And it seems to work, because Missy is squealing.
“Yes! You’d be adorable together. I’m so excited. She deserves someone like you. I’m rooting for you two.”
I smile at her reaction—her very Missy, very enthusiastic reaction. “Thanks. I don’t have any idea what will happen, if anything. And nothing has.”
“Well, change that now, doc,” she says, in an over-the-top bawdy voice. “Make it rain, make it rain, make it rain.”
Laughing, I say, “I’ll see what I can do.”
She clears her throat, going more serious. “Are you going to ask her out on a date?”
I give her the only answer I can.
I tell Ethan to get ready for bed, and I go next door, knocking on January’s door.
When she answers, her chestnut hair piled in a messy bun, her pink T-shirt stained with plaster, I raise my hands in surrender. “I’m willing to eat radishes if you tell me all about your board game club.”
A smile races across her lips, as Wednesday cackles from the couch, pokes her head up, and says, “You should hear how crazy competitive they got Sunday night when they played Monopoly again. They’re so loud I can’t even sleep when she has board game club. But Monopoly is nothing compared to how rowdy they are with Candy Land.”
January swings open the door, invites me in, and tells me more about the board game nights. I eat up every detail.
But I can’t linger, since Ethan has school tomorrow, and a bedtime.
I hook my thumb in the direction of my house. “I should go, but thanks for entertaining me with your tawdry tales,” I say, girding myself to say more, to ask for what I want.
“Thanks for demanding them.” She looks at the clock on her kitchen wall. “Tomorrow is furniture assembly night. Are you ready?”
I rub my palms together. “Ready to sit on my arse and watch you do all the work.”
She nudges me with her elbow. “I will put you to work as my assistant.”
That sounds like more fun than it should be. It sounds, too, like exactly what I want.
“Fine. If you insist,” I say as we walk to the door then onto her porch. The night air has cooled, but a summer breeze drifts by in the dark, as the starlit sky and the porch light illuminate her face.
“I do insist.”
“And I am looking forward to it. I arranged for Goodwill to pick up my bachelor pad furniture tomorrow morning.”
“Perfect.”
My feet feel like they’re stuck here, and I don’t want to leave. I won’t leave until I say what I came to say.
This is the chance.
It’s time to take it.
For all that it’s unexpected.
That it might derail my plans.
It’s time, because she’s the one I want to invite to a wine bar, a breakfast café, a tea shop.
I go for it. “Do you want to have dinner afterward?”
Her eyes go wide and vulnerable. There’s a twitch in her lips too, as if they’re curving up of their own accord. “Do you mean out or at your house?”
There’s a question in her question.
I take another chance, answering from the heart, full of my feelings for her, and full of my desire too. “Why don’t we have dinner at my house?”
After all, Ethan is spending a few hours at Kerri’s.
January licks her lips, nods, and says yes. I have no idea what I’ve just gotten myself into, but I can’t wait.
17
January
Wednesday—the day, not my kid—is a light one for me.
I only have one job scheduled, fixing some hinges in a winery this morning, so I’m planning on spending the rest of the day on billing.
But who am I kidding?
I’ll probably spend my time daydreaming of tonight with Liam while I try to wade through invoices.
In the morning, I brew a pot of coffee, pour a cup, then send my kid on her way to school.
“Learn lots of things. Make good choices. Don’t hack any of your teachers’ accounts,” I say, walking her to the door.
She raises a brow. “Not even my algebra teacher’s? Because word on the street is he made a cool mil on some tech funds, so I bet he’d be worth a hack.”
“Hmm.” I allow the corner of my lips to turn up. “That one is fine. Go for it.”
She pumps a fist dramatically. “Yes!”
“But cover your tracks, ’kay?”
With an eye roll, she says, “Duh. Obviously.”
I give her a smooch on the forehead. “So proud of you.”
“I’ll see you . . . what time did you want me home?”
A flush crawls up my chest, knowing why I asked her to go to Audrey’s for dinner. “Eight would be fantastic,” I say, my voice a little dry.
“How about eight-thirty?” Her tone is hopeful, like she’s the one asking for something I don’t want to give.
I suppress a wicked grin. “Sure. If you must.”
“Thanks, Spawner.”
“See ya, Spawn.”
I wave as she heads down the steps and walks to school about a mile away. Along the route, she’ll meet up with Audrey, and they’ll amble together, planning their next quirky food test for YouTube.
I make my own way down the steps, then stop at my vegetable gardens out front, checking on the greens, taking a drink of my coffee, and enjoying the late August sun warming my shoulders and warming my soul.
And I know why.
Because my mind is on tonight.
My body is reaching for this evening.
My whole being reaches for possibilities, for chances.
I said yes, knowing the danger. Knowing the risk—the risk of capsizing the life I’ve carved out in this town.
He’s my neighbor.
I have to see him every day. I have a kid who’s happy. A business that’s growing. Friends who support me.
Do I truly want to risk all of that for a roll in the hay?
For a dinner?
For a night with him?
