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

by Lauren Blakely

  “Sure. Tell me.”

  “Swimming while they cook.”

  “That’s dope,” he declares.

  Once we put the batter in the oven, we’re the dopest as we race each other out to the pool. He cannonballs, then splashes me as I jackknife in. “You’re the rotten egg,” he shouts.

  “Obviously,” I toss back loudly before I dive under and execute a shark attack that sends him into peals of laughter.

  We take turns on the slide then devise a series of races, and the whole time I steal occasional glances at my neighbor’s yard, hoping to catch a glimpse of her over the wooden fence between our homes.

  Hoping she’ll hear our shouts and splashes.

  Hoping she might peer over the fence, wave, and say, “Can we join you?”

  I’d say, “Yes, of course,” and then we’d go for a dip.

  That’s appealing for so many reasons. Far too many reasons, like bikinis and droplets of water sliding down soft skin.

  Because in my imaginary life, she’d wear a tiny bikini and Ethan would be in bed, and the guaranteed tastegasms would be of an entirely different variety.

  The next morning, I return the clean Pyrex dish to her deck with some brownies in it and a note on the pan that says, Good in the kitchen, as promised.

  Later that evening, I find a note under my door that reads: Oh, so very good.

  This time when I study her penmanship, it seems neat but also a little more swoopy and seductive than before.

  Perhaps I’m reading too much into green beans and brownies. Or perhaps I’m wanting the wrong things from the woman next door.

  10

  Liam

  It’s tempting, I admit, to use the tagline “Good in bed” above my photo.

  After all, that kind of slogan would entice me to click on someone’s dating profile.

  I didn’t work on it the night I talked to January after my ride, but a few days later, I remove my sunglasses, setting them down on the sidewalk table where I’m indulging in an early evening drink with my sister, and I type those words into the profile I’m creating.

  “What do you think?” I swivel my iPad to face my sister. Her son, Spencer, only a few years older than Ethan, is playing Frisbee in the town square with him as a squadron of ducks quack at them.

  Kerri peers at the Boyfriend Material app on the screen, then recoils. “I don’t want to hear about you being a good shag.”

  I roll my eyes. “That’s not the point. The point is what do you think about it as a headline for a dating app?”

  “Yes, that’s still my answer, brother of mine,” she says. “I don’t want to think about your dating, your mating, your shagging, or your snogging.”

  I cover my heart with my hand, as if overcome. “Aw, you still think of me as your sweet little brother?”

  She arches a brow. “I don’t believe I’ve ever thought of you as sweet. Does anybody? Because you’re not, actually.”

  I tut, shaking my head. “I’m very, very sweet.”

  “No. A pop tart is sweet. A steal of a deal on a bottle of wine is sweet. ‘Sweet’ is a word that literally no one has used to describe you. You are dry, droll, and sarcastic.”

  I shoot her a look. “That sounds exactly like you.”

  She preens, lifting her glass. “Takes one to know one.”

  “So, from one droll person to another, neither one of us is sweet?”

  “That is true. But only one of us is trying to get on a dating app,” she points out. Then her tone softens. “So tell me, what are you looking for in a woman?”

  An image of my next-door neighbor sashays before my eyes.

  Her lush brown hair.

  Her inked arms.

  Her pouty lips.

  And most of all, her quick mouth and her agile wit.

  But it’s crazy to think of January in this context. Getting involved with the next-door neighbor is a recipe for trouble. Plus, she’s already drawn her lines clearly. She’s not interested in a man right now.

  I soldier on, stopping to take a drink of my red wine. “Someone smart, funny, and kind, who loves animals and doesn’t want to play the field.”

  “Don’t forget—she needs to like cocky men who brag about their bedroom prowess.”

  “I still say it’s a brilliant tagline, and since you’re not the best person to give me advice on this subject, I’m going to ask someone who is,” I say, then send a quick text to my friend Summer in New York City. She’s been good mates with my cousin Oliver since they were thirteen, so I’ve come to know her too, and have relied on her for occasional advice about women.

