2. Esme

2

ESME

" H e still has no clue that you know who took the photo?" Hailey smirks as she twirls a teabag in her mug.

I only recall for a brief second how I discovered this tidbit from another photographer in the area. She's someone I'm acquainted with from a local meet-up group of photographers.

Hailey's been my friend forever. I've known her since we were teenagers. Her school year is winding down for her middle schoolers, and she'll only teach a few days a week for summer school. She can relax more, which means sitting on my couch with our feet under our knees and leaning into the sofa is a regular occurrence. Sometimes wine shows up too.

"Nah. I'm saving it for the perfect time to really piss Keats off. The fact that I encouraged her to leak the photo that probably sent the Spinners legal department into a frenzy is a card I plan on keeping in my back pocket." I glance down to my tea that I don't really want. I would much prefer a coffee from Foxy Rox. Cold-pressed coffee all the way.

Hailey narrows her eyes at me. "You two are playing some twisted game. "

Sighing, I reach to the side table to set my mug down. "It's not a game. It's a nightmare. I think the zip code auto-fills addresses on their end. You know how we added the dash plus numbers to our five-digit codes a few years back? It messed with all the automations. Sometimes I get Mrs. Tiller's boxes, too."

"Probably."

Tugging my hairband off, I let my hair loose. "I just wish I didn't have to cross his path so much. Such an arrogant guy. He's married to his work and seems to be wound tightly, grumpy too."

She hums a noise. "Well, at least he's easy on the eyes, your eyes in particular."

Something tightens in a place that I wish he had zero effect on. The truth hurts sometimes, but yes, okay, he's lean yet toned, and his crisp white shirts with two buttons loose at the top brings out his whiskey-brown eyes. I choose not to comment on the way his chocolatey-brown hair, short in the back but just long enough on top, would probably be nice to sink my fingers into.

Shaking the image out of my head, I raise my brows at my friend. "I guess he's alright, if that's your type."

Hailey stares at me blankly.

Divert. Divert. Divert.

" So ." I lean forward to slap her arm gently. "That party at the manor you have happening. Do tell."

Excitement floods her face. She volunteers at the historical museum outside Everhope, and she managed to steal a slot on the busy calendar to throw a birthday party for her brother. "Of course, we're going to theme with the times of the manor, so 1920s. Long table for dinner with high candles. But I think we are going to add a murder mystery to the mix. "

I roll my eyes because it's ridiculous, yet I love it. "Let me guess… we need costumes?"

She claps her hands together once. "Absolutely. I'm also going to send invites by mail, too. None of that e-mail or chat message crap. We're going all in."

A smile breaks out on my lips. "This is kind of cool. Although we know how I feel about haunted places." My eyes draw up to the ceiling.

She sputters a laugh. "Still think this place is possessed?"

"Uhm, not really. I just can't help shake that there might be a curse or something. Something doomed to happen." Ghosts are not my thing, but there is an uneasy feeling that sometimes breezes into the air here. My great aunt was lovely, and thanks to her, I get a home mortgage free. It's just strange because my old great-aunt never mentioned that this two-story house with a front porch and farm-styled kitchen would ever be mine. My home is by far better than my neighbor's wraparound porch, a house way too large for one, but I guess Keats needs room to put his ego somewhere.

It's just every now and then I feel a brisk breeze that chills down my spine. Something of the past or something foreshadowing the future. Not going to lie, I've been burning sage a lot.

"I promise it will be fun. I need to figure out which characters everyone will be." Hailey seems to be reflecting, as she's in her element of party planning, but then her face turns pained. "Right, so you know that Keats is a friend of my brother which means that Keats is also getting an invite."

Rolling my eyes, I choose to take the high road. "Sure. Kind of expected that."

Relief hits her. "Great. I really want this to be a great birthday for Liam. He's going to pop the question to Ava. I helped him pick the ring." I don't really know Ava, but from what Hailey tells me, she's okay.

"That's lovely. I should bring my camera, but I kind of want to enjoy the night."

She touches my knee. "Absolutely. Besides, it might be more authentic if we all have our cells secretly recording instead. More element of surprise, you know?"

"Totally. That reminds me, I need to go over a client's mood boards. I have this cute couple who just graduated from college and got engaged, and they want photos by the riverboat downtown. Then there is a new mom who wants to shoot boudoir pictures as a present for an anniversary."

Both Hailey and I are single, which is probably why there is a short pause as we consider what life would be like with someone.

