Could Be the One: (Lucas and Becca) (A Back to Jetty Beach Romance Book 2)

by Claire Kingsley

  Now? Hearing this is making me so uncomfortable. How can he be so loud? He must know how thin the walls are. Does he just not care?

  I hunker down in the cushions, pull the blanket over my lap, and search for some cute puppy YouTube videos. I need a distraction. I do not like what listening to this is doing to my insides. Dare I admit that, despite the fact that I’m horrified, I’m also feeling a little turned on?

  That’s so wrong. Isn’t it?

  I find another cute puppy video. This one has a kitten too. Super not sexual. I shift a little. Are my panties wet? You have got to be kidding me. They are.

  I head upstairs and take a shower, mostly to drown out the noise. And I will not admit to what I do in the shower. No way. That’s something I almost never do, and never, ever talk about.

  All is quiet when I wake up in the morning (thank god I don’t hear morning sex coming through the wall). I head downstairs, feeling pretty proud of myself. I did it. I moved into my own place. I slept here by myself. No parents. No roommates. No boyfriend.

  I’m officially a grown-up.

  But this grown-up needs coffee, and I don’t know where my coffee maker is. I decide to head into town to get some, and then I can start tackling the rest of this apartment.

  I throw on some jeans and a sweater and head out, slinging my purse over my shoulder. I get in my car, turn the key in the ignition, and realize I left my phone inside. I won’t be gone long, so I don’t really need it. But I’d rather bring it, so I hop out of my car and run up to my front door.

  Just before my hand touches the doorknob, I realize what a dork I am. My keys are still in my car, and my front door is locked. I go back to my car and pull on the door handle.

  Uh-oh.

  I pull again, but the car door is definitely locked. I go around to the passenger side, but it’s locked too.

  Oh, no. I race around to the driver’s side again and try the door, but I already know it’s futile. I have a habit of locking the door from the inside when I get out, just in case the remote doesn’t work. My dad taught me to do that. But this time, I left the car running when I got out, and apparently I still locked it.

  I look back and forth between my apartment door and my car. I’m standing here, in the chill morning air, next to a locked car that is still running. My phone is in my apartment. My keys are in the car.

  So I do what any capable adult would do. I break down in tears.

  What am I going to do now? I don’t know anyone nearby except Finn and Juliet, and their place isn’t walking distance from here. Nothing is walking distance from here. I look up at my neighbor’s door. The last thing I want to do is knock and ask him for help. Not only do I not know him, I don’t want to be the weird girl who shows up at the door when his girlfriend answers in her underwear or something. How awkward.

  I shuffle back up to my doorstep and try my front door again. But of course I locked it. I always lock my door. I’m careful about that stuff.

  My lower lip trembles and I sink down onto the step, a few tears sliding down my face.

  I couldn’t even make it twenty-four hours on my own. I’m hopeless.

  3

  Lucas

  It’s kind of early for a weekend, but I’m up, and I’m out of pretty much everything, so I figure I’ll run to the store. I grab my keys and head out to my car.

  I’m halfway to my parking spot when I notice the car next to mine—a little red Toyota Prius—is running without anyone in it. I guess the new girl next door is warming it up. I wasn’t home for most of the day yesterday. When I came back, I noticed the car, but I missed the moving truck, if there was one. I glance back at her door, and that’s when I see her, sitting on the doorstep, her head in her hands.

  That’s weird.

  “Hey, are you okay?” I ask.

  She looks up and it’s obvious she’s been crying. Despite the fact that her cheeks are a little splotchy, she’s really cute. Shoulder length blond hair, big brown eyes. Her lower lip trembles and a tear trails down her face.

  I glance between her and the car a few times. She didn’t…

  “Oh shit, are your keys locked in your car?”

  She nods.

  Oh, man. That sucks balls. “And your front door is locked, too?”

  She nods again.

