Hard to Handle (Neighbors Book 2) Read online

  Copyright © 2022 by Hannah Blowers

  www.hannahblowers.com

  Hard to Handle

  Neighbors Series #2

  All rights reserved.

  No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

  This book contains mature themes not appropriate for readers under the age of eighteen. For trigger warnings and more content information about the content of this book, please visit https://hannahblowers.com/my-books.

  CONTENTS

  NEIGHBORS SERIES READING ORDER

  DEDICATION

  1. CHAPTER ONE

  2. CHAPTER TWO

  3. CHAPTER THREE

  4. CHAPTER FOUR

  5. CHAPTER FIVE

  6. CHAPTER SIX

  7. CHAPTER SEVEN

  8. CHAPTER EIGHT

  9. CHAPTER NINE

  10. CHAPTER TEN

  11. CHAPTER ELEVEN

  12. CHAPTER TWELVE

  13. CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  14. CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  15. CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  16. CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  17. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  18. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  19. CHAPTER NINETEEN

  20. CHAPTER TWENTY

  21. CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  22. CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  23. CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  24. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  25. CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  26. CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  27. CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  28. CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  29. CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  30. CHAPTER THIRTY

  31. CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  32. CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  33. CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  34. CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  35. CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  36. CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  37. CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  38. CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  39. CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  40. CHAPTER FORTY

  41. CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  42. CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  43. CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  44. CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  45. CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  46. CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  47. CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  48. CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  49. CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  50. CHAPTER FIFTY

  51. CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  52. CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  53. CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  54. CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  55. EPILOGUE

  56. BONUS EPILOGUE

  COMING SOON

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  TITLES BY HANNAH BLOWERS

  SUBSCRIBE

  NEIGHBORS SERIES READING ORDER

  This book is part of the Neighbors Series. To avoid spoilers, it is recommended to start with Easy to Hate before reading Hard to Handle.

  Easy to Hate

  Brady & Audrey

  A grumpy/sunshine romance with letter exchanging and an enemies to lovers vibe

  Hard to Handle

  Owen & Harper

  A friends to lovers, secret romance

  For Kate

  CHAPTER ONE

  Owen

  “What can I get you, honey?”

  Despite the cheerful chime in the bartender’s tone and the playful grin on her face, it feels like she just drove a knife straight through my heart.

  Honey.

  It’s funny how such a pure, simple word—a word that once warmed my soul like a hot beverage on a cold day—now sends a chill down my spine and makes me flinch.

  I haven’t been called honey since Monday. Then again, I was in a relationship on Monday. I was blithely happy on Monday. I was perfectly content with my life on Monday.

  Okay, that’s a lie. I wasn’t perfectly content, but pretty damn close.

  Actually, that’s not true either.

  To be perfectly honest, I was miserable, but I was content with hiding my misery. I convinced myself I was happy so I wouldn’t feel so shitty.

  That was on Monday. On Tuesday...well, that’s an entirely different story. That’s when everything went to shit. When my entire world crumbled around me.

  On Monday, I was honey. On Tuesday, I was selfish son of a bitch.

  So, to answer the bartender’s question—what I would like is to not feel so dejected. What I would like is to turn back time and never have gone to Union Station the second time that day, a year and a half ago.

  I don’t tell the bartender this. Even if she wanted to listen to my problems, or even if she gave a damn, it’s not what I need.

  What I need is something to drown the pain.

  Something strong.

  “A whiskey on the rocks, please,” I drawl, my shoulders sagging as I perch my elbows on the bar top and drag both hands down my face.

  “Sure thing.”

  “Thanks,” I mumble into my palms. Balling my hands into fists, one overlapping the other against my pinched lips, I watch as Tori pours the amber liquid into a glass. I don’t know her. I only assume her name is Tori, based on the nametag pinned to her blouse. What I do know about her is she has big brown eyes and thick, chestnut hair wrapped into a high bun, she has tattoos on her chest and arms and an opal stud in her bottom lip.

  In other circumstances, I’d have laid on the charm, probably asked if her name was short for Victoria and engaged her in small talk, not even with any intentions in mind, other than to have a pleasant conversation with a pretty bartender. She’d probably flirt back, give me some free drinks and invite me to her place after she got off work, but right now, my mind is far too gone for any of that.

  My heart is too damaged.

  Besides, she reminds me too much of Naomi. Same color eyes and hair, similar frame and height. She also has tattoos on her arms, among other places on her body. I can’t even look at Tori for more than five seconds without gritting my teeth.

  I close my eyes and lower my head to avoid her.

  “Here you go, sweetheart.”

  Sweetheart.

  Another word that makes me flinch.

  When I open my eyes and look up, she places the tumbler on a napkin in front of me, displaying a generous amount of cleavage as she leans over the counter.

  “Let me know if you need anything else.” She offers another sweet smile, a wink and thankfully, not another pet name.

