Trick or Tease - Wicked Little Treats: A Halloween Collection - Chapter One

Halloween in the neighborhood is all about costumes, candy, and chaos—but for Aria Foster, it’s also about outsmarting the infuriatingly smug neighbor next door. Mason Beckett never flinches at her tricks, never cracks under her pranks, and that only makes her more determined to win. But when one scare goes sideways, their harmless rivalry sparks with something sharper. Mischief has always been fun… until she realizes the real danger might be how much she likes getting under his skin.

Wicked Little Treats: A Halloween Collection book one

Trick or Tease

Chapter One

Aria

Mischief Managed

The street’s alive with Halloween chaos, kids darting between houses in capes and masks, candy bags dragging like they’re filled with bricks already. Jack-o’-lanterns grin from. every porch, candles flickering just enough to cast shadows that move if you look too long. Porch lights blink on and off, signaling which houses are fair game and which are pretending they’re not home.

I’m not here for the candy. I’ve got a different kind of treat planned.

The very realistic fake spider in my hand dangles by its fake web string, fuzzy black legs catching in the glow of my neighbor’s porch light. One drop into Mason Beckett’s mailbox and he’ll be treated to the scare of his life tomorrow morning. Or at least he would be, if he ever admitted defeat.

Mason never hands me the satisfaction. He stands there like a statue. Steady jaw and even breath while I do the running around. It’s maddening. Addictive.

If I’m honest, this stupid war has been the best part of the year, more fun than the farmer’s market or book club combined. I live for the mini victories. Mason Beckett might be my rival, but winding him up is my favorite hobby. Even if he refuses to let me win.

I slip across the dew-cool grass, crouch low, cat burglar energy, minus the talent—fingers curled around the spider. The neighborhood hums with sugar and shrieks, but all of it blurs when I look at one place.

His house.

Mason’s porch light glows steady, jack-o’-lantern carved with neat, straight lines like he took a ruler to it. Figures. Even his pumpkin has to be perfectly measured. 

I crouch by the mailbox, fingers numb with excitement. The hinge gives a soft, guilty creak when I lift it, too loud in the hush between trick-or-treat screams and I freeze, breath caught behind my teeth. No one’s watching. Good. I snake the very realistic spider inside, stretch the fake web so it’ll snag his hand when he reaches for the mail, then smooth the lid down like I’ve done nothing at all.

Not finished, I fish the backup from my hoodie: a plastic skeleton hand with tape on the palm. I tuck it under the doorframe so the fingers peek out like something trying to crawl free. Subtle enough he won’t notice until it’s too late.

I can’t help the grin tugging at my mouth as I picture his face. Him pausing at the mailbox, frown carved deep, that inevitable shake of his head like he can’t believe I’ve wasted my time on this again. Which, of course, only makes it sweeter. If I’m really lucky, maybe a muttered curse as he shakes his head like I’m a kid he can’t control. Later, I’ll pretend I’m not watching, but I already know I’ll be peeking through my blinds the second he steps outside.

Tonight, I win.

Or at least, I think I do.

“Breaking and entering’s a crime, Foster.”

The voice cuts through the night from directly behind me, low, smug, and way too close. Static prickles up my arms. My knees slam the rail with a hollow crack—the pumpkin teeters—and for a blink I picture myself face-first in orange mush. 

“Jesus—” The word bursts out as I spin, breath snagging in my throat. My pulse slams in my ears, too fast, too loud. I shove a hand into the pocket of my hoodie like I can hide the evidence, fingers curling tight around nothing but fabric.

And there he is. Mason Beckett, leaning against his porch rail like he’s been waiting all night for me to show up. Dark hoodie. Dark jeans. A big plastic bowl of candy tucked in one arm. His hair’s messy from the wind, but of course, it works for him. Because everything works for him. Annoyingly good-looking, even lit by the flicker of a jack-o’-lantern and the distant glow of passing headlights.

My pulse hasn’t settled, but I force a casual shrug. “Pretty sure skeleton décor is public domain tonight.”

The corner of his mouth lifts, not a smile so much as a dare. “Uh-huh. You were just… generously enhancing my curb appeal?”

“Exactly,” I shoot back, straightening to my full height, which unfortunately isn’t anywhere close to his. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

His gaze skates over me slowly and cataloging, not the porch or the prank, but me. It leaves sparks along my skin, stupid and traitorous, and I have to clamp my hands at my sides to stop them from trembling. The air between us hums with something I refuse to think about, the kind of awareness I’ll deny until the day I die.

Most people would be rattled finding their neighbor crouched by their mailbox in the dark. Mason just looks amused, like I’m a show he never bought tickets for, but he’s not leaving his seat.

And that smugness—that calm, steady tone—throws me completely off balance.

I square my shoulders, refusing to let him see how rattled I still am. “Admit it, Beckett. I got you this time.”

Mason picks up and drops a piece of candy back into the bowl like I’m not even worth the effort. Then his gaze flicks back to me, slow and deliberate. “Not even close.”

My jaw tightens. Of course. Nothing shakes him. I could stage a full-on haunted house in his living room and he’d probably just stand there, arms crossed, waiting for me to run out of fog machine juice.

“You flinched,” I push, pointing at him like I’ve caught him red-handed.

His mouth curves again, that maddening almost-smile. “Pretty sure that was you almost eating my pumpkin.”

Heat crawls up my neck, equal parts irritation and something else I’ll never admit to. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re predictable.” He leans against the rail, relaxed in a way that makes me grind my teeth. Like I’m the entertainment, not the other way around.

I want him to scowl, roll his eyes, mutter a curse… anything. Instead, he stays calm, steady, infuriatingly smug. My pulse won’t calm, jittering in my throat like I’ve had three espressos. I can’t tell if it’s leftover adrenaline from being caught or the way his eyes hold mine… steady, unshakable, like he knows I’ll break first.

Either way, it feels like I’m the one losing.

Mason shifts away the rail, closing the distance with a slow, deliberate step. My breath stumbles, traitorous, but I hold my ground. His voice drops low, smooth as smoke.

“One day, Foster, you’re gonna regret starting this war.”

It shouldn’t land the way it does—heavy, hot, like a promise instead of a threat. A shiver runs down my spine before I can stop it, and I want to kick myself for the way my body reacts.

I paste on my best smirk, forcing my tone light. “Big words for a guy who can’t even handle a fake spider.”

His eyes glint in the porch light, the corner of his mouth lifting just enough to tell me he knows I’m bluffing.

I spin on my heel before he can see more, pretending I’m still in control when every nerve in me says otherwise.

To be Continued. Come back tomorrow for part two

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

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Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: October 2025

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