He wants more. He wants a future. He wants a Mrs.
I want none of that.
I want my life. The one I’m finally having.
Why, then, did I say yes?
As I survey the green beans in my garden, I flash back to last night.
To how I felt when he came over. When he asked me to have dinner.
A giddy sensation whirls through me out of nowhere.
I set a hand on my belly, smiling.
That’s why I said yes.
Because of that feeling—a little dizzy, a little drunk. But it’s a good dizzy, a good drunk.
And he’s a good man.
I can manage whatever this is. Whatever tonight becomes. We’re mature, responsible adults. Surely we won’t be the first neighbors in the history of the world to act on an attraction, then tuck it away and return to the way we were.
Yes, that’s how we will do it.
We will do it the smart way.
The adult way.
The can I still borrow a cup of sugar in a year’s time way.
Almost as if he can read my thoughts, I hear his voice.
“Fancy meeting you here.”
I turn to find the most handsome, charmingly sarcastic man I’ve ever met wandering across his yard toward mine, holding a cup of tea. I stand, unable to wipe the flirty smile from my face. He’s so delectable in his blue scrubs as I catalog his features. His freshly shaven jaw, his deep brown eyes, his toned arms.
And most of all, his smile. Confident, happy, and genuine.
My stomach flips.
“Such a shock to see me outside in my front yard, isn’t it?” I ask.
“Are you sure you’re not stalking me?”
I arch a brow. “I was going to say the same thing to you.”
He laughs. “Guilty as charged, then.”
“Might as well slap the handcuffs on me too.”
His eyes light up, like they’re awash with dirty thoughts. Maybe
we’re both being totally honest. Maybe we’re both saying damn the risks because . . . this desire is powerful. “I’m amenable to that,” he murmurs.
Those soulful brown irises darken, and a current zaps through me. I want to rope my arms around him and beg him to kiss me soft, then hard, so hard it’d be like he was fucking me with his mouth.
Shit.
I need to get it together.
“I’m working from home most of the day,” I offer, simply to say something besides Take me to bed.
In a heartbeat, his expression shifts from playful and to practical. “The furniture delivery is coming by around eleven. I thought I would be able to be home for it, but I have to . . .” He makes a snipping gesture with his hands.
“Ah. You are relieving a dog of his most prized possessions.”
“I am.”
“Do you want me to let them in?”
“Would you?” He sounds as if I just said I’ll deliver him chocolate from Paris every day for the rest of his life.
“I’d be happy to. That is, if you’re comfortable giving me a key.”
He taps his chin. “That’s a good question. Are you planning on rifling through all my drawers?”
“Just the interesting ones, like your sock drawer.”
“Oh, by all means, go right ahead, then. If you want to find the really fascinating stuff, don’t forget the utensil drawer. It’s to the right of the dishwasher.”
“Thanks for the tip. I’ve been meaning to look at your spoons. Spoons tell you so much about a man.”
“Don’t forget to check out the knives, then, too. That should tell you everything you need to know.”
I crack up, loving that the man gives such clever innuendo. “And perhaps your nightstand drawer?”
He growls, a low, sexy rumble. “Perhaps yours.”
I tug at the neck of my T-shirt. “You’d find . . . very interesting things.”
Another groan emanates from his throat, so damn sexy. “You’re making it very hard to go to work.”
“Am I?” I ask, unable to resist this dive well past innuendo and straight into naughty land.
“Yes, but Sparky the Wonder Pup has been fasting all morning, so I can’t leave him hanging.”
“Pun intended.”
“Pun always intended.” He scratches his jaw, exhaling. “I’ll leave a key under the mat. Thank you for helping me. You’re an angel.”
“You think I’m an angel?” I ask, jutting out my hip the slightest bit.
“Are you telling me you’re a devil instead, January?” His question comes out a little husky, a little smoky. I step closer, getting into his space. I want to feel the vibrations between us, the energy that seems to be intensifying by the second. When he asked me to dinner last night, it’s as if that unleashed all of the unacknowledged heat between us, and now we’re reveling in it.
“Do I seem like one?”
He inches closer too. “I’d like to know the devil in you.”
“You want to know if I’m good or bad?”
His lips part. His eyes darken. His Adam’s apple bobs. This sexy, kind, outgoing, clever man looks absolutely undone.
A gust of air crosses his lips, and it is clear what’s happening tonight. “I do want to know, absolutely,” he says in a whisper that makes me feel as undone as he looks.
But he has to go to work. And so I vow to surprise him.
I handle the delivery.
But I don’t stop there. I don’t simply let the guys in and leave. I need something to keep myself busy today.
Rather than wait and assemble the furniture later, I do it all now. I put everything together, focusing the whole time on the task, blasting my new playlist as I put together the couch, the table, and the chair. Four hours later, everything is assembled. I’m sweating, and my muscles are tired, but it’s a good sweat and it’s a good tired.
Nothing a shower won’t cure.
I pick up all my tools, straighten up, and then grab a sheet of paper and leave him a note.
