver. “Ugh, that’s so weird.”

He grins and heads back inside, calling out over his shoulder, “Repeat that to yourself until you start believing it!”

I lean back in the lounge and stare out at the blue pool water. Yeah, I don’t think I’m ever going to believe that one. Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful for my success. And I love what I do. I just always feel like a little bit of a fraud. That impostor syndrome always creeps in and says, “Not you. You’re not worthy.”

Relax, Amy. Time to let it all go and actually relax.

I finally settle in and let the California sun sink into my skin as I read. This is the life. At least it would be if I wasn’t such an overthinker. California is not meant for overthinkers. Everyone is so easygoing and freewheeling. Meanwhile, here I am, my brain going a mile a minute and –

My “relaxation” is interrupted by a knock at the gate at the right of the yard. Our property abuts two others on either side. To the left is the Hitchins’ and to the right is the Ricks’ (if you can even call it that since they’ve only lived there for like a little over a year). Our fence has gates that lead into either yard. It’s an old fence, so I’ve always chalked it up to people having more of a sense of community back in the day. You could just open your gate and waltz over into the yard to visit a neighbor.

Now, though, we rarely use them.

So, the pummeling knock at the gate makes me jump out of my skin until I remember who lives next door. Hunter Fucking Ricks.

“Is anyone out there?” a female voice squeaks, trying to temper its volume.

My blood runs cold. You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. I get to my feet and pad around the pool deck toward the gate. To the surprise of no one, when I open it, there’s a woman standing on the other side. A California-model type. She wears an urgent expression on her face but that doesn’t make up for the fact she is barely wearing anything on her body. She’s got her bra on and a skirt, but her top (however skimpy it might be) and her shoes are dangling in her hand.

“Can I help you?” I ask.

“Thank goodness you answered,” she says, smiling and tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “Hunter told me I could come through this way, and I already called my Uber, so I didn’t want to –”

“Well, for future reference, you can’t,” I say coldly. My yard is not an escape route for Hunter’s lady du jour.

The model type’s eyes widen. “Um. Alright.” She sneaks her foot through the gate and slides past me. “Won’t happen again. But thank you.” Then, she breaks into a run down the side of my house and out through the gate to catch her car.

I tighten my hands at my sides and stare at the open gate. This isn’t the first time this has happened. But it will be the last if I have anything to do with it. Maybe my anger is a bit out of control. After all, it’s just a gate.

It’s more than just a gate, though. It’s an invasion of my family’s privacy, a disgusting display of what kind of man Hunter Ricks is, and just another reason why I hate the man.

I storm through the gate into the Ricks’ family yard. Today is the last straw.

2

HUNTER

I lean against the kitchen counter and watch the coffee start to drip into the Chemex. I need a pick me up after the session I just had with Therese. Or was it Terry? Doesn’t matter. I probably won’t see her again.

I run my hands through my hair, still wet from the shower, and adjust my towel around my waist, just in case Jessica wakes up and comes downstairs from her nap.

Look, just because I’m having little trysts at home while my daughter sleeps doesn’t make me a bad guy. We all have needs. And I’m a busy man. All the free time I have, I dedicate to Jess. So, I have to squeeze in things for myself where I can.

It’s called self-care.

Before my coffee finishes, much to my chagrin, the front door opens. “Fuck,” I say to myself. It better not be…Tabitha? I really got to get better with names. I told her explicitly to sneak out the back and go through the gate into the Solaces’ yard to avoid being seen in case Jessica woke up or was awake and looked out her window. If she left something behind, she should know better than to just storm in here and…

“Hunter!”

That’s not Trisha’s(?) voice. That’s the voice of a seriously pissed off Amy Solace. What the hell is she doing storming into my house without an invitation?

“In here,” I call out. I might be confused about what she thinks she’s doing, but I have to admit, I’m curious.

“I need to talk to you.” I can feel her anger without even seeing her face. Which is funny because when she walks into the kitchen and lays eyes on me, her entire face goes red and her jaw drops. “Oh my god! What are you doing?!”