Naughty Neighbor: Falling for a Libra (Falling for the Stars)
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Naughty Neighbor
Falling for a Libra
Jeannine Colette
Lauren Runow
Contents
Falling for the Stars
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Authors
Copyright © 2020 by Jeannine Colette and Lauren Runow. All rights reserved.
Visit our websites at www.JeannineColette.com and
www.LaurenRunow.com
Cover photo credit: kiuikson
Editor: Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing,
www.unforeseenediting.com
Beta read by Indie Solutions, www.murphyrae.net.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
No copyright infringement intended. No claims have been made over songs and/or lyrics written. All credit goes to original owners.
Created with Vellum
Falling for the Stars
A Zodiac-Themed Romance Series celebrates the unique qualities of men based on their zodiac sign. Each book features a distinctive trope, a kick-ass heroine, and a love written in the stars!
This book’s hero is the LIBRA.
Romantic, Charming, Intellectual, Flirtatious, Polite, Diplomatic, Sociable, Smartly Dressed, Overly Sensitive, Indecisive.
Chapter One
He walks into the room, and there’s a sinful glare to his eyes. One that makes me stop and grow weak in the knees.
“I can’t want you, Tanner,” I breathe.
“Why not?” His voice is a whisper, but his eyes are shouting at me in challenge, willing me to tell him why I’m fighting this urge to lean forward and kiss him.
I want to tear his clothes off his body and ride out our lust-filled attraction until we’re in a sea of bliss, and yet the only words I can utter are …
…
…
Fuck.
I have no idea what to write next.
When I decided to become a romance novelist, it was with high ideals of living the dream. Sleep late. Spend my days at leisure. Write when I was in the mood. And pump out page after page of literary magic.
Boy, how naive I was.
Don’t get me wrong. I’ve had soaring success as Lacey Rivers, indie contemporary romance author, hitting Amazon’s Top 10 list twice. But now, I’m suffering from an author’s worst nightmare.
Writer’s block.
I look down at my laptop and the blinking cursor that’s taunting me.
“You can do this, Lacey. Just get the words on the page,” I say to myself as I shake my body to reinvigorate the creative juices. Then, I start to type.
“Why do you deny this feeling?” His lips nip the lobe of my ear.
“Because I don’t believe in love.”
He pulls back and looks down at me with a deep scowl. “How can you say such a thing?”
“I can’t believe in something that doesn’t exist.”
Oh, for the love of Tom Hardy, even I know this is trash.
I once went to a seminar where Jodi Picoult said, “You can’t edit a blank page.”
That has become my motto and one I’m practicing right now. It’s complete drivel, what I’m writing, I know. But I just have to get it out. Put the pen to paper.
I start again. To my surprise, I get a vision of a romantic couple in an angsty exchange, and the scene starts to unfold.
Yes. This is it!
The words are pouring out of me now. Just let the characters guide you. Feel their—
Boom, boom, thump!
I close my eyes in frustration. “You have got to be kidding me,” I groan.
The sound of loud music coming from the shared wall of my apartment is deafening. Okay, maybe it’s not that loud, but it’s distracting as all hell. I look at the clock and see it’s nine in the evening, which means this could be the start of hours of raucous partying.
Boom, boom, thump!
With a huff, I place my laptop on the couch and get up. It pains me to do so when I was finally getting lost in a scene.
That’s why I love writing. Screw the real world and everything that comes along with it. Give me my laptop and a glass of wine, and when I’m not having writer’s block, I can get lost in writing my next novel for hours—boom, boom thump!—until someone relentlessly blares music for all to hear.
I exit my apartment and walk next door. My knuckles vibrate with how hard I knock. In fact, my fist is still moving as the door opens, and I’m greeted by the devilishly handsome smile of the man who lives next door.
Jake Moreau.
“Hey, Lacey. Want to come in for a drink?”
His grin is panty-melting for sure.
I’ve lived next door to him for a while, and his attractiveness hasn’t gone unnoticed. Lean yet muscular build, swoonworthy eyes the color of chocolate, and the perfect angle of his jaw, which is rugged and pretty, all at the same time.
Clearly, I’ve been preoccupied with describing my literary heroes because I’m currently spending way too much time appreciating how good-looking Jake is … and not the problem at hand.
“Do you mind turning the music down? I’m trying to work.”
His brows curve in concern. “Sure, but I have friends over. It’s Friday night. Most people like to unwind after a long week.”
