Neighbors with the Single Dad (The Single Dads of Seattle Book 8)

by Whitley Cox

  Had that been her earlier walking past the bar?

  Had something scared her off?

  Had he scared her off?

  Was she having second thoughts?

  A million thoughts of his own paraded through his mind as he drove out of the downtown core and off into suburbia.

  If she was having second thoughts about their relationship and the two of them dating, things were going to get mighty awkward if their boys all became friends.

  Twenty minutes later he pulled into Eva’s driveway, but he didn’t even have to get out of his car to see that nobody was home. The lights were all out, and there was no vehicle in sight.

  Wasn’t Celeste supposed to be watching the boys at Eva’s house?

  Now things were really starting to freak him out.

  But he had no idea where Celeste lived or what her number was. He was stuck.

  He’d been not only stood up, but his date had vanished.

  Even though he knew there would be no answer, he got out of his truck anyway and ran up to the front door. It was still early enough that he could ring the doorbell and not risk waking the kids.

  He did that.

  No answer.

  Not that he really expected one.

  Then he pounded on the door. “Eva!” he called out.

  Still no answer.

  Would it be too much for him to head around back to the sundeck doors and peer inside, make sure she was okay?

  Yes, yes, it probably would be.

  Damn it.

  He didn’t care that he was stood up. Well, yes, he did. It sucked major big time. But more, he cared that she was all right. Thoughts of her sadistic ex crawled back into his brain, and then he began to wonder if maybe the boy’s father had shown up and kidnapped them all.

  “She was here, but then they all left,” came a grisly male voice to Scott’s left. Ah, good old Mr. Gallagher, with his mile-long gray nose and ear hair and liver spots.

  Scott approached the wooden fence that separated Eva’s property from Mr. Gallagher’s. “She was here? She was okay?”

  Mr. Gallagher nodded, which caused his long, thick jowls to jiggle. “Yep. Cab dropped her off about thirty minutes ago, then she and the kids piled into the van and left. Her sister and niece followed.”

  Scott exhaled, and relief crashed into him like a runaway train. At least she was okay.

  “Did she say anything to you?” he asked, hopeful but already knowing what Mr. Gallagher’s answer would be.

  Just as he suspected, the elderly man shook his head, the crease of his frown getting lost in the multitude of other lines on his face. “She didn’t, I’m afraid. Looked mighty pretty though, all dressed up for a date or something.”

  Okay, so she had been planning to join him. Had something come up? An emergency with one of the kids?

  “Did the kids seem okay?”

  Again, Mr. Gallagher nodded, lifting his chin up and allowing his milky blue gaze to scan the tops of the tall evergreen trees in his backyard. “Kids seemed fine. No crying, if that’s what you mean.” He turned his attention back to Scott, and his overgrown brows, which met in the middle, furrowed deep. “You and the new neighbor courting or something?”

  Or something.

  At least he hoped it was something.

  Mr. Gallagher was very kind, as was his wife, Mrs. Gallagher—but they were also two of the biggest gossips on the block. Particularly Mrs. Gallagher. She had half the neighborhood over for tea each week, and by Saturday she knew everything about everybody, and then she relayed it all to Scott as he stood in his driveaway and washed his truck.

  If he gave Mr. Gallagher even a whiff of gossip, the entire street, hell, the entire subdivision would know by Friday. And if Eva was having second thoughts about their relationship, he didn’t want to cause her or them any more strife or chaos than required.

  So he shook his head. “No, sir. Not courting. Just getting to know the new neighbor. Her kids are Freddie’s age, so we’re becoming friends is all.”

  Mr. Gallagher’s eyes developed a twinkle, and his mouth crooked up on one side. “I won’t say a word of it to Mrs. Gallagher.” He crossed his index finger over his chest. “Cross my heart.”

  Scott fought the urge to roll his eyes but instead simply thanked his neighbor and then headed back to his truck, pulled out of Eva’s driveway and into his own.

