Trouble Next Door

by Stefanie London

  Beckett checked the peephole and saw the top of a dark head. He flicked the lock and pulled the door open, his breath catching in his throat when he saw who it was.

  McKenna Prescott. Apartment 101. She worked at a cosmetics counter in the Wentworth Department store on Bourke Street. He knew that because she’d given Sherri a few samples one time.

  McKenna must have come straight from work—a badge that said “CAM-Ready Cosmetics, McKenna” was pinned at her right breast. And she wore that dark smudgy stuff around her eyes that always made his blood surge a little faster through his veins. She looked sultry. When her tongue darted out to run along the bottom of one very shiny, very plump bottom lip, he swallowed hard.

  The woman was a late-night fantasy personified. Which was precisely why he avoided her at all costs, especially when she tried to talk to him in the mailroom.

  “Hi,” she said, with an expression that was almost a smile…but not quite. Her hands toyed nervously with the ends of her hair, which were dyed a bright Barney the dinosaur purple. The shade was in striking contrast with her blue eyes. The whole effect was…stimulating.

  “Can I help you?” he asked.

  “I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m…uhhh.” She cringed, her eyes darting down the hallway as if planning an escape route. “I think you may have something of mine.”

  He raised a brow. Not likely. The one time he’d ended up with something of hers—a notice about an apartment inspection that had accidentally been stuck to a letter from his bank—he’d slipped it into her mailbox. The thought of hand delivering it had streaked across his mind, but he shut it down quickly. McKenna had a strange effect on him, and not one that he wanted to explore.

  You could explore it now. It’s over with Sherri, so what’s the harm?

  No. He wanted his fiancée back and he wasn’t going to mess up his chances by indulging in a silly fantasy.

  “I, um…” She tugged on her hair again. “I had a parcel delivered and I think you ended up with it. I typed my address too quickly and got the numbers mixed up. If I could just have it back—”

  “Noelle Smith?” His brain whirred and Beckett could swear he heard a sizzling sound as if someone had poured Coke over a hot motherboard.

  Good Lord, he did not need to picture McKenna and the Satisfier Pro Clitoral Stimulator.

  “It’s my alias for when I don’t want to use my real name.” She let out a nervous laugh. “Don’t ask why.”

  He didn’t need to, he knew. But now how the hell was he supposed to explain that he’d opened what was obviously a very private purchase? Could he claim that he’d never received the parcel and then leave it by her door in the dead of night?

  “The concierge told me you picked it up,” she said. Her teeth dented her lower lip. “By mistake, of course.”

  Fuck. “I did.”

  The excruciating silence stretched on while she looked up at him with those big blue eyes, imploring him not to make her ask for it. But he was tongue-tied. His mind stuck on the image of her using the toys on herself. His imagination had sketched out in vivid detail how her gorgeous face would look, eyes screwed shut and her glossy lips parted, as she slipped a hand down her body…

  “Can I grab it?” she asked.

  Hell yes, you can grab it.

  “Excuse me?” He blinked.

  “My parcel.” She raised a brow. “Can I grab it?”

  “Uh, sure.” He stepped aside and held the door open for her, since it was the last possible gentlemanly thing he could do. Not only had he invaded her privacy, but he’d mentally undressed her while doing it.

  Good work, Beckett. That’s some A-Grade assholery right there.

  “It’s through here.” He held the door for her and shut it with a soft click. The sound fired through his body like a gunshot. “I…it’s open.”

  “What?” Her head snapped up to his, her cheeks burning bright red while the rest of her complexion was drained of its natural hue. “You opened my mail?”

  He cursed himself internally. “I was distracted and didn’t check the name.”

  “Did you see what was inside?” Her faced begged him to lie, but Beckett was—for better or worse—honest about everything. He cleared his throat. “Just what was on top…and the invoice.”

  Good lord. If he’d only seen the toys, that would be one thing. Seen, reacted, and let his imagination run riot was a whole other level of trouble.

