Frenemies Read online

  Table of Contents

  TITLE

  COPYRIGHT

  DEDICATION

  CHAPTER ONE – IMMY

  CHAPTER TWO – IMMY

  CHAPTER FOUR – IMMY

  CHAPTER FIVE – IMMY

  CHAPTER SIX – MASON

  CHAPTER SEVEN – IMMY

  CHAPTER EIGHT – IMMY

  CHAPTER NINE – IMMY

  CHAPTER TEN – MASON

  CHAPTER ELEVEN – IMMY

  CHAPTER TWELVE – IMMY

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN – MASON

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN – MASON

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN – IMMY

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN – IMMY

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN – MASON

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN – IMMY

  EPILOGUE – IMMY

  Thank you so much for reading FRENEMIES!

  NUMBER NEIGHBORS:

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  BOOKS BY EMMA HART

  FRENEMIES

  Copyright © Emma Hart, 2020

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Cover Design by Emma Hart

  DEDICATION

  For two of the greatest grandmothers ever, Evelyn Findlay and Kathleen Hart. This world is a better place for you having existed in it.

  CHAPTER ONE – IMMY

  Blast From The Past

  “That is one hot piece of ass.”

  I eyed my grandmother across the room. She was standing in front of the window, her head shoved between the two curtains. Since her dress was the same navy blue as the curtains, it gave the illusion that the curtains had grown a body.

  Or that she’d grown a pair of curtains.

  Either one would fit her.

  “Grandma,” I said. “Stop perving on Mr. Hawkins.”

  She’d had an inappropriate crush on the gentleman who lived opposite us for two years, and I’d caught her peeking at him more than one time.

  Hell, he’d caught her. Usually, when he was mowing the lawn in his shorts, but that was a nightmare for another day.

  “It’s not Mr. Hawkins. It’s the sexy as hell man in front of the moving truck next door.”

  I frowned. The ‘SOLD’ sign had been banged into next door’s front yard for two months now, and we’d just talked yesterday about how we thought nobody was ever going to move in.

  “Someone is finally moving in?” I got up from the dining table, careful not to knock my coffee onto the canvas I was painting, and joined her from her neighborhood watch spot.

  That’s how she referred to it, anyway. She fancied herself as the great keeper of the neighborhood, ready to call the police like an elderly vigilante Superwoman-esque kind of person.

  I called it her nosy parker spot.

  “Oh, now you want to look with me.” She sniffed when I joined her. “Look? See? That’s his daughter.”

  I peered out at the little girl—she had to be four at most—who was dancing on the front lawn in a pink, glittery princess-like dress. It was the exact style of dress I spent my early years living in, and I smiled as her crazy, blonde curls flew around her head as she twirled around.

  “Cute,” I said. “Why are you perving on her dad?”

  “Because I’ve been watching them for twenty minutes, and I don’t see her mother, so I assume Mr. Muscles is single.”

  “Maybe she’s at work?”

  “And he’s moving house by himself? No, darling.” She scratched her nose. “You’re showing your single. If you were married, you’d know this important thing: if he was married, his wife would be there to stop him from messing it all up.”

  Showing my single. Right. That’s what she was calling it this week.

  “Where is he, then?” I narrowed my eyes, shifting to get a better look.

  “There! Coming out of the house in those heaven-sent pants!”

  If this man wasn’t at least forty, I was hiding her contact lenses. Given that the woman was eighty, even forty was pushing it as acceptable.

  All right, so that made her a raging cougar, but it was the age we’d agreed on. it brought us both necessary peace.

  I caught a glance at the guy and froze. He looked way too familiar to me. As in, I knew that profile as well as I knew my own, and my stomach was already hurting from how tight it was over the sight of him.

  If he was who I thought he was, I was going to regrow my hymen and join a nunnery.

  He disappeared into the moving truck. I stared a hole in the side of it until he came back out, this time carrying a huge box.

  My heart jumped into my throat so hard it shot out of my mouth and boomeranged right back in there.

  No.

  This was not happening.

  “Oh, hell,” I breathed, staring at him as he set the box down and crouched in front of the little girl.

  “Do you know him?” Grandma asked, turning her blue eyes my way.

  “Yeah.”

  Yeah, I know him.

  I knew that face.

  I’d know that face anywhere.

  In fact, I’d know any part of his body anywhere, given that I’d spent two years of my college life under it, over it, and in front of it.

  Mason Black was, apparently, the equivalent of a fine wine. It’d been six years since I’d seen him last at his college graduation, and he’d only gotten hotter since then. From what I could see, anyway.

  He was still tall, still impossibly handsome, still built like a romance novel hero with muscles in all the right places. Even his hair, his thick, dark hair, was cut in the same style—short on the sides, longer on top, and swept to one side like he was a freaking rockstar.

  But the short beard, not quite a full one but not quite stubble? That was new.

  The problem was that none of that covered the main issue: unless we were in bed together, we didn’t get along.

  I know. It’d been fucked up then, and it sounded even weirder to my adult ears. But we’d just never been friends, not the way you’d think two people who hooked up as often as we had should have been.

