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

by Lauren Blakely

  It took him long enough to accept the facts and step down. My mum practically begged him.

  A few months ago, when he rang me up, potholes in his voice, and asked if I would come home and take over, I didn’t think twice. I simply said yes. I had five business partners at my practice in New York. I was also the junior vet. He ran this practice solo.

  Now he stares at the front door, shiny with its fresh coat of white paint. It’s something Mum took care of—hiring painters to spruce up the place. New paint for the new vet.

  “Are you ready for next month?” I ask, trying to focus on practical matters—in this case, his third surgery coming up.

  He scoffs and waves a hand. “Don’t worry about me.”

  “But I do.”

  “We all do,” my mum chimes in.

  “I’m going to be fine, so let me worry about you.” He takes a few steps toward the door. “Do you have everything you need in there?”

  He rattles off all the standard supplies of any veterinary practice, and I simply nod, letting him know that I’m all sorted. At the door, he barrels inside, doing his damnedest to show me around, even though I’ve spent the last week prepping and familiarizing myself with the clinic.

  Getting ready to take over his business as my father goes blind.

  Twenty minutes later, the vet tech comes in—a pink-haired fifty-something woman with triple ear piercings and a sweet cooing voice that all the dogs seem to love—and we get to work.

  The hardest part is when the clients start asking, “Is everything okay with your dad?”

  I do my best. Give them a smile and the scripted line. “He just thought it was time. He’s ready for a change. Ready to retire. Now, let’s take a look at Purr-cutio’s teeth.”

  My dad doesn’t want to share the true reason, not wanting anyone to feel sorry for him. I’m not going to be the one to say, “Oh, well, it turns out he has this rare disease where he’s going blind, and he’s going to require five surgeries and still lose most of his vision.”

  Besides, the story is plausible. He’s sixty-two, near retirement age. Even though the truth is that he would have worked for as long as he possibly could have.

  At the end of the day, my final client arrives, a gray-haired woman with sharp blue eyes and a Papillon-Chihuahua mix.

  “She’s so picky. She only likes to eat the steak or chicken or turkey I prepare for her.”

  “Rather than dog kibble?”

  “Yes. She turns up her nose at it when they feed her at the doggie bed-and-breakfast when I go to see my friends in the city overnight.”

  “And how long have you been feeding her home-cooked meals?”

  “About a year now.”

  “Perhaps ask the B&B if they have a fridge. Bring her what she’s used to.”

  “Brilliant,” she says, as if I just answered all her woes. Then she swings the conversation in a sharp right turn. “On to other matters, Dr. Harris. I live down the street from you in Duck Falls. What are the chances you’d like to take my daughter Missy out for dinner?”

  Huh. Seems January was wrong.

  I didn’t need to ride my bike to attract another date.

  But all things considered, this seems much better than a dating app.

  It’s a dating app delivered to my doorstep.

  Like Grubhub for women.

  Later, when Ethan is taking a shower, I pop outside to check the mailbox, since I forgot to when I returned home. And, lucky me, January is kneeling in her front yard, tending to the flowers.

  Her gaze catches mine. “How was your first day, Doctor Dolittle? Did any of your clients try to set you up? Or was it all of them? My money is on the latter.”

  Laughing, I head over and join her. “I only had two requests for dates.”

  “I’d have expected four. You’re losing your touch.” She brushes her hands against her legs and leaves streaks of soil on them. As she rises, she pushes her hair out of her eyes. The whole effect is wildly sexy. I never knew I was that into her type. That is, if she is a type. If she is, I would call it “insanely self-sufficiently sexy.”

  “I have to content myself with two, or three,” I say, continuing the conversation.

  She pats me on the arm. “This town—I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but it’s a small town where men are in short supply. Who’s the next date with?”

  “A woman named Missy. Betty Juniper’s daughter.”

  January’s eyes light up. “Oh, Missy’s great. Outgoing and friendly. She owns the lingerie shop and does such a bang-up job that she’s nabbed ‘Best of’ accolades in all the area newspapers and lists. She’s open-minded about nearly everything except fish.”