  Chapter Two

  “Oh God.” McKenna dropped her head into her hands. “Can this day get any worse?”

  Which items had he seen? The clip-on vibrating butterfly? The strawberry-scented lube? Mr. Whopper?

  She forced herself to lower her hands and make eye contact. Now was not the time to regress to toddler-style denial, no matter how much she wanted to crawl into a hole and never come out. Did he have to be so good looking? That was making it so much harder.

  Beckett towered over her—though at five foot four it wasn’t uncommon to have to look up at people—and he was built like an athlete. Strong and solid, lean like an AFL player but with a broad chest that filled out his blue shirt perfectly. He had wavy dark blond hair that was cut short and neat, the hint of stubble barely breaking through along his jaw.

  So conservative, so not her type at all. He looked like someone her mother would have picked out, and yet her body never failed to sing when he was around. And no church hymns, either. Oh no. Right now they were singing some Marvin Gaye-level shit.

  “I’m not judging you,” he said. His expression was difficult to read, but it didn’t sound like he was lying. Though there was definitely something strange in the air. Tension, maybe.

  Just your ability to embarrass yourself sucking the life out of the room.

  “You can, it’s a pretty ridiculous scenario.” Her gaze darted to where her package sat on his dining table. The corner of a pink box poked out of the top, the word “cum” making her cringe. “Have a laugh when your girlfriend gets home. I promise, I won’t be offended.”

  “That won’t happen.” He shook his head, a crease forming between his brows.

  McKenna snorted. “You’re a better person than me, then.”

  “I mean, she won’t be coming home.”

  “Oh.” She wasn’t sure what else to say, but Beckett was staring at her as though he expected something. A reaction, or maybe some solidarity. “Uh, is it permanent?”

  He shook his head, looking every bit the picture of male bewilderment. “Who the hell knows?”

  She’d met the woman a few times. Shirley…or something like that. Her name had reminded McKenna of old fifties screwball comedies, and it’d seemed at odds with the woman’s careful, slightly uptight persona. She’d visited the CAM-Ready cosmetics counter once, looking for a new lipstick that was “out of her comfort zone.” McKenna had suggested a vibrant poppy red, but the woman had ended up going for a pink-toned nude instead of her usual beige-toned nude.

  “If it makes you feel any better, I got dumped, too.” She jerked her head toward the box. “Hence the toys.”

  Beckett’s brows creased and it looked like he was about to lecture her, though for what she had no idea. God, how did the man manage to look sexier than sin while wearing an expression better suited to an angry school principal?

  Clearly Gage screwed with your head so much you no longer know what or who you’re attracted to. Maybe you should have ordered a sex doll as well. Tap out of personal interaction altogether.

  “Why were you dumped?” he asked.

  McKenna blinked. She hadn’t thought this situation could get any stranger, but here they were talking about their love lives while ignoring the box of shame, as she’d come to think of it. Beckett had never said much of anything to her, let alone asked her a personal question. She wasn’t sure what to make of it.

  “He wanted to get serious…just not with me. I’m not wife material, it would seem.”

  Beckett bobbed his head. “I understand.”


  “You’re not supposed to agree with him.” She folded her arms across her chest, indignation burning holes in her cheeks. “That’s rude.”

  “I didn’t say I agreed, I said I understood,” he replied, his voice tinted with irritation. There was that school principal look again.

  “Close enough,” she huffed.

  “No, it’s not. Agreeing and understanding are two totally different things.” He threw his hands up in the air. “I don’t get why women insist on twisting words so they can be insulted about something that isn’t meant to be an insult. It’s so…confusing.”

  Wow. A sentence with more than five words? Obviously she’d hit a hot button. It seemed as though her initial summations about him had been spot on—smokin’ hot but slightly awkward. Maybe not the best with people. An introvert. Temptation needled at her; she wanted to keep Beckett talking. She wanted to find out more about him.

  “So you said something to piss your girlfriend off, huh? That why she dumped you?”

  “You’re assuming I know why she dumped me,” he drawled.