  I’m hit with a pang of sympathy for the poor girl. Although I’m not sure why she’s just sitting there crying, like she’s helpless. “Well, I guess you need to call a locksmith?”

  She sniffs again and gestures behind her. “My phone is inside.”

  “Gotcha,” I say. I guess this is the part where I offer to help? “Do you want me to call a locksmith for you? You can come in and wait inside my place.”

  Her eyebrows draw together. “No, I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

  “It’s fine.”

  “But isn’t your, um…” She pauses for a second and looks away. “Isn’t your girlfriend in there?”

  “My what, now?”

  “Your girlfriend. I heard… that is, it sounded like you had your girlfriend over last night.”

  I’m not sure what she’s talking about, because I definitely don’t have a girlfriend. And last night… Oh. Right. Girlfriend she was not, but I did have a girl over. “Oh, I guess I did have someone over last night, but she’s not my girlfriend. And no, she’s not here. She left last night.”

  “Oh.”

  “You heard, what, talking?” I ask.

  Her face turns scarlet. “No. I mean, yes, that must be what I heard.”

  I grin at her. “Oh, I get it. Sorry.”

  “The walls are really thin,” she says.

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” I reach out my hand to help her to her feet. “I’m Lucas.”

  She takes my hand and stands. “Yeah, I’m Becca.”

  “So do you want to come in, or is sitting out here more your style?”

  She glances at her still-running car.

  “It’s not like anyone can steal it,” I say.

  “Yeah, of course,” she says. “Sure, I’ll come in.”

  I bring her inside and notice her looking around, her eyes wide. This building used to have three units, but I took out most of the walls in two of them when I bought it. Now my side is big, and really open. There’s a bedroom and bathroom upstairs, as well as a bath downstairs, but otherwise, it’s all open space. My work area is set up in what used to be one of the dining rooms. I have a u-shaped desk with half a dozen computer monitors. On the other side, a couple of couches face a flat-screen TV on the wall. I took out one of the kitchens and turned it into a gaming area, with a big pool table and a few vintage arcade games.

  I lead her over to one of the couches and move some things off to the side so she can sit down. She looks around like she’s not sure if she wants to touch anything. My back prickles at that. Come on, my place isn’t that bad. It’s not even dirty; there’s just a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt in her way.

  She sits and I make a quick phone call to a locksmith in town. “He’ll be here as soon as he can.”

  “Great, thank you.” Her eyes dart around and she’s right on the edge of the couch—clearly uncomfortable.

  “You won’t get a disease in here or anything,” I say.

  “Oh, no,” she says. “Your place is nice. It’s so big.”

  “Yeah, I combined two units when I bought the building. I like having room to stretch out.”

  “You own the building?” she asks.

  I sit on the couch across from her. “Yep.”

  “How did I not know that?”

  “I have a property management company deal with the rental unit you’re in,” I say. “I’d let you back into your place, but I don’t keep a key here.”

  She glances over at my desk. “Is that your home office? What do you do?”

  “I’m a day trader. So I work from here.”

  “What’s a day trader?” she asks.

  I shrug. “Basically I buy and sell sto
cks on a short term basis for quick profits.”

  “Wow. Sounds risky.”

  “It can be, but I seem to have a knack for it.” I narrow my eyes at her. I know I recognize her. She’s Juliet’s friend, I know that much. But do I know her from somewhere else? I’m positive she’s not some girl I slept with. There’s no way I’d forget her if I had.

  “Oh, shit,” I say, recognition dawning on me. “I do know you. You were at the pub that night when Finn met Juliet.”

  She nods. “Yep.”

  “Right, you were the one who wouldn’t stop talking about her perfect boyfriend,” I say, laughing at the memory.

  The touch of a smile I was starting to get out of her melts away in an instant, and suddenly she’s crying again.

  Oops.

  I have a feeling I know why Becca just moved in next door to me.

  “Hey,” I say, feeling a little awkward. “It’s okay.”

