The Dream Guy Next Door: A Guys Who Got Away Novel

by Lauren Blakely

  Shaking her head, she deals me a stern stare. “And so when are you going to see this neighbor again?”

  “I don’t know. Probably all the time because she’s my next-door neighbor.” I look at my watch, then answer a little sheepishly, “Also, in about thirty minutes because we’re going furniture shopping.”

  As I say that, a little zip of excitement whips through me. I hate shopping. I loathe shopping for furniture. And I detest IKEA. But I’m absolutely looking forward to going furniture shopping with January.

  “Shopping,” my mother says, as if it’s a naughty word.

  “It’s just furniture shopping,” I point out.

  She gives me the satisfied smile that only a mother can dole out. “It’s furniture shopping now, but in no time, she’ll be knocked up and popping out more babies for me, okay?”

  I hold up a hand. “I don’t even think I can speak to you any longer.” Then I sober as I shift to another subject, the reason I’m here. “How’s Dad?”

  Her mood cracks and sinks into sadness, but then she gamely tries to buoy up her emotions, pasting on a smile. “He’s okay,” she says in a chipper voice that sounds forced. “He’s doing well enough. He had an appointment this morning to prep for the surgery next month.”

  “Is he ready?” That surgery is part of why I’m here. A big part.

  She swallows roughly, but her voice is steady. “Some days he’s all zen and accepts it. Other days he rages against the machine.”

  “And which one is he today?”

  “Today he’s simply happy that he’s going to spend time with Ethan. We all enjoy that. And on that note, why don’t you go see your lady friend for your IKEA date?”

  “That’s not what it is,” I say. But I do pop inside and say hi to my father and bye to my son before I take off to meet my next-door neighbor for our definitely-not-a-date.

  6

  Liam

  January waits for me, leaning against the cab of her pink truck, looking sexy as sin and sweet as ice cream.

  Because, damn. There’s just something about a woman with ink who drives a pickup truck. She tosses the keys in the air and catches them, dealing me a serious gut-check sort of stare. “I’ve got supplies. Are you ready?”

  I screw up the corner of my lips, tapping my chin. “Let’s see.” I pat the pocket of my jeans. “I’ve got some rations, a Leatherman, and a blueprint of the store that I found online.”

  She opens the door of her truck. “Perfect. I’ve got a camper stove too. Just in case.”

  “Are you a fan of camping?”

  “I am. And judging from the look on your face, you’re not?”

  “What look exactly?”

  She circles her finger, pointing at my face. “The slight crinkle of your nose combined with just a touch of recoil.”

  “Sounds like a recipe.” I pretend I’m reading a cookbook. “Start with a dollop of dislike, then toss in a dash of derision and a sprinkle of disdain. There you go.”

  A well-done grin glides across her face. “So, you admit you have a secret I Hate Camping face?”

  “Oh. Was it a secret?” I ask with a deadpan expression. “According to you, it was readily apparent.”

  Shaking her head in amusement, she points to the passenger side. “Get in, radish-hating, camping-hating, comfy-furniture-hating neighbor.”

  Before I make my way around the truck, I hold open the door for her. “After you, furniture Sherpa.”

  She lifts her eyebrows approvingly as she hops into the cab. “Thank you. Very gentlemanly of you.”

  Yes, but it’s also strategic. Gives me a chance to admire her backside. She has a great ass, and I enjoy lovely views.

  So, I’m not that gentlemanly.

  Closing the door behind her, I head to the passenger side, get in, and snap on my seat belt.

  I peer into the bed of the truck as if I’m checking out her survival supplies. The bed of her truck is actually empty—pristine too, as if newly cleaned. “Is there a tent that goes along with this camper stove of yours? In case we’re stuck overnight?”

  She scoffs as she turns on the engine. “Don’t be silly. We can just curl up in a king-size bed and catch our Zs in the bedroom section if we want.”

  Oh, did she just go there, to flirty and dirty land? I believe she did. And I do believe I liked it.

  Maybe too much though.