  Had Beckett Walsh given her…sass? For some reason this pleased her greatly. There was more to him than robotic greetings and a master’s degree in avoiding human contact.

  “How can you not know?” She laughed. “Usually getting dumped is the point where the other person lists all your flaws.”

  He looked at her more closely. “You sound experienced in getting dumped.”

  That. Smug. Bastard.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Attitude. Maybe it’s that I simply know what’s going on around me, because I’m not stuck in my own world all the time like some people.” Pause. “And by some people, I mean you, if there was any uncertainty.”

  “I’m not in my own world.” He didn’t sound convinced.

  “Tell me,” she said, leaning on one hip and cocking her head. “Why did you say you understood why my boyfriend broke up with me?”

  A fleeting expression rippled across his face—something that looked like the lovechild of wariness and irritation. “Why do you want to know?”

  “Call it curiosity.”

  His eyes raked her up and down, the quick and assessing gaze should have felt analytical. Distant. But instead it felt as though she’d lowered herself into a warm bath, and her body was melting into the heat.

  “I understand that for some men you might be too…sparkly.”

  Okay, so that wasn’t what she was expecting. “Too sparkly?”

  His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Yes. You stand out.”

  “Does that mean you’ve noticed me around?” She tried not to sound gleeful, but for some reason the thought was very gratifying.

  Remember that thing about not getting involved with men for a while? Besides, you don’t want to be rebound fodder.

  “I know who you are.” He nodded, but he gave nothing away.

  McKenna had the feeling that was Beckett’s MO. But tonight she’d obviously caught him in a rare vulnerable moment where he’d been rattled enough to talk to her. It would have been easy enough for him to hand over the box of shame and send her packing.

  But he didn’t.

  “You’re usually a man of few words, aren’t you?” she said.

  “That’s what my sister tells me.”

  “I didn’t know you had a sister.” Really, she didn’t know anything about him. Other than the fact that he had this hot, nerdy vibe going on and it was eliciting some very strange reactions in her.

  “Her name is Kayla,” he said. “You’d like her. She talks a lot, too.”

  “I’m going to assume you don’t mean that as an insult.”

  “I don’t.”

  “What does she do? Is she married? Do you have adorable nieces and nephews?” The questions tumbled out of her lips. When people were locked up tight with personal information, it only made her more curious. And, despite knowing she should grab her box and move on, McKenna couldn’t help herself.

  “She’s in PR. Engaged. No kids.”

  Short. Succinct. So Beckett.

  McKenna prided herself on being able to read people—it was a key component of her job. When someone sat down in her makeup chair, she had to read between the lines about what they wanted—feel around for the edge of their comfort zone, so she could wow them without overwhelming them. To be able to make an impact on how someone viewed themselves, she had to first figure out who they were.

  And Lordy, did she ever want to dig around in Beckett’s mind right now. But that wasn’t a good idea for either of them. And he had a point, she was an expert in being dumped…or rather, picking the wrong men. Which meant it was time to put an end to this strange little conversation and quash any ideas that she should ask Beckett to have a drink with her.

  “I should get going,” she said, walking past him and picking up her box. She tried not to cringe at the hot-pink clit stimulator staring up at her. “Thanks for…uh, babysitting my parcel.”

  He made a noise that was probably intended to sound like “you’re welcome” but without using any actual words. Tempting as it was to tease him, she really needed to get the hell out before she made any more bad decisions. Beckett stood like a sexy man-mountain and watched her intently as she shifted from foot to foot, her lady parts battling with her brain.

  While his neat blue shirt and chinos gave off a conservative Clark Kent kind of vibe, his eyes were something else completely. Something unwieldly and heart-stoppingly masculine. Something that caused sensation to ripple through her, snapping its teeth at the small vestige of willpower she was trying to muster up.

  He was so damn…unnerving.

  “I guess I’ll see you around,” she said, heading to the door.

  His long legs got him there first and he opened it for her, that white-hot gaze still singeing her from the inside out. He didn’t smile, but at least now he was making eye contact. Progress.