  That was probably the only reason why him graduating and never calling me hadn’t hurt as much as it should have.

  “How do you know him? Why haven’t I met him? When did you meet him?” Grandma demanded, pulling back from the curtain.

  “We knew each other in college,” I said vaguely. “I haven’t seen him in years.”

  “Is he the guy you were banging for two years?”

  “Grandma!” I choked on my own spit and darted away from the window. “I did nothing of the sort!”

  She put her hands on her round hips and glared at me. “You most certainly did. I read your journal, and it said so.”

  “You read my journal? What the hell?”

  “You left it open. I thought it was one of your romance novels. The writing wasn’t up to much, though. You’re no Jane Austen.”

  My cheeks flamed bright red. “Okay, we’re done here.”

  “Why? Are you going to ask him if you can pick up where you left off?”

  “No! I’m going to ask him what the hell he’s doing here.”

  “Okay, but I’m opening the window to listen.” She paused. “And don’t forget about the little girl. No cussing.”

  I frowned. “I work with kids. I know not to cuss.”

  “Hmm.”

  I glared at her back for a moment before I opened the front door and stepped out onto the porch. The spring air was pleasant, and the flowerpots that were now bustling with
greenery showed signs of colorful life in the buds that were growing.

  I, however, didn’t care for any of them.

  I only cared about the man who’d just done a double-take and was now turning around.

  Mason’s eyes widened as they landed on me. He gave me a long, hard look, dragging his gaze from the messy blonde bun on top of my head to the pink polish on my bare toes.

  It was a look I felt everywhere—the kind of look where you just knew not an inch of your body had gone unnoticed.

  Mason took a step forward before he stopped himself. “Imogen?”

  “What the hell are you doing here?” were the first words that came out of my mouth. “Please tell me you work for the removal company.”

  He opened his mouth and closed it again, right before his lips tugged up into a smile that made the corners of his eyes crinkle. “It’s good to see you, too.”

  “I’d tell you the feeling is mutual, but it isn’t.”

  He smirked. “Some things don’t change. And no, I don’t work for the removal company. I bought this house.” His gaze flicked toward the house behind me. “I didn’t know you lived here.”

  “Why would you? It’s not like you ever called me.”

  “Are you so lost for words that you’re pretending to be mad over something that happened six years ago?”

  Wow, okay, Dr. Phil. No need to psycho-analyze every single word.

  Also, yes.

  I folded my arms across my chest in defiance. “No, but considering we slept together for two years and I didn’t like you then, I see no reason to like you now.”

  His laugh burst out of him, sending annoying goosebumps prickling across my skin. “It’s nice to be welcomed to the neighborhood by such a warm and friendly welcoming committee. If I knew you were coming, I’d have brought cake.”

  “I see you’re just as cocky as you always were.”

  “You look as beautiful as ever, by the way.”

  I pursed my lips. He was a big, fat freakin’ liar. I hadn’t washed my hair in four days, and I knew there were at least three colors of paint on my face, not to mention the paint—fresh and old—that coated my old sweater with a hole in the armpit.

  “Daddy.” The little girl came running over with a doll dragging on the ground after her. “Daddy, I hungy.”

  “Okay, okay. There are snacks in the truck. Do you want to say hi to my friend first?”

  The little girl looked up at me with big, blue eyes that were so sweet they could probably compel an entire army to do her bidding. And that was before you considered her darling dimples and little bow lips.

  Never mind the doll she was dragging. I was pretty sure she, herself, was a doll.

  She stared at me for a long moment, then turned back to Mason. “No. I hungy.”

  I bit the inside of my cheek to stop laughing. Considering I ran grandma’s art store and held a ceramic painting class for kids between the ages of five and ten every Saturday morning, I was totally used to their ability to get straight to the point without giving a damn what adults thought.

  Mason looked at me with a wry smile. “Sorry. We’re working on her manners.”

  “She’s hungry. I get it. I’d pick snacks over people, too.” I shrugged. “I have to get back inside anyway. I just wanted to make sure my eyes weren’t deceiving me.”

  “Not today, Picasso.” He winked and turned away before I could say another word.

  Goddamn it.

  I’d hated it when he’d called me Picasso. One of the first times we met, I’d been sketching a squirrel, but I’d had trouble with its eyes. I’d already worked on it for three days, and when I’d showed him, he’d insisted they were level.

  Long story short, I painted them, and they were not level.

  From that moment on, he’d called me Picasso whenever he wanted to piss me off.

  Given how I’d come out guns blazing, I probably deserved this one.

  But hey—he never called when he said he would. As a woman, I reserved the right to be pissed off about that for the next twenty years and bring it up at every opportunity.

  I watched him for a moment longer as he guided his daughter toward the truck, leaning down so she could hear him as he talked, then turned and went back inside.

  Grandma was waiting for me. “Well? Is he the one you’re going to marry?”

  “You really need another hobby.” I pushed the door shut and walked into the kitchen to grab a drink. “I’ll date and get married when I’m good and ready.”