  “Fish? Why’s that?”

  “In high school, she threw up fish sticks one day, and everyone called her Fishy Missy for days, and it really caused a lot of trauma for her. So don’t order fish when you’re with her.”

  “Good to know,” I say, taking in this bizarre but important fact. “Perhaps I should come to you before every date and get a full briefing.”

  She smiles. “That’s not a bad idea. Think of me as your dating insider.”

  I like the idea of spending more time with her. I hate the constant reminders that she’s not the one I’m dating.

  But that’s fine.

  It’s perfectly, absolutely fine.

  At least, that’s what I’m telling myself.

  12

  Liam

  It’s Thursday night, date night.

  Ethan’s at Kerri’s house, and I have the place to myself to get ready. I shower, get dressed, and check the time. About thirty minutes before I meet Nina’s sister Maya at the wine bar. Just enough time to walk to town. Why drive when I have feet or a pair of bicycle tires?

  I head down the front steps as the familiar rumble of a pink truck echoes across the lawn, pulling into the driveway next door. Like I’m Pavlov’s dog, a rush of heat slides down my spine at the sound, then spreads across my chest when I see January cut the engine. A grin tugs at my lips. This is my favorite time of day—any time I run into her.

  She opens the door and steps out of the truck, her daughter swinging open the door on the other side, barely giving anyone a second glance as she rushes up the steps, propelled by jet fuel, the front door slamming behind her in a dark-blonde spitfire blur.

  “Everything okay?”

  January waves a hand toward the cheetah of a teenager. “Oh, she’s totally fine. She has a FaceTime sesh with her friend Audrey and can’t be late. They’re deciding what to sample in their next YouTube video—panda cookies or chocolate mushrooms.”

  “Not panda cookies, please.”

  “It’s a brand. Not made of pandas. Or for pandas.”

  I wipe a hand across my brow. “Whew. I feel loads better.”

  January eyes me up and down, bright blue eyes traveling along my frame. “I see you’re in your dating gear.”

  “I am indeed.” I tug at an imaginary bow tie. “I couldn’t decide between the bow tie or the stonewashed jeans, so I wore this instead. Good compromise?”

  With that deadpan expression I enjoy so much, she nods. “Yes, but I would give good money to see you in stonewashed denim.”

  I gesture to my house. “How much? Twenty bucks?”

  “Bargain basement. Do it,” she says with a sly grin.

  “Don’t tempt me. Twenty bucks covers wine.”

  She arches one dubious brow. “You clearly haven’t set foot in Oscar’s Wine Bar, then.”

  “True. Kerri did pay the other day. I’ll take ten, then. Enough for a tip. Should I go put them on right now?”

  “Do it, do it,” she chants.

  I tip my head toward the street, laughing. “Next time, I promise to give you a fashion show, but I should be getting on.” I take a beat, studying her and wondering if her gaze isn’t tinged with perhaps a touch of longing. Or maybe I’m simply wishing. “Unless you’d like to join me for a walk into town . . .”

&nbs
p; I leave that invitation hanging in the air as my chest flips with the hope that she’ll say yes. It’s strange, this sensation of waiting for something, wanting something.

  Her smile spreads slow and easy, and her yes seems to float across her eyes.

  But I don’t want to assume.

  “I would love to.” It’s not dry, it’s not sarcastic, and it’s not deadpan.

  They’re just four lovely words that I relish hearing from her.

  She holds up her hands. “Just give me a second to wash up. I was working all day. And to let Wednesday know she’s cooking for me tonight.”

  “She cooks?”

  January lights up with a cartoonishly large smile. “Yes! I highly recommend acquiring children who are useful. She loves to cook. I think it’s because she loves workarounds and she searches for cooking hacks for nearly every recipe.”

  “Because recipes shouldn’t be followed?”

  “Psh. Hacks are so much more fun.”

  “I suppose I can’t argue with that.”