  “Oh my god.” She sniffs hard and wipes beneath her eyes. “I can’t believe I’m sitting here crying. I’m such a child.”

  My eyes drift down to her boobs, and child is definitely not what I’m thinking. “No, you’re not. It’s fine.”

  “It’s just… I thought Brandon was going to propose. And then he broke up with me. Not only did he break up with me, he left me for someone else. Some fricking brunette. He moved across the country to be with her.”

  Okay, first of all, she’s telling me things. This isn’t really my area. This is more Finn’s thing. She should be sitting at his bar, spilling her guts over a drink. Probably something fruity, but that’s Finn’s thing too. I’d have no idea what to order a girl like this. Second, she just said fricking, which is both hilarious and kind of adorable. Before I can stop myself, I let out a quick laugh.

  Her eyes lock onto my face. “You’re laughing at me?”

  “No,” I say, but she clearly doesn’t believe me. “Not at all. It was just cute the way you said fricking.”

  “Well, Brandon is such a… a fricking jerk.”

  “Wow, we really need to work on your swearing.”

  She glares at me, and she’s even cute when she does that. Everything about her is positively dripping with adorableness. Is that a word? Can I put -ness on the end of that? Whatever. It works.

  “I don’t need to swear to have an intelligent conversation,” she says.

  “No, of course not.” I lean forward and put my elbows on my knees, looking her straight in the eyes. “But wouldn’t it feel good to call him a fucker?”

  Her cheeks color, a little flush of pink that creeps across her fair skin. And that, my friends, is my kryptonite. I start to get hard, and I’m glad I’m leaning over, because she probably can’t see my crotch. I’m going to have to do some mental gymnastics to get the thought of her sweet round tits turning pink for me out of my head so I can get up without causing a scene.

  But before I do, I kind of want to push her a little.

  “Come on,” I say, my voice gentle. “Say it once.”

  “Say what?”

  “Brandon is a fucker.”

  She pinches her lips together and they move, like she’s working her tongue around her mouth.

  “Say it.” I lick my lips and watch her think about it. “Wait, don’t.”

  Her eyes widen with surprise. “What?”

  “You’ve never said fuck before, have you?”

  “What do you think I am, nine years old?”

  I glance at her boobs again. “No, but you never swear, do you?”

  Her eyes dart away. “No.”

  Oh my god. She’s, like, a swearing virgin. This is magnificent. Is this girl even real? She’s tiny, and blond, with chocolate brown eyes and this innocence about her that is so fucking genuine.

  I kind of want to dirty her up a little.

  “Okay, we’re going to pop your fuck cherry, right now.”

  “What?” she asks, her voice going high-pitched. She leans away, like if I get too close I’ll soil her.

  “Yep. I want to hear you say it.”

  “No,” she says. “I definitely can’t.”

  “Why not?” I ask. “It’s just a word. And trust me, sometimes it feels really good to say it.”

  “But it’s so vulgar,” she says.

  She says that, but there’s interest in her voice. She wants to be a little naughty. To take out some of her anger and hurt.

  “You know, some say only unintelligent people swear, because they can’t think of something better to say. But I disagree, and the research backs me on this. It takes intelligence and a good grasp of both language and social nuance to swear properly.”

  “So you’re saying you think smart people swear?” she asks.

  “Stupid people can swear, obviously. Smart people know how to swear well. And honestly, sometimes there’s just no substitute for throwing out a solid fuck.” I give emphasis to the word, letting it glide from my lips. It’s like it sits there in the middle of the room between us, hovering in the air.

  She opens her mouth, but closes it again.

  “Come on, Becca,” I say, leaning back. “Let me hear you call Brandon a fucker.”

  “I don’t think I can.”

  I raise my eyebrow at her and one corner of my mouth drifts up in a half-smile. “We both know he’s a fucker. He led you on, letting you believe he was going to propose, and then he left you. That’s a fucker if I’ve ever heard of one. He deserves it.”