  That’s the trouble. She’s sarcastic, friendly, helpful, and sexy as hell, but also completely ineligible. I have to remember she’s my next-door neighbor. She’s exactly who I can’t pursue in my efforts to find Mrs. Right. To provide for Ethan what I was lucky enough to have growing up—a stable, steady family.

  Even though we moved continents, even though it was hard as hell at first, I was lucky to have two parents who looked out for me, who talked to me, who gave me everything I needed to become the person I wanted to be.

  Now I want to give my son everything I experienced, and I know he misses having a mum.

  But that won’t be January.

  She won’t be Mrs. Right.

  She can only be Ms. Next Door.

  Anything else would be foolish. Because if we didn’t work out, she’d be a stone’s throw away. That would be awkward. Possibly uncomfortable. Potentially as agonizing as trying to use a PC when you’re used to a Mac.

  And there’s the kid factor. Ethan could get attached, and that spells trouble too.

  He doesn’t need another loss in his life.

  That makes my neighbor thoroughly off-limits.

  First things first—once I settle into my new home and new job, I can start this whole dating-for-keeps business in earnest, and approach it with stealth so that Ethan doesn’t meet her before we’re solid as a rock.

  Which means I’m simply going to embrace having a next-door neighbor who’s fun, easygoing, and tempting as hell.

  That’s especially true as she stretches her arm across the back of my seat and twists to look behind her, giving me a view of the sparrows on her right arm. They fly down her shoulder, soar across her biceps, and curl around to below her elbow. The ink is delicate, feminine, and impossible to look away from.

  What do they mean? Why did she get them? And does she have more ink that’s hidden from my view?

  I shake away my wayward thoughts. “How do you want to tackle this shopping expedition today? Besides forging our own path and refusing to be funneled through the endless retail labyrinth?”

  “I have my plan of attack. I wrote a task list. It’s like a schedule and has water breaks and even snack times,” she says as she puts the truck in drive.

  “Are we talking Pirate’s Booty–type snacks, or more like apple slices and peanut butter?”

  “Please. After yesterday, I’m never giving you fresh food again. It’s Pirate’s Booty all the way for you, mister.” She turns down the next road. “And don’t forget, if we get lost or confused in the store or we just can’t find our way out, we can always call for help.”

  I rub my finger against my ear. “What did you just say? Call for help?”

  She groans. “Oh, you’re one of those guys. The kind who doesn’t believe in asking for help.”

  I thump my chest, playing up the stereotype to egg her on. “I’m a man. I’m not allowed to ask for help.”

  “Anyone can ask for help,” she says, a touch worked up and a touch adorable.

  “Then it’s a good thing you’ll be there in case someone needs to do it.” Laughing will ruin the pretense that this is a sticking point for me, so I keep a straight face.

  She arches a dubious brow. “Would you really not ask for help? What’s so wrong with that? Nice guys ask for help when they need it.”

  I roll my eyes, continuing the ruse. “Great. Now you think I’m a nice guy. Just fucking great.”

  “Don’t put words in my mouth. I didn’t say you were nice. I asked if you’d really refuse to ask for help.”

  “By your logic, nice guys ask for help. So if
you expect me to do it, you must think I’m . . .” I curl my lip in exaggerated disdain. “Nice.”

  She glances my way, a sly little smirk on her pretty face. “You’re saying you want to be a mean guy?”

  “I’m saying even nice guys don’t want to be called nice guys.”

  “So, you don’t want to be a mean guy, you don’t want to be a nice guy, and you’re prepared to wander forever through IKEA rather than ask for help?”

  I’m losing the battle against laughter. “You’re really good at talking, aren’t you?”

  She flashes me a victorious grin. “It’s kind of my thing.”

  I laugh, enjoying the moment. “I confess—I’m one hundred percent fine with asking for help. But it is my goal to make it out of the store without needing to. And I always try to exceed my goals.”

  With a smile, she turns on the blinker and says, “Here’s to exceeding goals today, then.”