  He’d watch her yard like a hawk until daybreak if he had to, just to make sure she and the kids were okay. Then, and only then, when he saw her soccer-mom minivan in the driveaway and it was a reasonable hour, would he head on over and ask to reschedule their date, because unless Eva was giving him the brush-off, he wasn’t ready to let this woman go. She’d buried herself deep beneath his skin, her name was like a song he just couldn’t stop singing, and her smile was something he would never grow tired of seeing.

  He’d only known Eva Marchand for a short while, but what he did know, he liked. She was the real deal, and she was worth waiting for.

  11

  With the best of intentions, Scott stayed awake for as long as he could, one ear tuned to the house and driveway next door. But sleep was too enticing. Like a seductive vixen with red hair and green eyes, she lured him into her depths. He was snoring and drooling on his pillow when the sound of the recycling truck outside doing morning pickup abruptly woke him from his slumber. Literally peeling his face off his pillow, he sat up—still in his clothes—scratched his balls like he always did, then headed over to the window to see if Eva was home yet.

  She wasn’t.

  No van. No kids. No recycling bins out.

  Fear and unease tickled the back of his neck like an irritating wasp, and he swatted it away, hoping that Eva and the kids were sleeping at Celeste’s for the night and they weren’t all up at the hospital after having ingested rat poison disguised as Alphaghetti.

  Freddie loved Alphaghetti.

  So did Scott.

  He needed a fucking shower, then coffee, and then he needed to get his ass to work. It was going to be a late fucking day too. Todd Fletcher liked Scott’s pitch so much, he decided he not only wanted Dynamic Creative to take on his new distillery, but he wanted to turn over marketing the majority of his holdings to Scott and his team.

  Cha-ching. But also, fuck.

  This meant he would have to see more of Todd.

  Didn’t the man have a general manager or underling of some kind he could pawn all this shit off on? Scott would much rather work with the underling. With anybody else, really.

  So the entire day was going to be spent poring over all the other companies that Todd owned—with his trusty marketing team, of course—and figuring out new and innovative ways to advertise. He was least looking forward to developing new marketing strategies for Todd’s bevy of strip clubs. The man really was all class.

  He divested himself of his clothes, turned the water on in the shower and then stood there with his hand beneath the spray until it grew warm. This was not how he had hoped to be spending his morning. No sir.

  With Eva’s sister and the boys just next door, he’d hoped that Eva would have accompanied him home last night. They would have shared a nightcap. Then, perhaps, they would have tumbled into bed, becoming nocturnal beings, exploring each other’s bodies until the wee hours of the morning, only for her to fall asleep with her head on his chest. The two of them would enjoy one last tryst in the shower the next morning. A reprise of their shower that first night in the hotel room.

  Fuck, that felt like a lifetime ago.

  He missed her taste.

  He missed her smell.

  Fuck, he just missed her.

  Shaking himself, then slapping his face twice to not only wake himself up, but also knock in some sense, he stepped beneath the warm water.

  “Damn it, Eva,” he grumbled, his cock springing to life at the memory of her on her knees the last time they were in the shower. More times than he could count, he went back to that memory, taking himself in
his palm and wishing it was her hot little mouth.

  It didn’t take long for him to finish what needed to be done—what his body required him to do so he could function for the rest of the day—then he washed his hair, body and stood beneath the spray for a solid five minutes before shutting off the water and stepping out into the day.

  “What the hell is going on with you, Eva?” he muttered to himself as he wiped the condensation off the vanity mirror. He was digging the thick beard he’d grown over the last few months, but it was getting a touch scraggly. He needed to tame the bush, particularly if he hoped to be diving face-first into Eva’s bush—or in her case, well-groomed three postage stamps—anytime soon.

  Once he was dressed for the day in a pair of dark gray dress pants and a snazzy navy long-sleeved shirt with tiny white polka dots—a Christmas present from his fashion-forward baby sister, Bianca—he headed downstairs for coffee.