  “My time is running out, Immy.”

  “The only thing running out here is my patience.”

  “I went on the Thunder app, by the way.”

  “The what now?”

  “The Thunder app. The one from the commercials. Where you… Gosh, what was it?” She tapped a blue fingernail against her lips. “That’s it. Where you swipe left and right.”

  Oh, please, no. “You mean Tinder. You went on the Tinder app.”

  “Yep. There are some nice gentlemen on there.”

  “Okay, listen to me when I tell you this: there is no such thing as a nice gentleman on a dating app.” I held the water bottle tightly. “Please do not go back on that godforsaken thing.”

  She pouted. “But it was fun. There was a nice man who sent a picture of his—”

  “I know what they send photos of, Grandma.”

  “—Pomeranian.”

  “Is that what your generation is calling a penis these days?” I asked witheringly. “Grandma, seriously. I have to get this painting done because Ashley Gunderson is coming to collect it in two days, and the stock crisis at the store yesterday in the middle of the art class kind of put me behind a little.”

  Grandma jerked her chin up. “I was at yoga.”

  “You were at the yoga studio with Priscilla and you were perving on the men’s class. That’s not the same as being in the middle of a yoga class.”

  “It keeps me young, Immy. You’re only as young as the man you feel, you know.”

  “Are you feeling any of those men?”

  “Not technically speaking, but my loins definitely feel something.”

  I blinked at her. “Have you taken your meds today? Do you need a nap?”

  “Yes, I’ve taken my meds. And no, I don’t need a nap, thank you very much. I’m not a toddler.” She opened the cupboard nearest to her and let out a long, “Ooooh!”

  I waited for her to turn around.

  “Twizzlers!” she squealed.

  Not a child, my ass.

  “I think you’ve had enough sugar.” I plucked the packet from her hand. “Didn’t you eat a donut for breakfast?”

  “Immy, when you’re eighty-years-old and you need to take twelve pills with your breakfast, you’ll take them with a donut, too.” She took the Twizzlers right back. “Now, I’m going for a nap. I just remembered that my bedroom window overlooks the front yard.”

  Where Mason and a whole hoard of guys were moving his belongings into the house next door.

  She was incorrigible.

  Shaking my head, I left her to her so-called nap—where I’d probably find her actually napping on her window seat in thirty minutes—and went back to the dining table where my canvas was set up.

  I didn’t often do commissioned pieces of art. Running the art store Grandma had opened fifty years ago and taking over the kids’ ceramic class pretty much swallowed up all my time, but I couldn’t turn this one down.

  Mrs. Gunderson, the grandma of one of my ceramic-painting enthusiasts, had to have her dog put down three months ago after he was hit by a car. Her birthday was coming up, and so her daughter-in-law had commissioned this piece of her beloved poodle, Jammy.

  I’d even put a tiny jar of jam hidden in one of the bushes in the background.

  I was nearly done, meaning that my work for the next several hours would all be painstaking details that required the steadiest of steady hands.

  None of those things would be helped by my
pervert of a grandmother standing at the front window, remarking on everyone’s ‘packages.’

  I slid into my seat and stared at the canvas in front of me. My gaze quickly darted to the window. It was weird to think that on the other side of that wall was the guy I used to…

  Well, I wanted to say date, but that wasn’t true.

  It was a booty call, pure and simple. That’s all we ever were to each other, mostly because we couldn’t hold a conversation without bitching at each other otherwise. As much as I joked about him not calling me, I could have hunted him down on social media or something.

  I sighed. I was glad I didn’t. He’d clearly been in a serious relationship since then. Maybe even married, and I didn’t care what Grandma said. We didn’t know for sure if he was single or dating someone.

  I mean, he had a daughter.

  I cared way too much about this.

  I shook my head to dislodge those thoughts and get back into the painting zone.

  No, I didn’t care.

  I didn’t care about Mason Black, the phone call that never happened, or the fact that he was my new neighbor.

  And if it meant erecting a new, ten-foot-tall fence so I never had to see his stupid face again, then so be it.

  CHAPTER TWO – IMMY

  Old Biddies Book Club

  “Here you go, Mr. Buckland.” I set the thick paper bag on the counter. “That’ll be forty-two-ninety-three, please.”

  “Thank you, Immy.” He unfolded his battered old leather wallet and pulled out two twenties, then counted out three dollars in change. “You’ll put a smile on Emily’s face.”

  I smiled at the mention of his wife, who was currently bed-bound after breaking her ankle. “I’m glad I could find her the paint she was looking for.”

  He winked as he took his change. “So am I. I’ll see you next week, I’m sure.”

  “I look forward to it.” I beamed at him as he took the bag and left, throwing a wave over his shoulder. I returned the wave even though he couldn’t see it and busied myself again with the order book.

  I had no idea how we’d ended up with so many crafty people in this town. Art by Numbers, the family store, had expanded over the years. Back when my grandparents had opened it, it’d only held your basic paints and brushes. Now, we owned two stores side-by-side and stocked everything.