  I thank her with a nod, unable to form even the faintest of smiles. It’s like the pain crushing my lungs is also making my face numb. But not numb enough to prevent me from drinking my sorrows away.

  Whiskey burns my throat as I toss back the drink, ice brushing my lips as I drain the glass, desperately seeking out every last drop.

  I would’ve married her if it weren’t for her husband.

  Not the bartender.

  No, whom I’m referring to is the woman I met at Union Station a year and a half ago. The woman I gave up everything for—my home, my job, even my brother. The woman who called me honey on Monday, only to smash my heart into a million pieces on Tuesday.

  The bittersweet memories of my ex make my jaw clench almost as tightly as my grip around the tumbler. I stare at the television, hoping to distract myself for a while, but I can’t seem to focus on the screen long enough to know which baseball teams are playing.

  I gesture for Tori to pour me another drink, and once she sets a fresh one in front of me, I waste no time downing it.

  Then another.

  And a few more.

  I keep drinking as the alcohol-fueled haze drowns out the mixture of rage, anguish and sadn
ess inside of me. I drink until I lose count, until Tori cuts me off.

  When I’m ready to leave, I drag my ass off the stool and make my way to the exit with my head hung low and my tail between my legs.

  Between the alcohol in my system and the fresh sting in my heart, I’m completely exhausted. Maybe if I sleep, I’ll feel better in the morning, but I know it will take some time to fully recover from this—what Naomi did to me on Tuesday.

  I stumble out of the Crooked Nightcap and into the chilly evening, feeling the effects of the whiskey, my mind unfocused and my vision blurred. Wandering down the street to my brother’s apartment building, I’m surprised I even remember where it is or that I even made it there at all.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Harper

  My phone buzzes incessantly on the kitchen counter as I throw my dirty clothes into the basket. I hate doing laundry on a Friday night, or any night for that matter, but it’s the only time of the week when all the machines aren’t occupied. I’m reduced to a pair of gray shorts and a stained, wrinkled tank top as I grab some laundry detergent from the closet and throw it on the pile. The bottle feels light, but there should be enough for a few loads.

  My phone is still ringing, but I ignore the call. It’s most likely my ex-boyfriend, who’s been trying to get back together with me ever since he got out of prison a week ago. I’ve blocked the multiple numbers he’s called me from, but it’s from a different phone each time.

  I grab the basket, tucking it under one arm as I make my way out the front door, locking it behind me like my brother always admonishes. I sashay down two flights of stairs to the first-floor laundry room.

  After unlocking the door, I enter the empty room and set my basket down, relieved to find a few unoccupied machines. I sort my clothes, separating colors from whites and delicates from regular clothing. While doing so, I notice my roommate’s clothes are mixed in with mine. Audrey has a habit of accidentally throwing hers in with mine, so she doesn’t have to do her own laundry. I roll my eyes and sort them anyway, as always.

  I love my roommate dearly, but ever since she started seeing our neighbor, she’s barely been home. She’s either working or staying at his place. I’m not sure why she doesn’t just move in with him. Not that I want her to. Audrey and I have become close friends ever since we started working at the same hospital two years ago, so I’d be sad to see her move out, even if only next door.

  Once all the clothes are emptied into different machines, I grab the laundry detergent and pour in the contents, furrowing my brows when not even a thin stream of the blue liquid drips from the bottle.

  “Shit.”

  I forgot to replace the detergent after the last time I did laundry. I shake the bottle violently, trying to empty every last drop, but it’s not nearly enough.

  I huff in frustration and begin to unload the washer but pause while I think of where I can get some detergent without having to drive to a store. I slam the lid shut and grab my basket and keys, exiting the room and heading upstairs. I unlock my door, deposit the basket in the apartment and make the small trek down the hall.

  I have a key to Audrey’s boyfriend’s apartment, and they’re in Boston, staying at her sister’s place for the weekend. I know he’ll have some laundry detergent.

  Sure enough, I find a bottle of Tide in the closet and snatch it from the shelf. I know he won’t mind me using it. I borrow stuff from him all the time, and sure, he gives me crap about it, but he never truly gets mad at me—anymore at least. We’re practically family now. Which is light-years from where we began. He used to hate me, but in all fairness to him, the night he moved into the building, I broke into his place, borrowed his dress shoe, and when I returned it, the shoe smelled like wine.

  Once his apartment is locked up again, I head for the stairs, breezing past the elevator as it opens.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Owen

  I somehow make it to the third floor of my brother’s apartment building, although I have no recollection of how I got from point A to point B. All I know is the doors of the elevator are in front of me as it ascends, and I’m positive I wouldn’t have survived the stairs. I’m dizzy from simply watching the elevator doors slide open.

  Now I just have to figure out which apartment is my brother’s.

  I haven’t visited him since he moved to New York to take a teaching job at Stony Brook, and when I arrived here earlier, my stay was very brief. I merely dropped off my luggage before leaving for the bar. He dropped off a key with the neighbor across the hall before he left with his girlfriend for the weekend.