“Yes, agreed. However, I don’t work a conventional job, and my hours go beyond the nine to five.”
He grabs the top of the doorframe and leans into it with his full mouth puckered in interest. “What are your hours?”
“I don’t know. Sometimes, ten to four, and other times, noon to ten. They fluctuate.” I shrug.
“Well, while you’re sleeping in until ten in the morning, the rest of us have been up and are four hours into our workday.”
My jaw drops as I wonder if I should be insulted or not, but then Jake lets out a loud laugh.
“I’m teasing,” he says, nudging me in the shoulder. “You’re so serious. If you want me to turn the music down, I will.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it.” I turn to leave, but he stops me.
“What do you do anyway?”
“Do?”
“For a living. The job with unconventional working hours?”
I inwardly cringe, not because I’m embarrassed of my job. In fact, I’m damn proud. I just get weary of the reaction I get from men when they learn I write sultry love stories. The response is sometimes crude.
“I’m an author.” I adjust my feet in the ca
rpeted hallway.
“Wow. That’s awesome,” he says, genuinely impressed. “Anything I might have heard of?”
“No. I write romance. Not something you’d be interested in.”
I start to back away, but he follows me into the hall.
“What makes you think a man wouldn’t read romance?”
I briefly close my eyes then open them and try to explain, “It’s women’s fiction.”
He shrugs. “I believe in love at first sight and kisses that make your heart pound. And trust me when I say, I wouldn’t blush at a sex scene.”
The way his eyes smolder as he says the word sex sends a shiver through my body. I need to bottle his baritone and re-create it in a love scene.
His words surprise me, too, since I’ve seen the amount of gorgeously dressed women who come roaming in and out of his apartment. He doesn’t seem like the guy who is looking for a commitment.
“Well, if you don’t mind just giving me two hours, that would be awesome. Don’t stop your party, just don’t blast the music.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to come in? Not even for one drink?” he asks again, motioning toward the partly open doorway.
There has to be a dozen people inside, if not more. They’re all laughing and drinking, unwinding after their long day at the office, I imagine. I’m envious of them actually. I’d kill for a drink right now and a coworker to commiserate with.
“Maybe some other time.” I spin on my heel and head to my door.
As I step inside my apartment, I see Jake has already entered his own and closed the door.
Sighing, I walk around my home, past the galley kitchen that looks into the living room. I grab my laptop off the couch and walk it over to my desk by the window. The crescent-shaped moon is bright tonight. The kind that movies use when depicting dreams. It makes me smile, seeing as I have many dreams of my own that I wish to come true. My main dream is taking my career to the next level by being represented by a major publishing house. I’d become the author my mother would be proud of, and I’d have job security that would help plan for my future.
The music coming from Jake’s apartment lowers, and I can hear someone audibly complain. There’s still a dull roar, but I can work with that. I increase my own mood music and get back to work, biting my thumbnail as I reread my words. I’m not sold on them, and I consider rewriting the whole thing.
I’m hitting Delete when there’s a knock at my door.
My eyes squint as I purse my mouth, confused as to who it could be. Since I live in a secured building, all guests have to hit the buzzer downstairs. Whoever is at my door must live in my building.
I pad over and open it to see Jake standing there with a glass in one hand, the other raking through his lustrous hair.
“Since you refuse to come over, I thought I’d bring the party to you.”
I eye him curiously as he strolls in, handing me the glass of wine, and heads straight for my living room.
“Thanks,” I say, closing the door even though I never told him to come in. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“We’re neighbors. It’s the kind thing to do after I annoyed you with my music.”
I’ve lived in this building for a few years and never brought a drink to someone else’s house in kindness. I’m not sociable like that. I take a sip of the wine and nod in approval.
At least he has good taste in vino.
Standing at the kitchen counter, I watch as he strolls around. My apartment is a decent size—one bedroom, full bath, kitchen, and living room/dining room combo—but add in the six-foot-tall man dressed in jeans, a pale pink button-down, and smoldering good looks, it feels claustrophobic. His presence, as well as his honey-scented cologne, lingers in every square inch of the place.
“These your books?” He points to the bookcase near my desk.
“Yep. I keep a lot of extras for people who order signed copies.”
He whistles through his teeth as he takes in the rows of paperbacks. “That’s impressive. Let me buy one off of you.”
I shake my head. “No need. Just grab one.”
“Any suggestions?”
