Home for the Holidays. Sarah Mayberry

the frame to one side. He’d find a place for it later. He reached for more books, then tensed as the motorbike started up again. He gritted his teeth, waiting for the bike to roar off into the night. It didn’t. Instead, the engine revved again and again, the sound so loud he guessed the guy must be parked inside his garage, the roller door open, the sound amplified by the space.

      Over and over the bike revved and Joe grew more and more tense. His kids were asleep, but they wouldn’t stay that way for long if this kept up. Surely the moron next door must have some idea that this was a residential neighborhood, a quiet middle-class suburb full of quiet, middle-class people who liked a little peace at the end of the day? Surely—

      “For Pete’s sake!”

      He slammed the box shut. He was barefoot, but he didn’t bother putting shoes on, simply threw open the front door and headed next door. As he’d guessed, the garage was open, light spilling out into the night. A motorbike stood propped on its stand toward the rear of the garage. A man squatted beside it, his back to Joe as he worked on something near the exhaust pipe.

      Joe stopped on the threshold as he registered the guy’s leather pants and long hair and the Harley-Davidson jacket thrown over the rusty frame of a second bike. It was every bit as bad as he’d suspected—he’d moved in next to a longhaired redneck. No doubt Joe had noisy, boozy parties, visits from the cops and loud domestic arguments to look forward to in the future.

      Fantastic. Just what he goddamn needed.

      “Hey, buddy, you want to keep it down?” he yelled over the roar of the bike.

      The guy didn’t even lift his head from whatever he was doing. Joe took a step closer.

      “Mate!” he yelled. “You want to shut that thing off?”

      Still nothing. Joe’s temper began to burn. He didn’t consider himself a short-fuse kind of guy, but he was tired and unpacking all the old stuff was tough and he needed this added aggravation like a hole in the head.

      He strode forward and reached over the guy’s shoulder for the ignition key. One twist and the bike fell silent. The guy jerked in surprise, then shot to his feet and spun around.

      Joe took an involuntary step backward as he realized that he’d miscalculated somehow. The leather jacket, the pants, the bike. He’d just assumed …

      But he’d been wrong. Because his new neighbor was a she, not a he.

      Her chin came up as she stared at him.

      “Who the hell are you?”

      She was tall—almost his height—with brown eyes and long, wavy brown hair.

      He frowned. “I’m sorry. I thought … I called out but you couldn’t hear me over the engine. I came to ask you to keep the noise down. My kids are asleep.”

      She blinked at him, then he saw comprehension dawn in her face.

      “You’re the guy who bought the Steveway place,” she said.

      “Yeah.”

      She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. His gaze dropped to her breasts, then her waist. She had a good figure. Long legs, full breasts.

      He looked away. He didn’t care what kind of figure she had.

      “I didn’t realize you’d moved in,” she said. “The Steve-ways were happy for me to work on my bike anytime.”

      “Then they must have been deaf.”

      He knew he sounded like a cantankerous old man but he couldn’t seem to help himself. Her being a woman had thrown him off balance, one too many curveballs on what had already been a trying day.

      “It isn’t usually this noisy,” she said. “There’s a problem with the muffler.”

      “Maybe you should leave it to the experts to fix, then.”

      Her eyes narrowed. “Thanks for the advice. I know just what to do with it.”

      He’d pissed her off. Seemed only fair, since she’d roused him out of his home with her racket.

      “So you’ll pack it in for the night?”

      “Like I said, I didn’t know you’d moved in.”

      She put her hands on her hips and her T-shirt stretched over her breasts. Again he pulled his gaze away.

      “Thanks, I appreciate the consideration,” he said flatly.

      He turned away.

      “Welcome to the neighborhood,” she called after him as he walked down the drive. She sounded about as sincere as he had when he’d thanked her.

      He stopped in his tracks when he reached the privacy of his own driveway, a frown on his face, aware that he’d overreacted and not sure why. He stood there for a long moment, breathing in the cool night air. Then he shook off his unease and returned to his sleeping children.

       WHAT A JERK.

      Hannah Napier pushed her hair off her forehead then grimaced when she remembered her hands were greasy. She wiped her hands on a rag then hit the button to close the roller door. She’d wanted to get to the bottom of the noisy muffler tonight, but it could wait until tomorrow. The last thing she needed was Mr. High and Mighty on the doorstep again with his attitude and impatience.

      She’d met some chauvinistic assholes in her time, but her new neighbor was going to take some beating. The way he’d spoken to her like she was one of his kids. The way he’d dismissed her with a quick once-over of his very blue eyes.

      He’d almost given her a heart attack, sneaking up on her the way he had. She’d turned around and seen six foot plus of solid man standing over her and almost wet her pants. And not in a good way.

      Not that he was unattractive. He had short, dark hair, and his face was deeply tanned. His shoulders were broad, his belly flat. Not bad, if your taste ran to bad-tempered, bossy men. She put him at mid- to late thirties, then she remembered the deep lines that bracketed his mouth and the hardness in his blue eyes and upped her estimate to early forties. He’d been around the block a time a two, her new neighbor. Probably managed to piss off everyone he met along the way, too.

      So much for her mother’s hopes that the new owner of number twenty-four would be nice. Hannah grabbed her jacket and flicked off the lights as she used the connecting door to enter the house. Her work boots sounded loud on the tiled kitchen floor as she crossed to the fridge.

      “Is that you, love?” her mother, Robyn, called from the living room.

      “Yeah, Mom.”

      “Your dinner’s in the fridge. And there’s dessert, too, if you want it.”

      Hannah sighed. No matter how many times she told her mom not to cook for her, inevitably she came home to find a meal in the fridge, neatly covered with cling wrap. When she’d moved in with her mother six months ago, she’d done so on the basis that she wouldn’t be a burden. She should have known that her mother would fight tooth and nail to defend her right to wash Hannah’s dirty laundry and cook her meals. It was what her mother had always done, and it had been foolish to even think that things would be different because Hannah was twenty-eight now and had been living independently for nearly six years.

      “Did you notice the lights on next door? The new neighbors have moved in.”

      “Yeah, I noticed.” Hard not to when her new neighbor had just read her the riot act.

      Hannah took the plate of chicken and salad to the living room and sat next to her mom.

      “This looks great, Mom. Thanks.”

      Her mother dismissed her gratitude with the wave of a hand and leaned forward, her brown eyes dancing.

      “So, don’t you want to know?”

      “Know what?”

      “What