  It was now eight o’clock, a totally reasonable time to call someone, right? Particularly someone with school-age children who needed to be up with the crows, pouring cereal and fixing lunches. With peanut butter toast in one hand, he pulled up Eva’s number on his phone.

  She hadn’t texted him back or left any voicemails.

  Was she okay?

  He would like to say “this wasn’t like her at all,” but he didn’t know her that well, so maybe this was her MO. Maybe she was a flake; she’d just done a bang-up job of hiding it until now.

  As much as he hoped that that wasn’t the case, that she wasn’t like his ex-wife—inconsiderate, thoughtless and selfish—it was tough to completely dismiss the niggly sensation of déjà vu that itched at the base of his skull.

  Did that mean there was something wrong with him? Was there a reason he kept picking women like that? Women who treated him like an afterthought?

  Shaking himself to relieve the thoughts of self-doubt and the dark spiral he could so easily have slipped into, he dialed her number.

  Once again, it went to her voicemail.

  “Eva, it’s Scott again. Please just let me know you’re okay. That you and the boys are safe. My overactive imagination is going all dark and twisty right now, and I’m beginning to fear the worst. Even if you don’t want anything to do with me, please just let me know you’re alive.”

  Should he say that he missed her?

  No.

  His message already sounded sappy enough.

  He hung up but then brought up all their back and forth text messages. Hers had been flirty and fun. He thought for sure she was as into this budding relationship as he was. Had he read her wrong?

  Did he read all women wrong?

  He decided that one last, final text was all he was going to send her, and then after that, if she didn’t respond, he was going to wash his hands of the whole damn thing. He could only be the worried and ghosted guy for so long before his nuts began to shrink.

  Last text message, Eva. Just let me know you’re alive, then I’ll leave you alone.

  Leaving his phone on the counter, he finished his coffee and then ran upstairs to go and brush his teeth. When he returned, with his jacket, wallet and keys, he found the light on his phone flashing.

  I’m alive. That was all it said. That was it.

  No apology, no explanation.

  Well, all you asked for was proof of life, nothing more. What do you expect?

  He expected an explanation. He expected to be shown some consideration.

  All the rancor he thought he’d let go of from his ex came rushing back, hitting him dead center in the back of the head until all he saw was red. It was all he could do not to hurl his phone against the wall.

  Fine. If that’s how she wanted to do this, then fine.

  They could be feuding neighbors rather than fucking ones. His parents had feuded with the Burns family next door for nearly forty years. If they could do it, so could he. He could watch as the wind carried her empty trash cans down the street, sit from his window and enjoy her struggles as she fought with her temperamental lawnmower. He could be petty. He could be mean. He could be inconsiderate.

  And now that Eva had ghosted him this way, shown him such little consideration and care, he would be. It wasn’t a good color on him, but who the fuck cared? Scott was done being the nice guy, the good guy. They really did finish last. It wasn’t just a saying.

  He was fucking done.

  From now on, he would take what he wanted and then move on.

  Because that’s clearly what women wanted, how women treated him. Katrin, Eva. They were all the same.

  And now he would treat them all the same. He had a feeling Eva Marchand was going to ruin him for other women when he first met her. He just didn’t know that it was going to be like this.

  It was Wednesday night by the time he had a chance to breathe out the angry breath he’d been holding in since Tuesday morning. Sure, he’d actually breathed all that time, but over the last thirty-six hours, he’d struggled to relax. Particularly when he arrived home super late Tuesday night after work and spied the minivan in Eva’s driveaway and lights on in the house.

  There was still no call or text message from her though. Not even a note taped to his door. Nothing.

  What the fuck?

  He’d called Mason on his drive home Wednesday night and sworn like a sailor who’d just lost his foot to a crocodile when he drove past her house and spotted the minivan.