  As she turns onto the highway, I gesture toward the hood of her truck, making conversation. “Big fan of pink?”

  She turns to me briefly, her eyes glimmering. “I am. I’m all about leaning into it.”

  I laugh at the way she put that. “Leaning into the whole lady carpenter thing?”

  Her brows shoot up, like she can’t believe I said that. “Thing? A lady carpenter thing? First of all, it’s not a thing. It’s a profession.”

  Perhaps I didn’t phrase that the best way. Before I can backtrack, she adds, “Unless you want me to start referring to you as Liam the Male Vet. Should I do that?”

  She’s called me out so delightfully that I have to laugh. “May I humbly suggest Liam the Male Vet Who Just Put His Foot in His Mouth?”

  She tsks, but with humor. “How does it fit in there? You managed the whole shoe in up to the ankle.”

  I pretend to talk with my mouth full. “Not much room for Pirate’s Booty.”

  “You don’t deserve booty of any kind,” she says. I choke, and her smirk turns into another I win grin.

  But joking aside, I take a breath to explain and make proper amends. “The way I said that was unfortunate, and I’m sorry. I meant it more as a compliment—the uniqueness of being a woman in your field. The coolness of it. I get the sense that you embrace it for what it is, with the pink hammer and truck and all that. And really, I should have said, ‘I bet you’re great with a hammer.’”

  “Points for not going with the obvious.” At my inquiring look, she quotes, “‘I bet you like to get nailed.’”

  “Ouch.” I grimace in sympathy. “Please tell me no one says that.”

  She laughs. “No, they don’t, actually, because I know how to work a power saw.”

  I shudder, raising my hands as if to ward her off.

  “Anyway,” she says. “Nice recovery. Very well done.” She takes a beat, then adds, “Maybe you’re a mildly nice guy.”

  “There is nothing mild about me,” I say with narrowed eyes and a deliberate growl that makes her laugh.

  “Actually, I have to agree. You’re not milquetoast at all.”

  “I’ve always aspired to not be milquetoast.”

  “You’re exceeding that goal too. And to answer your question, yes, I love pink. I’m going to do a whole accent wall in my house in pink now that I finally can.”

  There’s a story in the way she ends that sentence. Before I can ask about it, she tosses a question to me instead. “What do you think of Duck Falls so far?”

  “I actually went to high school one town over. In Lucky Falls,” I say.

  She glances briefly at me in surprise, then says, “I want to hear all about that.”

  The rest of the drive, we chat about how I came to America as a teen, then again in my late twenties, and I figure there’ll be time on the way back to learn about her, and why she’s finally able to indulge in that accent wall when she couldn’t before.

  7

  January

  The store is forty-five miles away from Duck Falls.

  Normally, I’m all about efficiency. As a single mom and a small business owner trying to make a dent in a male-dominated field, I don’t have a lot of time to mess around. And I don’t have a lot of time for myself.

  Hell, self-care is something I have to schedule, my phone beeping with nightly reminders to lotion up my feet with coconut body cream. Then I’ll drag a pair of fluffy socks out of the drawer and pull them on for bed, all while Alva and I text about her day at the salon and mine tooling around town.

  That’s the extent of my maintenance routine—texting my best friend while making sure my feet don’t get all cracked.

  I don’t have time to amble around—by my lonesome, or with anyone else.

  But Wednesday’s off with Alva’s daughter, Audrey, working on YouTube videos where they sample quirky food like grape gum and bento boxes.

  Meanwhile, I’m enjoying all forty-five inefficient miles in my neighbor’s company, as he tells me about going to high school in neighboring Lucky Falls, before he returned to England for university and vet school, then came back to the States in his late twenties. Which explains why his British accent is still so yummy and . . . British.

  “So, you were going to high school in Lucky Falls while I was in Duck Falls,” I remark. “Small world.”

  “Are you thinking we would have run into each other at the football games?”

  I toss him a doubtful look. “Why do I think you didn’t attend football games?”

  “Are you casting aspersions on my sportiness, or lack thereof?”

