Not My Neighbor: A Steamy Standalone Instalove Romance

by Flora Ferrari

  Nobody. That title’s reserved for short, thicker girls who majored in photography.

  “Nope. Just me,” he says again, shrugging and holding his hands’ palms up out in front of himself.

  A second ago I thought he was having a dig at me for being single. But hearing Blake say he’s alone really hurts me more for some reason.

  What chance do I have if the Blake Masons of this world can’t find anyone?

  “It doesn’t mean I’m not available,” he says confidentially, leaning over so close to my ear I can feel the warmth of his breath. Getting another blast of his delicious spice and woodsy scent.

  My mind goes blank for a second I almost forget how to drive. The sound of Blake shifting back to his side of the car brings me back around again.

  If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that Blake Mason was flirting with me.

  But an older guy like him? A man with a god damned platinum credit card and a custom tailored suit?

  I’m still not convinced and tell myself he’s jet lagged or that I’m just reading too much into things.

  We drive in silence for a while, having had some time to mull things over he seems to want to start fresh.

  “So, how are my fish?” he asks, catching me off guard really because I have no idea. Only that my dad said he was feeding them.

  “Oh, fine,” I tell him too quickly, feeling his sidelong glance as he smiles to himself yet again.

  I hope for my sake they are fine.

  But I still can’t get over it.

  Blake Mason. Our new neighbor.

  Shit.

  Chapter Four

  Blake

  It’s not long before I realize that Krystal knows about as much about her ‘dad’s new neighbor’ as I do.

  Lucky for me, although none of it makes any difference. I’d have thought of something to get and stay close to Krystal as soon as we met.

  Circumstance just helped me along a little.

  Helped us both.

  So far I know her dad’s away and that she’s single. Which is excellent news, for me.

  I tell her I’m flying solo too, but that I am available, which isn’t too over the top for the first half-hour or so of knowing someone.

  Is it?

  Never would I say something like that to anyone else, but with Krystal, I need her to know.

  Asking about the fish her dad’s been feeding is supposed to make me sound more like whoever the hell this guy is, but I decide to keep the questions toned down a little until I do get ‘home’.

  Then I can start snooping good and proper, find out who I really am pretending to be.

  That’s if he isn’t home already.

  I frown at the thought, but figure lady luck’s been on my side all day so far. I don’t feel like anything can go wrong when I have days like this.

  Days where everything I touch seems to turn to gold. Or in this case, turning to Krystal.

  She makes some small talk, and I can sense she’s steering things away from fish, magazines, and romance.

  Asking me about my ‘trip’ to London is fine, I’ve been there so many times I could talk to anyone about it all day.

  “I’d like to travel one day,” Krystal sighs dreamily, and I remind her it’s not always glamorous.

  “Long haul flights, change in the weather. Not to mention the food. Some places it’s not even safe to drink the water,” I hear myself cautioning her.

  A bigger part of me only wanting her to stay here where she belongs. With me.

  “You seem to have coped okay,” she observes with a sly grin, letting her eyes stray to my lap again before moving up my body.

  “From the jet lag, I mean,” she adds quickly.

  “It probably hasn’t hit me yet,” I tell her. Thinking about my good fortune in meeting her over any supposed jet lag I’m supposed to have.

  I talk some more about the pros of travel, suddenly realizing travel with Krystal would be exciting.

  Hell. Just riding in a tiny car with her is exciting enough for me. She could drive us cross country in this thing, as long as I’m with her.

  “You have a passport?” I find myself asking, already planning the possibilities in my mind.

  I curl my lip in frustration when she tells me no.

  “Well, we’ll have to sort that out,” I murmur, and hearing me she seems to become inwardly excited.

  “It’s worth having,” I add, offhand. “You just never know when you might need to travel,” I tell her with an air of mystery but in reality, I’ve already started the process of her application in my mind.

  It’s on the to-do list.

  Like her.

  As soon as possible.

  I can’t afford to have Krystal walking around unclaimed like this. It won’t do.

  She’ll be mine.

  Even though you’re twice her age, impersonating her neighbor and have lied to her since the moment you both met?

  Not lying. Re-framing. I tell myself, feeling a little uneasy when she tells me we’re almost there.

  As if I should need to know that.

  Shouldn’t I know where I live?

  Taking the turnoff, Krystal drives us towards what I can see from where we are is one of those new-ish housing developments.

  The kind of instant suburbs that crop up, doomed to be inhabited by the working class who wanna feel like they live someplace nice for a change.

  It all looks great for the first year or two, but like this one, after a time it starts to look shabby.

  Cheap houses sold at three times their value, with local businesses closing or moving closer to where people will actually buy stuff.

  “Hasn’t changed a bit,” I say cheerfully, acting like a man who’s glad to finally see the longed for sights of home.

  Krystal looks at me in the rearview, raising her brows.

  “What?” I ask her.

  “It’s changed a lot,” she confides in me, reaffirming my own impressions.