  * * *

  Liam: Question. Should I use the headline “Good in Bed” for a dating profile? I feel like it’s incredibly clear and totally direct.

  * * *

  She replies with several GIFs of a woman spitting out a drink of water. I show her replies to my sister. Kerri laughs and gestures to the screen. “See? Even your friend thinks it’s a bad idea.”

  I study the GIFs then stab my finger against the screen for emphasis. “No, she’s amused by it. That’s what this says. She thinks I’m funny.”

  Kerri rolls her brown eyes. “I don’t think she’s amused by you. I think she finds you amusing. There’s a difference.”

  Hmm. I think she’s wrong.

  Best to ask though.

  * * *

  Liam: My sister says that you’re laughing at me rather than with me. I contend that your GIFs mean you think I’m a world-class humor producer.

  * * *

  Summer: I see you still suffer from the inability to read the nuance in front of your face.

  * * *

  Kerri lifts both brows approvingly when she reads the answer. “I like your friend. She knows exactly what you’re like.”

  “I can read nuance just fine. All day long, I read mammals who can’t speak.”

  My sister’s eyes roll back into her head. “Oh, right. Being a vet means you’re good at dating and good at understanding women because you’re good at understanding pussycats and dogs. Your logic is so impeccable, Liam.”

  I square my shoulders. “Why, thank you very much.”

  “Oh, hi,” says a new voice. “You must be the new guy.” A blonde woman with a cheery grin has stopped by our table. “You’re the gentleman who’s just bought the yellow house on Mallard Lane, aren’t you?”

  I give her a smile. “Why, yes, I am.”

  “I’m Nina Clawson. I run the boba tea shop. I’d been hoping to run into you. Would you like to go on a date with my sister?”

  Did she just say that?

  I glance at Kerri, who rolls her eyes. I suppose that’s a yes. Nina did just say that.

  Since I’m new in town, and what is an app but a dating intermediary, I decide to treat this the same way I would check out someone’s profile to learn more about her. “Why don’t you tell me about your sister?”

  The peppy blonde proceeds to rattle off the details—Maya is thirty-eight; loves Anna Kendrick movies, Kristin Hannah books, Adele’s music; prefers coffee over tea, curry over Chinese; and am I free next weekend?

  Damn.

  That’s speed matchmaking.

  But before I can answer—and I’m not sure what I’d say—Nina swipes on her phone and shows me a photo.

  Oh.

  Oh, yes.

  With a button nose and bow-shaped lips, her sister is quite cute.

  I send a smug I told you so glance to Kerri, then agree to a date with Nina’s sister. “That sounds fantastic.”

  Why not?

  This is easier than an app.

  Way easier.

  I exchange numbers with Nina, and when she walks away, Kerri shoots death rays at me from her eyes. “What is wrong with the universe?”

  “Seems like the universe knows a good thing when it sees it,” I tease.

  “I bet you walk into your backyard and money falls from a tree too.”

  “Well, I planted it first, but that sou
nds about right.”

  “It’s ridiculous that you’ve been in town for barely a week and you’ve gotten a date from somebody literally passing you on the street.”

  I blow on my fingernails. “When you’ve got it, you’ve got it, apparently.”

  Ms. Right, here I come—the tastegasms and temptation of my neighbor be damned.

  11

  Liam

  On Monday morning, I finish my tea, set down the cup, then hold my arms out for inspection.

  “So, what’s the verdict? How do I look?”

  Ethan scrunches up the corner of his lips, then washes his cereal bowl as he gives me the most cursory of cursory appraisals. “Like a dad.”

  I roll my eyes. “Seriously?”

  Turning off the tap, he nods. “Seriously. You seriously look like a dad.”

  I gesture grandly to my outfit. “I am wearing scrubs. How is that a dad outfit?”

  He shrugs. “You look like a dad to me. You are a dad. Why is it so bad if you look like one?”