  I flick the fingers of my right hand at him as I drive. “I am indeed. Aspersions cast.”

  He huffs, folding his arms over his chest. “Fine. I didn’t go to football games.”

  “Neither did I,” I say with a wide grin, offering a palm for a high five.

  He unfolds his arms and smacks back. “Is this a geeks unite thing? Or science geeks, to be precise.”

  I laugh. “I was more into woodshop and theater tech. So maybe it’s more like woodshop tomboys and science geeks unite.”

  “All right. Fair enough. Tomboys and geeks. So that explains why we never ran into each other. But what year did you graduate?”

  I tell him, and he reciprocates. The arithmetic is easy to figure. “You’re thirty-nine?” I ask.

  “So old. And you’re . . . twenty-two?”

  “Is that your way of making up for the lady carpenter thing?”

  “Did it work?”

  “Perhaps,” I say, then I whisper, “Even though I’m thirty-seven.”

  “Yes, I figured that out, since we were two years apart in school.”

  “A math geek too,” I say dryly. “So impressive.”

  A little later, we arrive at IKEA, where I put on my most serious face. “I wrote a list. I have a plan. I’m ready.”

  His brow knits in confusion. “You planned out what I need to buy?”

  “I did,” I say, owning it. “That’s part of the housewarming gift. It didn’t seem like something you wanted to do.”

  He brings his hand to his chest and sighs dramatically. “You are an angel of mercy.”

  “Just wait until your sink clogs, or your dryer goes on the fritz. You’ll elevate me to goddess status when I can come fix it for you.”

  “I’m promoting you right now just for offering, January.” As we march into the store, a determined spring in both our steps, he lifts a brow. “Speaking of January, how is it that you and your daughter have such similar names?”

  “Well, it may have something to do with the fact she’s my daughter and I got to name her.”

  He laughs as we step onto the escalator. “I meant, was it as deliberate as it seems, you being named after a month and her after a day of the week? But I suppose that’s my answer.”

  “I always liked the name Wednesday. I suppose I don’t mind, either, when things match.”

  “You say that like it’s a confession. Like matching things are near and dear to your heart.”

  “The
y are. Wine and chocolate, coffee and cream, hammer and nail. And now, January and Wednesday.”

  “If she has children, do you think they’ll be named Minute or Second?”

  At the top of the escalator, we turn into the linens section. “Please. Don’t be silly. If she gives me a grandchild, I’ll insist on the name Five O’clock.”

  “Because that’s the best time of day?”

  “My favorite time of the day is actually ten at night.” I slow my pace, tapping my chin. “No, probably eleven. I love the quiet of nighttime.”

  “You’re a night owl,” he says, musing on this newly learned fact.

  “I am. And what about you? Are you a morning person?”

  “What do you think?” He flashes me a grin. The way the man alternates between droll and cheery is kind of adorable.

  “You seem like a morning person.”

  “And why do you say that?” he asks as he follows me through the kitchenware.

  “I think it’s because you have this sort of upbeat personality.”

  He exaggerates a grimace. “Don’t tell anybody. I really want to keep up my reputation as a ne’er-do-well or a curmudgeon.”

  “You’re doing a horrible job of pretending to be either of those.”

  “I’m working on it. In the meantime, like I said, don’t tell anyone.”

  I bring my finger to my lips, swearing secrecy, then I focus on the shopping list.

  After all, I am a woman on a mission. A couch mission.

  We make our way through housewares, stopping only at an adorable steel trash can that’s so cute I have to grab a pink one.

  “Penchant for pink,” I explain.

  “And pink trash cans are irresistible?”

  “Clearly.”

  He holds out his arm, silently offering to carry it. I hand it over, thanking him. Next, we come to shelves and bins full of pillows, and I slow then stop because . . . pillows.

  I wiggle my fingers at them. “Must have pillows.”

  He lifts a brow, looking perplexed. “You need pillows?”

  “I want pillows,” I correct. “Don’t let the whole tomboy vibe throw you. I am big on pillows.”