I roll my eyes. It’s not like he’s actually gonna read it, so I walk over and pick the first book I see. It’s called Fire and Gold, and it was my first best seller.
He holds it in his hands, feeling the weight of it. “This is quite the accomplishment. Your parents must be proud.”
Proud isn’t the word I’d use.
“Of course.”
“You hesitated.”
I brush him off. “She is satisfied with my career.”
His eyes narrow, as if he’s trying to decide if I’m lying or not. An attuned man is a dangerous one, as they can read between the lines.
“I’ll let you know what I think of this.” He holds up the book and looks at the cover with the shirtless model glowering with searing intensity. “Nice abs.”
“Did you come here to borrow a book?” I ask with an unsure smile.
He grins. “Kind of. I just wanted to bring you the wine and see what life was like on the other side of the wall. You’ve never knocked on my door before.”
“I most definitely have. When you moved in, I came over to introduce myself. You answered while wearing nothing but a seafoam-green towel, and a woman, who looked to have on the previous night’s clothes, came strolling out.”
His brows go up. The smile on his face grows devilish as he tucks the book under his arm. “What kind of dress was she wearing?”
I blanch at his ridiculous question. “I have absolutely no idea. Why would it matter?”
He takes five steps forward, closing the space between us. My shoulders push back on instinct, and my chin rises. His cocky stature hovers above me as he looks down, making my heart race.
“You remembered what I was wearing but not the woman?”
“It was a green towel. Hardly a detail difficult to remember.”
“A seafoam-green towel,” he says as he saunters past me and toward the door, stopping to open it and glancing back. “Offer still stands. Come over if you need a break.”
The door closes behind him, and I let out the breath I was holding since he uttered the word seafoam. It’s not even a sexy word, and yet the way he said it, like it was the code word to his secret lair, has me falling to my couch with my hand over my eyes, wondering why I’d had to go and knock on my neighbor’s door tonight.
Because he was playing loud music. Which he turned down and then brought me a glass of wine.
Either Jake is the nicest person on the planet or evil incarnate in Ferragamo shoes, trying to butter me up.
Well, I guess one thing was accomplished tonight. I can, without a doubt, confirm the hero on my pages is a dud because I’m more inspired by the words from the man next door than the fictitious one I’m currently trying to create.
Chapter Two
“Auntie!” The pitter-patter of baby girl feet comes from the hallway.
“There’s my Bree Bree!” I place my purse on the entryway table and pick up my favorite girl, squeezing her tightly as I kiss her cheek.
“Wook at my dow-ee,” she tells me, holding up a toy I haven’t seen before. This one is a baby doll with pink hair and purple eyes, wearing leopard-print pajamas.
“Why, this is the sweetest baby I’ve ever seen. Is she new?”
Aubrey dramatically nods her head before hugging it, closing her eyes, and loving on her new toy.
“Looks like my favorite little lady has been a good girl,” I say as I tickle her belly.
Her laughter is the best sound I’ve ever heard.
The toddler is giggling and squirming in my arms as her mom—and my best friend—Charisse walks into the hall while wiping her hands on a rag.
“Don’t let that tiny ball of sunshine fool you. She’s a house-wrecker. This morning, she took my lipsticks and made a mural on the bathroom wall,” Charisse says, giving her daughter a stern expression.
Aubrey’s lip pops out with a pout. I hold her closer, shushing her in comfort before she cries.
“You know, when you tell a child she’s done something wrong, it’s usually not followed by a hug,” Charisse says with a grin.
I wave her off. “I can’t stand to see her little lip. It’s the saddest—and cutest—thing in the world,” I explain. “Besides, I’m the fun aunt. Your job is to ground her, and mine is to be the shoulder to lean on, so she can talk about how awful her mother is.”
Charisse whips my butt with the dishtowel in her hand. “Just make sure you let me know on the sly when she eventually comes to you, talking about boys, sex, and smoking pot.”
I cover Aubrey’s ear with my hand and bring her head to my chest to cover the other ear. “Don’t let my sweet girl hear you speak of such things,” I say sarcastically.
Charisse is laughing while her wife, Melody, walks into the room.
“Hey, Lacey. You’re just in time for drinks.”
“Sounds good.” I follow the ladies into the living room.
Charisse and Melody have the kind of home people aspire to create. Located in the western suburbs of Chicago, their house is a Tudor style with wood-beamed ceilings and large black-paned windows. One look around reveals wall upon wall of family photos, many of them black-and-whites of their parents, grandparents, and themselves growing up.