  She darts inside and returns a minute later, showing off her clean palms. “My hands are spick-and-span, and my kid is going to make pasta salad with zucchini noodles instead of noodle noodles. Feel free to shudder.”

  I do. “Zucchini is the worst.”

  She pats my shoulder. “You don’t know what you’re missing, doc. I bet I could get you to like veggies. You did enjoy the green beans, didn’t you?”

  “They were decent,” I grumble.

  “Aww. See? The veggie lifestyle is growing on you. Wednesday and I make the most awesome salads in Northern California. My mom is a convert. She used to be all carbs and meat, and now she’s becoming a salad lover. I’m working on you next, neighbor.”

  The way she says neighbor sends a wicked thrill through me. Maybe because she delivers it with a twinkle in her blue eyes, with a saucy lift of her lips. Like it’s the start of something.

  Maybe I should say yes to her mutant pasta dish. Maybe I do want to try zucchini noodles. But I can’t quite let on how much yet, so I say, “I dunno. Zucchini noodles seem like noodles gone wrong.”

  “They are noodles gone right. I promise.”

  There’s an invitation somewhere in there, and I want to RSVP to it, but instead I just nod toward town. “Shall we?”

  “Let’s go.” As we set off, she adds, “Now, Liam, am I the pillow tonight?”

  I give her a blank look, but quickly dig into my bag of at-the-ready replies. “You’d like me to sleep on you?”

  “You are so good with innuendos. And with blatantly bringing up sex,” she says, shaking her head in amusement.

  “True, true. One of my many skills is the ability to weave sex into many conversations.”

  As we turn the corner, she makes a rolling gesture with her hands. “Work with me. Remember, pillows as a lubricant? A lubricant to sleep? So you’re going to use me as lube before your date?”

  I laugh, getting it this time. “Who’s saucy now? I’m pretty sure you just went full innuendo.”

  She gives me a you got me shrug. “Maybe I did.”

  I raise a too-suave-for-words eyebrow. “For what it’s worth, I think you’d make fantastic lube, January.”

  We both laugh, and perhaps that means she’s enjoying the naughty edge to the conversation too.

  But it’s time to downshift, since I do have a date, and I shouldn’t show up with other women on my mind. That’s ungentlemanly, not to mention unfair to Maya.

  I steer us to safer ground. “Did you have a busy day?”

  “Exhausting. I built a new door for a family room after a teenage son swung on it too many times and it came unhinged.”

  “Boys can be part monkey. Is the work done?”

  “One more day. It’s looking good, and it’s a gig I busted my butt to land. They decided to start over from scratch. New framing, new paint, matching wood, and so on. I was competing against Big Beams Construction, and I wasn’t sure I was going to land it. They’re a national chain.”

  “I’ve heard the ads. They’re constantly trying to undercut local carpenters, aren’t they?”

  She heaves a frustrated sigh. “Absolutely. I had to lower my bid a little bit because I really wanted the gig. It can be disheartening, constantly feeling like you’re looking behind you, watching for how they’re going to try and cut you off at the knees. But hey, that’s competition. You just have to keep up with it,” she says, finishing on a chin-up note. That seems to be her MO—finding the positive, looking ahead.

  “How did you get into the business?”

  “My dad is a carpenter. But I always loved making things. I was the one in the house who assembled desks from Target or Walmart. I put together an elliptical machine my mom ordered when she went on her cardio kick when I was fourteen.”

  I shoot her an approving look. “An elliptical at age fourteen? Very impressive.”

  “What’s most impressive is my mom still uses it. Two decades later,” she says, shimmying her shoulders.

  I blink, exaggerating shock. “Okay, that is one helluva machine.” Then, I correct myself. “I mean, that is one helluva job you did putting it together.”

  She flashes me a bright, pleased grin. “Thank you. And to tell you the truth, I’m extra proud of its long life because my mom is the queen worrier. She has earned all the worry badges any mom can ever earn, along with stripes, tassels, and epaulets. She was convinced it was going to break every time she used it. She’d call me out to the garage constantly to make sure it was safe to use. Finally, after a year of her machine working perfectly, she stopped worrying.”