  I’m still shocked my brother agreed to let me stay with him while I attempt to pick up the pieces of my broken heart. I suppose part of it’s because I told him I wanted to turn my life around, but the fact that I’m no longer with Naomi most likely sealed the deal.

  Just before I step off the elevator, a flash of blonde hair catches my eye, and as I step into the hall, I see a woman fleeing for the stairs. I’m unable to catch a glimpse of her face but fuck, her backside is quite the view. I have to blink to make sure I’m not hallucinating. Either I’m really smashed or she has a really hot ass, perhaps both. Sexy, toned legs quickly disappear as she descends the stairs with a bottle of Tide in her hand, not even noticing my presence. I have to shake the image from my mind and remember what the fuck I’m doing.

  Oh yes, finding my brother’s apartment.

  Trying to remember which unit is his, I stumble down the hall, weaving from side to side. My brother’s address is on my phone, but before I even consider the task of searching for it, I see apartment 8C. Or does it say 6C? I squint my eyes in an attempt to stop the letters from shifting on the door. In either case, I’m certain this is my brother’s apartment.

  I peer down toward my feet and step back to read the mat in front of the door.

  Don’t stop. Be leaving.

  Yup, this is definitely the correct apartment. One, because it sounds like my brother’s grumpy ass and two, because Don’t Stop Believin’ by Journey is one of his favorite songs. Or at least it was when we were younger.

  Leaning against the doorframe for support, I fish out the key from my pocket and shift a bit, almost tumbling over to the floor. With slow success at keeping my hand from shifting, I manage to slide the key into the slot. But before I can turn it, the door opens.

  Shit.

  I forgot to lock it when I left for the bar. Good thing my brother isn’t here to point out one more screw-up.

  I stumble into the apartment, my movements far from graceful as I shove the key into my pocket. I make my way to the bedroom, tripping over something on the floor, running into furniture and mumbling a litany of curses along the way.

  When I reach the guest bedroom, I shut the door behind me and chuck off my shoes.

  Fuck, that tile feels cold underneath my feet.

  Wait.

  Why the hell does the bedroom have a tiled floor? I don’t recall this room having a tiled floor.

  Undressing is a struggle. I’m barely able to unbutton my shirt before I lazily toss it to the floor. I shove my boxer briefs down with force and kick them off until I’m bare ass naked, apart from the black socks on my feet. I hate sleeping with my clothes on. I get too hot and sweaty.

  When I reach for the bed, I quickly realize it’s the bathtub, seeing as there isn’t a mattress or bedding, but a tiled wall and solid porcelain enameled steel instead.

  Fuck it.

  I climb in anyway, deciding this is probably better in case I have to vomit, and at this point, I’m far too drunk to care.

  I get settled in the tub, feeling the coolness against my back as I rest my head on the edge and stare at the ceiling through the darkness. In the loneliness of the apartment, I feel the pain resonate through me again. I drag my hand over my face and through my hair, expelling a forced breath that’s nowhere close to expressing how much sorrow I feel.

  Screwing my eyes shut, I try to summon thoughts that don’
t include thick, chestnut hair and big brown eyes. Anything to help dull the misery I feel, even for a split second. Anything that will temporarily relieve the unbearable sadness. Blonde hair, milky skin and long legs invade my mind, along with an ass I want to grab and sink my teeth into. My dick stirs to life and I can’t resist the urge to wrap my hand around my cock and stroke myself.

  My mood may have killed any chance of finding someone from the bar to temporarily distract me, but it doesn’t matter. I don’t need a woman to find pleasure. I have two excellent hands and one’s all I need to get the job done. Women just tease me, make me fall head over heels, and when I’m weak and vulnerable, they thrive on the opportunity to reach into my chest and rip out my heart. Technically, it was only one woman.

  Nevertheless, I’m far better off on my own.

  Realizing I’m once again falling down the rabbit hole of despair, I quickly refocus on the blonde woman I saw in the hall, pumping myself with long, lazy strokes.

  A rough groan catches in my throat and I bite my bottom lip at the thought of that hot neighbor’s ass and those luscious thighs I wouldn’t mind feeling between my teeth and lips. I didn’t get a chance to see her face, but I didn’t need to. She was carrying a bottle of Tide, indicating she was heading to the laundry room, so I imagine stalking after her and entering the room to show her what I know she’s never had before—a good, satisfying fuck.

  Already nearing my peak, I rock my hips, greedily searching for the sweet bliss I desperately crave as I wonder what it would be like to ram my cock into that gorgeous ass as she braces herself against the washing machine. I imagine how fucking fantastic it would be to grab her long golden braid and wrap it around my hand while I’m pounding into her over and over again, taking my pleasure.

  A low grunt tickles my throat as I stroke myself fiercely at the thought of yanking on that mane of hair, making her scream out in pleasure. “Fuck,” I mutter in a throaty whisper.