  “When I went to college everything looked so new, so fresh. Now it looks like an old neighborhood that needs work.” She observes, taking the turns down streets by memory.

  “Maybe it’s just you who changed, College I mean,” I suggest, not wanting to run down her neighborhood.

  I mean, my neighborhood too. I live here for a reason, right?

  “How’s your new place coming along?” she asks, helping me join the dots in my mind as well as my story of the mystery man I’ve become.

  “My new place?” I ask her, wondering if she has much more on the topic.

  “Dad said you were only staying in the neighborhood until your new place is built,” she tells me, looking a little somber.

  The idea of someone moving on and up while she stays stuck seems to be written in her eyes.

  “Oh that,” I exclaim, wanting to set her mind at ease.

  “Still at the hole in the ground stage, really,” I reply, noting her mood shift up when I tell her.

  “I’ll be here for a while yet,” I remind her. Needing her to know that whether she thinks I’m her real neighbor or knows me for who I really am, I mean it.

  I’m not going anywhere without her.

  “Here we are,” she announces.

  I force a nod of appreciation, but I still don’t know if she’s pulled into ‘my driveway’ or hers.

  She unbuckles herself and turns in her seat to face me.

  “Glad to be home?” she asks, sounding more excited than I’m acting or could ever pretend to be, so I just think of her.

  She’s my home now. She’s everything I want and more. The only person I want to be with, so yeah. I’m glad to be home.

  “Thanks for finding me,” I tell her truthfully, noting the change in her expression as she looks bashful. Her eyes moving down.

  “Oh! I nearly forgot,” she says, quickly recovering herself and lifting her rear end off her seat, and leaning closer.

  Fishing in her pocket for something.

 
; Her hair is so close I can smell its freshness, the sweetness of her whole body too.

  My mouth is close enough to kiss her, but before I can decide, she’s produced a key and holds it up between us.

  “You’ll need this,” she tells me as I look at her, only wanting her closer to me again.

  “The spare key you gave my dad,” she adds, explaining it all as I absently take it. Glad at least I have a way inside.

  But which house is mine?

  I take a guess, comparing the two which look so similar it’s almost impossible to imagine who would live where.

  Both have mail filling the mailboxes, but one has an unkempt-looking front yard.

  Like someone who’s been overseas for weeks, or someone who works away a lot and hasn’t got around to it yet?

  I can’t blow my cover just yet, but it really is an impossible decision for me to risk making out loud.

  “Aren’t you gonna ask me in?” I chuckle instead, “Or do you have other plans?” I ask her, not wanting to see her go so soon either.

  She blushes again, gnawing her lower lip.

  “Maybe you could ask me in,” she says formally, looking shy again.

  “Our place. It’s a bit of a mess,” she admits, making me smile.

  “What a great idea. Lead the way,” I instruct her cheerfully, taking my time getting out of the car so I can get another few moments’ view of her from behind.

  My god but she’s beautiful.

  Just stunning.

  She takes the lead, but only by a step, and I follow her to the house next door to where she’s parked.

  The neater-looking one.

  Lawn guy. I deduce.

  Krystal waits by the front door and I slide my key in, relieved when it turns but still unsure exactly how all this is gonna pan out if the real owner is home or decides to come home while I’m here.

  One look at Krystal though and it’s the furthest thing from my mind.

  I usher her in first, following close behind and leaning on the door to close it I take in the surroundings.

  “Wow!” Krystal exclaims, not waiting to be told to make herself at home, she moves quickly from the entrance hall to the living room and through to the kitchen.

  “This place is huge inside compared to ours, and so neat,” I hear her voice echoing back to me.

  I spot a framed picture of a gangly middle aged man hugging an elderly woman on the wall, quickly snapping it up and putting it in a drawer on my way through to the sound of Krystal’s voice.

  If that’s supposed to be me, I’m in trouble.

  “How about some coffee?” I suggest, making my way through to the kitchen, finding her examining another similar photograph.

  Turning to face me with an almost troubled, questioning look.

  “Who’s this?” she asks.

  Chapter Five

  Krystal

  I’m glad when Blake asks me in, wishing he’d read my mind.

  Although I have to admit that just coffee isn’t exactly what I have in mind.

  But there I go again. Sounding like some sort of seductress, some woman of experience.

  The kind he’s probably used to.

  In reality, I just crave him being close to me. He’s the only male I’ve ever met that actually wants to talk to me for being me, without judging me by how I look or what I’m interested in.

  He makes me feel safe like I could tell him anything and he wouldn’t laugh.

  I can’t say the same for him though.

  He does seem a little guarded still. But it’s probably just jet lag.

  Who the hell looks this good after a long-haul flight?

  Blake Mason. That’s who.

  He’d look good doing anything, anytime, anywhere.

  I convince myself that’s the case, and making our way into his house I’m amazed at how similar our houses are on the outside, but how different they are inside.

  Our place is the same size, but with a different floor plan, I guess.

  And his place is clean.

  Like, spotlessly clean.