  What progress? You don’t want any goddamn progress!

  And she’d repeat it a thousand times a day if it meant that she’d be able to stick to her guns.

  McKenna let her front door shut behind her, and then she sagged against it, the box of sex toys heavy in her hands. For some unknown reason, her heart was tripping on itself. The ba-dum, ba-dum rhythm making her all jittery and fizzy, like her veins had been filled with champagne instead of blood.

  Beckett freaking Walsh. The guy was so not her speed—too introverted, too much the strong, silent type. Like one of those old school cowboys who didn’t say much but could somehow make you swoon with a mere raise of his brow.

  She wondered if he had Facebook. McKenna stifled a giggle by sinking her teeth into her bottom lip. Just because she’d made the right decision not to invite Beckett over didn’t mean she was above a little masochistic internet stalking.

  She dumped the box on her kitchen table and headed to her couch, grabbing her laptop on the way. Beckett didn’t seem like the kind of guy who would be into social media, but she might luck out and find an abandoned Facebook profile. Or maybe something on LinkedIn.

  Her nails clicked over the keys. There were a bunch of articles about a computer program that Beckett had sold—something to do with time recording for employers. Not exactly juicy reading. She was out of luck with Facebook and Twitter...but then she stumbled across a picture of Beckett and his ex from some charity event. The caption under the photo said Beckett Walsh and Sherri Aldridge. McKenna snapped her fingers. That’s what her name was.

  They looked good together in that cardboard cutout way—matching gold hair and serious expressions. There didn’t appear to be an ounce of love in their eyes. But perhaps they’d been taken by surprise. The photo didn’t look posed.

  Sherri, on the other hand, was on Facebook. Her status was single, and there weren’t too many photos available. One, however, was tagged with a woman named Kayla Walsh. Beckett’s younger sister. The resemblance was subtle—her hair was more light brown than his blond, her complexion a little more olive-toned. But they bot
h had vibrant eyes in the exact same shade of aquamarine.

  McKenna clicked onto Kayla’s profile and gasped. A post announcing her upcoming wedding sat at the top, which shouldn’t have been surprising given Beckett had told her as much not ten minutes ago. But it wasn’t the fact that she was getting married that captured McKenna’s attention…it was the identity of the groom-to-be.

  Aaron Michael Corbett Jr.

  The guy could only have sounded more important if they’d tacked “esquire” onto the end of his name. The Corbett family were a big deal. Their company was into a lot of things—freight, transportation, logistics, storage. And they were frequently in the media, which was why McKenna knew about them.

  So Beckett’s little sister was getting married to the grandson of one of Melbourne’s most influential men. Her heartbeat picked up, excitement bubbling in her chest. This was exactly the kind of wedding McKenna needed to give her freelance business the boost it desperately needed. Her big break.

  A wedding like this would mean pictures of her work in the society pages and on wedding blogs. It would mean increased word-of-mouth referrals. It might just give her enough clients to quit CAM-Ready Cosmetics.

  McKenna grinned. Fate had brought her to Beckett Walsh’s doorstep. Now all she needed to do was convince Beckett to put her forward for the job.

  …

  The following afternoon, McKenna bounced up and down on the soles of her hot-pink Converse sneakers outside Beckett’s door. Funny how she was here again, and not any less nervous than yesterday. Asking for help never came easy to her, no doubt a product of her upbringing. The Prescott family made Type-A people look like free-spirited hippies. Success and prestige were the names of the game and asking for help was frowned upon. McKenna had learned from a young age that she was destined to disappoint. In her mind, it was easier to fail quietly than misguidedly attempt success and then draw everyone’s attention for the inevitable.

  But today she was taking destiny into her own hands.

  Sucking in a breath, she raised her fist and let it fall just under the gleaming 110 on Beckett’s door. There were no sounds from the inside. Maybe he wasn’t home? Or maybe he’d looked through the peephole and decided he couldn’t deal with her today.