The moving truck had been parked in front of the house for twenty-three minutes when Vanessa Whitmore decided it did not belong there.
Marcus Reed had barely carried one box through his new front door.
He was standing beside the driveway with a black duffel bag hanging from one shoulder when a sharp female voice cut across the noise of the movers.
“Stop unloading that truck.”
Marcus turned.
A blonde woman was marching toward him from across the street.
Everything about her seemed designed to make looking away impossible.
Hot-pink blazer.
Turquoise blouse.
Bright yellow tailored trousers.
White heels.
Heavy gold necklace.
Large sunglasses resting above a precise blonde bob.
A red leather handbag swung from one arm while her free hand pointed toward the white moving truck as though she had just discovered a stolen vehicle.
Marcus had noticed her ten minutes earlier.
She had been standing beside a bright red luxury SUV, watching his movers carry furniture across the lawn.
He had assumed she was curious.
New neighbor.
New truck.
New homeowner.
People looked.
Marcus had no problem with that.
But curiosity normally did not walk into another person’s driveway and begin issuing orders.
One of the movers stopped with a cardboard box in his arms.
The other looked toward Marcus.
Marcus lowered the duffel bag.
“Can I help you?”
The woman stopped several feet away.
“You can start by having that truck removed.”
Marcus glanced toward the road.
The truck sat against the curb.
Orange safety cones had been placed at the front and rear.
A city-issued temporary parking authorization was displayed clearly inside the windshield.
It did not block a driveway.
It did not obstruct the intersection.
It did not touch the painted curb around the fire hydrant twenty yards away.
Marcus looked back at her.
“It’s approved.”
Her mouth tightened.
“Not by me.”
Marcus waited.
The woman apparently expected those three words to explain everything.
When Marcus remained silent, she stepped closer.
“I am Vanessa Whitmore.”
He still waited.
She added:
“I oversee community compliance for this neighborhood.”
Marcus nodded once.
“All right.”
Her eyebrows rose.
Apparently, that response was insufficiently impressed.
“And large commercial vehicles cannot simply arrive here without authorization.”
Marcus slipped one hand into the back pocket of his tan cargo pants.
Vanessa immediately took half a step backward.
Marcus noticed.
He stopped moving.
Then slowly removed a folded sheet of paper.
“This authorization?”
Vanessa did not take it.
“I have no idea what that is.”
Marcus unfolded it.
At the top sat the logo of the neighborhood’s property-management company.
Below it were the date, address, moving company, truck dimensions, unloading window, and confirmation number.
Marcus pointed.
“Submitted last Tuesday.”
“Approved Thursday.”
“Move scheduled today from noon until five.”
Vanessa looked at the document for approximately two seconds.
Then dismissed it with a wave.
“That is management paperwork.”
Marcus stared.
“Yes.”
“That does not necessarily mean community approval.”
“The rule packet said to notify management.”
“You should also have contacted me.”
“Does the rule packet say that?”
Vanessa’s expression hardened.
“I am telling you how things are done here.”
Marcus refolded the paper.
“That’s different from what the rules say.”
The moving foreman, a stocky white man in his forties named Greg, stepped down from the rear of the truck.
“Everything good?”
Vanessa spun toward him.
“I wasn’t speaking to you.”
Greg lifted both hands.
“Okay.”
He looked toward Marcus.
“Keep going?”
Marcus nodded.
“Keep going.”
The movers resumed.
That made Vanessa angrier than any insult probably could have.
She stepped directly into the path between the truck and the driveway.
Greg stopped.
Marcus frowned.