But life is okay with a happy job and hobbies, right? You shouldn't rush for more in life.

Which reminds me. "Still haven't hooked up with Oliver yet?" He's her brother's best friend and also Keats's friend and colleague, but I won't hold that against Oliver. Besides, he lives down the street, and I can use friendly neighbors.

"No." She draws it out and in the most awkward of tones. "Don't be crazy. Liam would go through the roof."

My fingers tap a pillow. "I don't think you care."

She stands abruptly but still maintains her grin. "On that note, I need to head to my parents'. My mom is going overboard with lasagna for family night again."

"Yum." Swinging my legs off the couch, I follow her as she travels to the front door. "Enjoy."

Hailey opens her arms for a hug. "Take it easy this weekend." She tips her nose over my shoulder. "Don't forget your box that caused a front lawn battle earlier."

I nod my head as I open the door. "I won't. "

We say goodbye, and when I close the door, I rest back against it with a deep sigh. It's nice that she has family nearby. They invite me over all the time, but it's not the same. My parents move around due to my dad working in a high position for a manufacturer company, and our infrequent communication feels dull at times. More like, forced basic communication that we feel we are supposed to do, not particularly engrossing. When I got my great-aunt's house, I decided to keep my roots here. Not to mention, I studied at Hollows, not so far from here, so returning to Everhope felt timely.

It's just different without family.

Dragging my feet, I head to the kitchen, picking up the box on my table near the bottom of the stairs to take it along. Once I'm in the kitchen, I grab scissors to break the tape. I'm confident that half the time when deliveries arrive looking as though they've been through a tornado, Keats is actually the one responsible. It seems today he let it be. Nothing exciting awaits me when I find the contents. Only a new mouse for my computer for when I edit photos.

I push it all to the side and scan the kitchen, debating if now is the time to get to work or do something else. Opting for work, I spend two hours looking at mood boards. A dilemma always presents itself when it comes to the boudoir shoots. Lingerie sites are part of the process. Most of the time they order from Piper's boutique over in Lake Spark. Such beautiful things. I consider myself striking in looks, and I'm by no means shy, either. Wearing lingerie in front of a camera is quite liberating, except I'm on the other side of the lens.

Clicking away the sight of fluorescent yet classy green lace bras, I hate myself for turning toward the window and letting my eyes linger for a beat.

Growling to myself for that action, I return to the kitchen and stomp to the island and lean over to grab my blender from the low cupboard.

Baking a pie. Yes, that's what I will do to work out some frustration from today.

Setting music on my speakers and pulling out all of the ingredients, I double-check that I have canned cherries. Normally I use berries, but I don't have any fresh ones on hand, and I have zero desire to get in the car to drive to the store. Every knead of pie crust works out aggression, every stir of sugar and fruit nearly slides the bowl off the counter due to my blunt movements, and pouring cherries into the dish could be done more elegantly.

While the pie bakes, I clean the house a little and fold clothes. Boring mundane weekend tasks. It's 45 minutes later when I pull the pie out to cool. Cleaning up the house is always calming to me. I'm not a total neat freak, I just enjoy a weekly clean. I'll probably paint my nails later and watch a movie. I'm not a fan of drinking alone, though I would rather enjoy a bottle in good company.

Which most definitely is not with the neighbor who just started the engine to his car. What the fuck, Keats? Must I hear it from inside my home? Are you now pressing the accelerator while sitting in park to piss me off? Storming to the window in the living room, I'm too slow, and my cheeks puff out when I see his taillights as he drives away.

Why does it rile me up? Why does he rile me up?

Marching back to the kitchen, the empty box catches my eye, and I glance back to the living room window.

I'm so irritated right now.

My phone pings, and I walk to the other side of the counter where it's on a charger. There is a notification, and on the screen, I see the mood board app has given a suggestion of what to add .

F-you lingerie in a turquoise color.

Roaring a sound that represents an unexplainable frustration, I grab the pie cutter and yank the pie closer to me, and it only gives slight satisfaction that Keats will never get a piece.

So why the hell am I now stabbing the baked good with the utensil in my hand?

I'm in this temperament because of my neighbor. I don't act crazy when I'm normal, I swear. I'm sweet, really. I even have the tiniest bit of guilt somewhere inside me that my neighbor will never be on the receiving end of my pie.

No. Oh no. Why did that sympathetic thought come to me?

It's simple.

Keats is truly the worst person on the earth.