  We’re not slobs, but with dad away often and me at college. The place looks lived in.

  Blake’s house looks brand new inside, with only some slight wear showing outside. Like every house on the street.

  Bought off the plan and built in a month. They looked great for about a year, then started to look tired.

  Not how real houses used to look like. When they built them to last.

  I can’t help but help myself to look around. It reminds me of the show homes they used when they were selling the lots before the neighborhood was built all those years ago.

  But something’s not right.

  Apart from having a pool out back, which we don’t, I notice a few pictures here and there of some guy and what looks like his mom or grandma.

  There’s one on the kitchen counter which I pick up and study as I hear Blake suggest we make some coffee.

  “Who’s this?” I ask, holding up a small metallic frame.

  “Sorry,” I tell him quickly, realizing how rude I’m being. “First I barge into your house and now I’m demanding to know who’s in your photos,” I tell him, apologizing again.

  Feeling like I’m making more of a fool of myself every time I open my mouth around Blake, but he never seems to mind.

  “It’s alright,” he says, shrugging it off and taking the photo from me, casually slipping it into a kitchen drawer.

  “I’m only letting the place really, the owners are away for twelve months,” Blake explains.

  “They left all their things here and I agreed not to put holes in the walls or hang my own pictures. It’s kind of homely, I guess.” He reasons to himself.

  “Well, don’t let me put you off,” I tell him, still kicking myself. “It’s none of my business really. I’m sorry for intruding,” I add, really meaning it.

  If my dad was here, he’d tell me off for being such a snoop.

  Why should I care or need to know what pictures Blake has up?

  Because I want to know everything about him is why. And I want him to tell me. To show me.

  To be with me.

  It’s about as much of a pipe dream as my job opportunity at the magazine he’s an editor for, but there is something in the way he looks at me.

  And definitely something in his touch.

  I watch him as he opens the double-sided refrigerator, making a sound of disapproval before opening some cupboards with the same reaction.

  “It looks like I didn’t plan ahead too well for a homecoming,” he admits, forcing a smile.

  “Not even any coffee?” I ask, solving the issue instantly. Literally.

  “We’ve got instant coffee, and sugar and milk,” I offer, smiling at the thought of being so useful.

  “Gimme a minute, I’ll be right back,” I tell him, not even giving him time to suggest anything else.

  But there’s no way I want him to see inside our house either, even if he has already. I don’t want him associating me with our house. My dad’s house really.

  He holds his hands up in surrender, chuckling that he’ll wait right where he is, and tells me not to hurry.

  “We’ve got all day, haven’t we?” he asks, probing me again to make sure he’s not stopping me from doing anything else.

  “I’m all yours for today if need be.” I try and joke, but the intense look in his eyes and the low sound he makes as I leave the house leaves me wondering if I shouldn’t take some time and freshen up a little.

  Maybe shower, change my outfit.

  Maybe touch myself until I break free of this feeling he’s bringing out in me.

  Jesus, Krystal. Where on earth are you getting this stuff from?

  I almost break my ankle speeding from Blake’s house to ours, fumbling for my key and looking at the way my hands are trembling, feeling nothing but butterflies in my belly and a tingle in between my legs that goes all the way up to my core when I think about him.
/>   I try to tell myself it’s just coffee. That he’s just our neighbor, but it’s no use.

  I can feel it already.

  My emotions. They’re all totally out of control when it comes to Blake Mason.

  Catching a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror, I almost faint.

  I look like hell.

  Or is it just that Blake looks so damned good?

  Looking so fresh and like nothing ever fazes him. Like he doesn’t have a single problem in the whole world.

  Maybe he doesn’t, but surely running a magazine must be hard work. It must be stressful. My last boss and half the employees were stressed to the max. Myself included by the time I left and that was only after two months.

  I wash my face and fix my hair a little better.

  Would he prefer it up or down?

  And should I have a shower, what about my bath later on?

  This is the kind of thinking the man generates in me and I’ve only just met him.

  I don’t know if I can live next door to him, to be honest. I’m already feeling things I’ve never really felt before and the day’s not even over yet.

  I settle for keeping my hair up and skipping the shower. I was only supposed to be zipping next door to get us some coffee anyway.

  A spritz of my special occasion only perfume and a raid of our own meager coffee supply sees me almost skipping back to Blake’s.

  The thought of seeing him again even after just a few minutes gives me a thrill I can’t get used to.

  I stop at his mailbox and fish out what looks like a few days’ worths. Or maybe he just gets a lot of—

  Nathaniel Macy.

  Nate Macy.

  Mr. N. Macy.

  Mr. Nathan Macy.

  For the attention of Mr. Macy…

  There’s a ton of mail here and all with someone else’s name on it.

  Nothing here for Blake Mason. Not a single thing.

  Not even any junk mail.

  I frown at it, feeling a little shocked. But then I remember two things. This isn’t Blake’s house and most important. It’s none of my damned business.

  I ring the bell at his front door rather than being too familiar, noting it takes Blake some time to answer.