  “I’m not wearing white sneakers. Didn’t you say you’d disown me if I did?” I wave at my sneakers, which are definitely not white. They are, in fact, Vans. “Summer approved these, which means they are cool.”

  “Fine. Your scrubs and your Vans are”—he stops to sketch air quotes—“cool.” He says it as if the word tastes bitter. “But you need to stop with the lingo. You just can’t do it. It sounds so wrong coming out of your mouth.”

  I park my hands on my hips. “Maybe you just need to admit that you can’t handle my coolness.”

  “Dad, it’s not even cool anymore. We don’t say cool. We say clean. Okay?”

  What in the bloody hell kind of nonsense is that? “Clean? My outfit is clean? As in neat and tidy, or as in not on drugs?”

  “No,” he says, choking on a laugh. “Clean means nice, excellent, tight.”

  “So my outfit is clean?”

  “Your outfit is clean as in neat and tidy. But it is not clean as in nice, excellent, tight.”

  I hold up my arms in surrender. “I’m done.”

  “Good plan, Dad. Very good plan.”

  We make our way to the door, Ethan stopping to grab his baseball mitt from the table—the one that will vamoose when the new furniture arrives soon. I picture January assembling it. Then I picture how much I’ll enjoy watching her assemble it. Then I tell myself to stop enjoying the images so much.

  I unlock the front door. “Do you have everything? Did you put on sunscreen?”

  “I did. I also just had an idea. If I tell you you’re cool, will you play baseball with me after work?” He sounds devilishly strategic, and I’m impressed. I love a Machiavellian brain, especially in a nearly ten-year-old.

  I stroke my chin, pretending to consider it. “All right. If you insist.”

  “You’re cool,” he says, with a couple of I got you nods.

  I open the door, let him go ahead of me, then pull it closed and lock it. “Joke’s on you. I was going to play baseball with you anyway.”

  He shrugs and gives me a smile. “I know. I just like to pretend I actually think you’re cool.”

  I ruffle his hair as we go down the steps. “You are proof sarcasm is genetic.”

  “I am.”

  As he bounds ahead of me, I linger on that word—genetic. Like that, my mind makes the familiar trip back to Florida and his early years. How else did genetics show up back then? When he walked? When he talked?

  What was his first word?

  Shit.

  I never asked his mom.

  Now I’ll never know. I’ll never know, either, how he looked toddling around the house, flinging mashed peas from a high chair, or learning to ride a bike.

  I’ll never know what it’s like to have comforted him when he tumbled and got that first scraped knee. He could already wheel around fine on his own when he arrived in New York.

  I blink the longing away.

  Focus on the here and now.

  Once inside the garage, we grab our gleaming new bikes from the rack. I roll them out to the driveway, stopping to press the button to close the garage behind us. As I strap on my helmet, my eyes are drawn to next door where—just my luck—January is loading a toolbox into her truck.

  I devour the view. She’s wearing work boots, jeans, and a tight pink T-shirt with a logo reading “Jackie of All Trades.” And hell, does her arse look great in those jeans. But then, it looks great in everything. Probably in nothing too, come to think of it.

  I banish the dirty thought as she swivels around, raises her shades, then says, “Are you off for a bike ride?”

  It comes out sounding confused, even though we’re both standing here with bikes. “Are we?”

  “You’re in scrubs,” she says, pointing. “That’s why I asked.”

  “I look pretty cool in scrubs, don’t I?”

  She arches a doubtful brow. “I think if they had pink unicorns on them, they’d be cooler.”

  “Duly noted.”

  “And where are you heading, Ethan?” she asks him.

  But before he can answer, I chime in, unable to resist poking fun at my kid. “Is it your papier-mâché camp? Oh, wait, is it pottery making? No, it’s underwater basket weaving, right?”

  He cracks up then turns to January and squeaks, “Baseball camp! I like baseball. Actually, that’s wrong. I love baseball.”

  “You have excellent taste in sports,” she says.

  “He’s a junkie for America’s pastime,” I tell her. “As am I.”