  “So basically, your assembly skills are top-notch?”

  She gives a sashay of her hips. There’s a gleam in her eyes too. She’s proud of her abilities, and that’s wildly appealing. “Your words, Liam.”

  “I guess we’ll have to see how top-notch they are, though, when IKEA finally shows up. Then I’ll be the judge,” I say with mock intensity.

  “Put me to the test, Liam. I can’t wait to show off my skills to you.”

  She has no idea how many tests I want to put her through, how many skills I’d love to show her, starting with how well I can brush my lips across her neck, down her throat, between her breasts . . . but I sweep those thoughts into the dirty-thought closet and shut the door, locking them up with the rest. “So, you’ve always been handy, it sounds like. And then you put that to use in your business?”

  “Yes, but in my dad’s business first. When I started working with him, I learned the tricks of the trade. And my mother makes soap that she sells at local markets, so we’re all handy in different ways. It’s a family thing, I suppose.”

  “Same here,” I say. “Taking over the vet practice from Dr. Harris Senior and all.” I don’t go into the details, because I don’t want to feel sad right now, so I segue back to her. “Do you have any siblings? Actually, how do I not know this yet? I can’t believe I’ve lived here for two weeks and I haven’t asked you this.” I smile, but I’m genuinely surprised, since we’ve talked about so much already.

  She nudges me with her elbow. “I’m actually a little disappointed too, Liam. I have been marking off the days, wondering when you were ever going to ask me if I have siblings.”

  “And fourteen days later, I finally did. So, siblings?”

  “I have a sister. She lives in San Francisco.”

  “And what is her name? Is it Leap Year?”

  She laughs, and it’s such a lovely sound that I think I could become addicted to it. “Yes, that’s her.”

  As the twinkling lights from the town square grow bigger and brighter, I ask, “What is her name for real?”

  “You’re not going to believe it.”

  “Actually, I bet I will.”

  “It’s April.”

  “Then you need a July and an October, and you’ve got the start of all the fiscal quarters accounted for.”

  “Exactly. And you have a sister too?”

&nbs
p; “Kerri’s in town. My other sister, Toni, is thirty minutes away. Kerri has two kids, and so does Toni.”

  “And is that the required number for Harris children?”

  “Seems to be. I guess I didn’t get the memo.” I flick my gaze her way, waiting for a response but not sure what I want her to say. Why should she say anything? We already had the kid conversation at IKEA. There isn’t much more to discuss.

  And talking about kids reminds me that we aren’t entirely on the same page.

  Entirely.

  That’s a lie.

  We aren’t remotely on the same page.

  When we near the wine bar, I take a beat, draw a deep breath, then say, “Okay, so as my dating insider, what do I need to know about Maya?”

  “Ah, I have the dirt for you,” she says in a conspiratorial whisper. “She’s chatty. Likes to talk. But she’s funny.”

  “Funny is good. I like funny.”

  “Sweet lady. Not full of herself at all. She works at the glitter factory.”

  “Nothing wrong with glitter.”

  “Glitter is awesome. I love glitter,” she says.

  “You seem like a glitter person.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because you like pink,” I answer.

  “Pink and glitter go hand in hand?”

  “Like dogs and loyalty. Like cats and disdain.”

  “Fine,” she says with a grumble. “I like glitter and pink and hammers and blueprints.”

  I try to hide a grin, enjoying all the sides of her. “Yes, you do.”

  “And one more thing about Maya. She’s a cat person. She has a big orange boy cat named Saul,” January adds as we near the town square.

  “Good to know. I can ask to see pictures of him.”

  January’s mouth forms an O. Her nose crinkles.

  “Wait. I shouldn’t ask to see cat photos?”

  January winces. “Yeah . . . I should have led with this. You probably won’t have to ask for photos.” The words come out like an apology.

  “Because she’ll show them to me of her own accord?”