  “Well, yeah, he does.”

  “Good.” I stare at her lips, so soft and pink. It’s very difficult not to imagine those lips around my dick, but I do my best to put that thought aside. Contrary to what my friends think, I don’t bang every girl I meet.

  And no matter how luscious her lips are, Becca is already in my off-limits category. She’s my neighbor, and as they say, I don’t shit where I eat.

  But this girl needs something from me that isn’t my cock. She’s hurt, and I’m all too familiar with the nature of this kind of pain. Seeing her grapple with it dredges up feelings I’d rather not deal with again.

  What she needs is to get a little angry. To indulge in some rage toward the asshole who broke her heart.

  I’m having a hard time imagining how any asshole could break this sweet girl’s heart, but that’s neither here nor there.

  “Come on, Becca. Say it. Brandon is a fucker.”

  Something in her eyes changes. She loses the angelic doe-eyed expression, and I see a flash of anger. There’s some heat behind that pale skin. Some fight in her.

  I like it.

  She takes a deep breath. “Brandon is a fucker.” Her hand immediately goes to her mouth.

  I grin at her. “That’s brilliant. Say it again.”

  Her eyes dance and she nibbles on her bottom lip for a second before speaking. “Brandon is a fucker.”

  “Good. Now again, with some feeling,” I say, clenching my fist. “Put some anger into it.”

  Her eyebrows draw together. “Brandon is such a fucker.”

  “He really is,” I say. “What a douche. Go ahead, get angry.”

  “How the… fuck could he do that to me?” she asks, only hesitating for a second before dropping the f-bomb. “He’s horrible. He’s the worst. He’s such an asshole.”

  “Good,” I say, nodding. “Mix it up.”

  “And I’m glad I puked on him.”

  I laugh, and she starts laughing, and I have no idea what she’s talking about, but pretty soon we’re both cracking up.

  “Wait, did you just say you’re glad you puked on him?” I say when I can breathe again.

  “Yeah,” she says. “We were out to dinner, and I thought he was proposing, but instead he broke up with me. And then I threw up all over him.”

  I can’t help but laugh again, so hard my side starts to hurt. Luckily, she laughs along with me.

  “That’s one of the best things I’ve heard in a while,” I say. “I’m glad you puked on the asshole too. So, was I right? Did it fe
el good to say it?”

  “Yeah, it did feel a little good,” she says.

  “Awesome.”

  There’s a knock at the door and I get up to answer it. It’s the locksmith, and Becca steps outside to talk to him. The way this guy basically breaks into her car makes me a little nervous. I wonder if he’s a car prowler on the side. He’s quite good at it.

  Becca looks like she’s ready to hug the guy, and he leaves without even charging her. I kind of can’t blame him. Seeing that big smile light up her face was pretty satisfying.

  She turns off her car and makes a show of bringing out her keys, holding them up and jingling them around.

  “Careful with those,” I say. “You won’t always have me around to rescue you.”

  Something about the smile she gives me sends a trail of warmth through my chest.

  “Well, hopefully I won’t need any more rescuing.”

  She says goodbye and goes back into her apartment, presumably to get her phone. I head for my own car. I pull out onto the street, feeling pretty good about myself. I did my good deed for the day.

  Becca might be off limits, but there’s still nothing terrible about having a hot girl living next door to me. And Becca is all kinds of hot, in her oddly angelic way.

  4

  Lucas

  My phone rings while I’m in the shower. Who’s calling me? Civilized people text these days, so it must be my old man. Sure enough, I check when I get out and I have a voicemail from my dad.

  I have no clue why he insists on leaving me voicemails. They always say the same thing: “Lucas, it’s your father. Call me.” I don’t think he’s ever left me a message that says anything different. I’ve tried to tell him that I’ll see he called, and he doesn’t have to leave a message if all he’s going to do is tell me to call him back. But he still does. Every time.