  “Don’t assume anything, bro,” Mason said over the phone. “You don’t know what came up Monday, or yesterday. Maybe that was all she could text and she wants to hash things out in person. Give her the benefit of the doubt. Don’t swear off women entirely just yet.”

  Scott’s vision was so full of red, it was a challenge backing into his driveaway and not losing a side mirror to the hedge. “She’s had more than enough opportunities to apologize and explain herself,” he said through gritted teeth, turning off his truck. “I at least deserve that. I mean, who the fuck ghosts their neighbor? That has got to be the dumbest fucking thing on the planet.”

  “It is. You’re right. Which makes me think she probably isn’t ghosting you.”

  Scott disconnected the Bluetooth in his truck and put the phone on speaker before climbing out and shutting the door. “Ghosting me or not, what she did was fucking rude as hell.”

  “I agree. And she will probably agree too. Don’t fuck this up by being a Dixon Dickhead.”

  “You guys like that nickname far too much,” he grumbled.

  “I have to hand it to Atlas. He really hit the nail on the head coining that term for you and Liam. Can’t believe I didn’t think of it myself.”

  Scott grumbled again.

  His watch said it was closing in on nine o’clock. He usually worked late on the weeks he didn’t have Freddie so that he could leave work early enough to get his kid from school or pick him up early from after school care. Didn’t Eva say she was going to work late on Wednesday nights? Put her kids to bed and then have clients until ten?

  He stepped around the hedge to see if there was any other vehicle in the driveaway. There wasn’t one. But that didn’t mean she didn’t have a client. Uber was used frequently here, and they were also on a major bus route.

  “You still there?” Mason asked, the sound of Willow warbling in the background letting him know that his buddy was home with his baby girl and probably his new love, Lowenna.

  Scott nodded. “Yeah. But I gotta go.”

  “Don’t do anything stupid, man.”

  He was already halfway down her driveway. “I’m not Liam.”

  Mason chuckled on the other end. “Yeah, but you’re his brother. The dickhead gene might not be as strong with the second born, but it’s still there.”

  He was nearly at her back door now. The one she used for her salon.

  “I gotta go.”

  Mason exhaled, his irritation palpable through the phone. “Okay. Call me back and let me know how it goes.”

  “’K.” Then he hu
ng up, tried the door handle and stepped inside.

  12

  Eva was just handing Vanessa her change when the door to the salon opened. “I’m just closing up,” she said before she saw who it was. Oxygen whooshed from her lungs as she breathed out his name. “Scott.”

  She should have known.

  He wasn’t going to let her get away with the brush-off she gave him.

  Well, you were incredibly rude to him.

  “Do you take walk-ins?” he asked, ignoring her earlier declaration that they were closed.

  Vanessa, her final client for the evening and a longtime client at that, smiled and thanked her before skirting around Scott’s big frame to leave, but not before giving him a head-to-toe eye fuck.

  “Figured this was the only way I could get in to see you,” he said, his voice holding a tight, bitter tone that made every muscle in her heart tighten until her chest hurt. “I need a cut, please.” He wandered around her and then plunked himself into one of the two salon chairs she had. Vanessa’s hair was still on the floor around the other one.

  Well, at least if they were going to have the conversation, she might as well keep her hands busy.

  His eyes tracked her across the room as she grabbed a black cape off the hook and draped it over his body, fastening it around his neck. The scent of him was already driving her mad, and the feel of his skin beneath hers, even that simple whisper of a touch as she brushed her knuckles across his neck, made her nipples tighten to painful peaks and heat rush into her lower belly.

  Their gazes locked in the mirror ahead. His eyes seared her enough to leave second-degree burns. But the look wasn’t entirely anger. No, there was also hurt buried down deep behind the intense brown. He was hurt, he was confused, but he was also really fucking angry.

  And rightfully so.

  Celeste had told her she’d messed up.

  And every time Scott’s messages would pop up or she’d ignore his calls, she knew she was digging herself deeper. She just couldn’t get the image of him and Todd out of her head.