  Is that genetic too? Or did it start when he moved in with me? Certainly, his love of the sport grew stronger. Regular attendance at Yankee Stadium will do that to a lad.

  Ethan smacks his palm against his forehead. “Dad, I did forget my sunscreen.” He sets the bike on the driveway, races up the steps, and unlocks the door.

  While he’s inside, January cuts across the lawn, standing near me in the driveway. “So you’re going to ride into work looking like that?”

  My brow furrows. “Yes. Is that a problem?”

  “You realize you’ll get double the number of dates that you did sitting at the wine bar the other day.”

  Gossip had carried the tale to her long before I had a chance to share the story.

  “Double? More than when I dine outside? Whoa.”

  “Hello? Hot, healthy, eco-conscious vet who rides a bike to work?”

  I like the sound of that when she says it. My skin sizzles. “So, I’m a hot vet?”

  She rolls her eyes, then shoos me away. “Don’t act like you didn’t know that, Liam.” She flicks her fingers, telling me to be on my way, as Ethan returns and hops onto his bike. I hop onto mine, waving goodbye, and I savor that very lovely compliment that I shouldn’t like so much, but I do.

  Oh, I absolutely do.

  After I drop Ethan off at the baseball park, I ride a few miles to the building marked with a sign that reads: Lucky Falls Veterinary Practice, Dr. Harris, DVM. The practice is on a side street also occupied by a spa and a hair salon. You can get pampered while your pet gets poked. It’s only a couple of miles away from Duck Falls.

  I pull into the lot, my eyes drifting to the sign, my heart squeezing tightly as I think about that Dr. Harris. The first one. The reason I moved from one coast to the other.

  That Dr. Harris waits for me in the small parking lot, next to my mum, who leans against the hood of her car, holding his hand. I rest the bike against the side of the building, then head over to them.

  “Hi, Mum. Hi, Dad.”

  “Hi, Liam,” he says in that gruff voice I’ve known my entire life, the sound that I heard booming up the stairs when I was in trouble, the sound that I heard shouting Yes! when I won science awards.

  The voice has varied. That gruffness was tempered with sweetness after my first broken heart, and again after I first learned the shocking news that I had a son, when he told me that he would help me figure out how to be a great dad.

  All of those me
mories collide at once, and they pummel me with an unexpected wave of emotion. I should be used to those overwhelming feelings when I’m around him these days.

  I swallow them down, shove them out of sight, and put on my best chipper face as I join them. He squints at me from behind his glasses, and I hide a wince.

  “How’s it going, Liam? Are you ready for today?” He’s all tough and serious. He’s softer with animals, but with his kids, he’s always kept the pedal on the stoic side.

  “I am, Dad. Just remind me—is the tailbone still connected to the leg bone?”

  He laughs and claps me on the shoulder, his palm wrapping around me. “Good one. It’s the caudal vertebrae.”

  My mouth forms an exaggerated O. “Is that what it’s called? I had no idea.”

  He shakes his head. “Smart-ass. Anyway, I wanted to bring you this.” He turns around and peers into the car, searching for a few more seconds than usual.

  “On the console, love,” my mum says. He reaches inside, grabs a thermos of English breakfast tea—unless I very much miss my guess—then gives it to me.

  Just like my mum gave him every day before work, the tradition now handed down from father to son.

  A lump forms in my throat at the way he’s trying to make this seem like a normal transition. As if all he’s done is retire and hand over his beloved practice to me.

  I take the thermos, trying to keep my tone even, so it’s not as wobbly as I feel. “Thank you.”

  He gives me an almost imperceptible nod, then tips his forehead toward the light-blue cottage-style building that houses the veterinary practice that he ran for more than twenty years. “I appreciate you doing this.”

  He’s not big on hearts and flowers, so his spoken gratitude is the equivalent of a brass band marching through town in my honor.

  “And I appreciate you giving me the chance to help out,” I say, though that hardly seems sufficient. Or accurate—“giving me the chance” implies that he had a choice, that to continue was an option.