* * *
Am I an angel? Let’s find out.
* * *
I go home. I shower. I put on a pink sundress. He likes me in pink. But more than that, I like me in pink. I like, too, how all my ink is on display, how he can see the birds flying up my arm.
Well, not all of my ink.
I smile privately as I wait for him to return from work, keeping myself busy making a salad I hope he’ll like.
Or at least tolerate.
Around six there’s a knock on my door. I open it, drawing a sharp, fevered breath when I take in a freshly showered Liam in jeans and a gray T-shirt that’s nice and snug across his pecs, showing off his strong arms. He stares shamelessly at me, then unleashes an appreciative wow as he holds up two bottles of wine.
“You’re an angel for the furniture. Thank you. Thank you so incredibly much. But I’d like to know both sides of you. First, would you like wine?” It comes out gravelly, like the question isn’t about wine. It’s about desire. It’s about tonight.
“I would.” I point to the white. “But I want it later.”
“And what do you want now?”
I feel breathless, jittery all over, but ready too—knowing the danger, knowing the risk.
Knowing, too, that if I’m going to adult this thing with him, then the adulting needs to start before we get naked.
I meet his gaze. “This doesn’t change anything, does it?”
“Not if we don’t let it,” he says, his eyes never straying from mine.
“Then let’s not let it change things.”
He raises the bottle. “I’ll drink to that.” He tips his head toward his house. “Come over, January. Come over now.”
He’s never sounded this commanding.
This determined.
His voice makes me hot, turns me on.
I grab the salad, step onto the porch, and shut the door behind me. He sets a hand on my back, making me shiver, making me want.
The second we’re inside his house, he takes the salad bowl, sets it on the entryway table, and puts down the bottles of wine.
When he shuts the door, he pushes me up against it.
18
Liam
Screw food.
Fuck wine.
Forget everything in the world right now but this.
There are no questions. There is no uncertainty. We are about to kiss.
January is an inevitability.
A gorgeous, fiery fait accompli.
But even if I’m dead certain that our lips are about to connect, that our bodies are going to crash together, I’ll still savor every second of this. Whether it’s a done deal or not, whether this kiss comes as a surprise or it doesn’t, I intend to relish it.
Because a first kiss is always a surprise.
It’s a delicious, decadent discovery.
Will she like it slow, fast, and deep? Long, hard, and wet?
Will it be an exploration? A revelation? A declaration?
Will it sizzle? Will it make my head go hazy?
The second the door shuts, I spin her around and back her into the door.
Her eyes flare with heat. Mine roam up and down her body. “Have I told you how much I appreciate what you did in my house today?”
“No. Not entirely. Do you want to show me?” She asks it all flirty, full of intention, and her forthrightness is a massive turn-on.
“I do. I very much want to show you all of my appreciation,” I say, as my right hand finds her waist and curls around it.
I savor the contact.
That first electric moment of touching her sends a wave of heat crashing over me.
Her blue eyes shimmer. Her lips part. Her breath catches. She’s in this as much as I am, and that ratchets up my lust another hundred degrees. My pulse roars just from being near her like this, and yet I want to get so much closer. I move against her, barely a breath between us.
“Confession. I thought about this the da
y I met you.”
She swallows, her expression full of dirty wonder. “You did?”
“You didn’t?” I ask, laughing.
She laughs too. And I love this about us. I love that we get each other. I love that our laughter gels and that we can be like this, firing innuendos, teasing each other, wanting each other.
“Then do it,” she whispers.
“Gladly, neighbor,” I say, like the word tastes delicious on my tongue.
I bring my face down to hers, wanting to kiss her, but wanting to draw it out too, to make her shiver, to make her shudder.
I brush my lips along the column of her neck. “Actually, from the second I met you, I wanted to kiss you.”
She shudders against me. “I felt it too. Wanted it too.”
I brush my lips against her ear, nipping her delicious earlobe. She tastes fantastic, and she smells even better, all clean and pretty, like some kind of flowery lotion that absolutely drives me crazy. It’s a sweet, feminine scent that spells woman.
A woman who knows her mind. Who knows her wants.
The scent wraps around me. It intoxicates me. I lick her ear, my tongue coasting across the shell of it. “Thought about you all day.”
“Including while you were snipping dogs?”
I chuckle. “Let us not discuss snipping while my dick is hard.”
On that note, she pushes her pelvis against the outline of my erection, and I groan. Savagely.
My head goes hazy as the need to touch her everywhere intensifies, thrumming through my veins.
My lips travel across her jaw, sucking and kissing as I go, and when I think I can’t take it anymore—the tease, the buildup—she’s gasping and murmuring. Her sounds send adrenaline coursing through my body. My skin grows hotter, and every cell in my body craves the woman in my arms.
I am so damn lucky to have her here in my house, wanting all the same things I do.
And I want her to know with how I touch her, how I taste her, how I plan to bring her oceans of pleasure that she deserves it all.
She deserves everything.
I capture her lips with mine, and we kiss like everything makes sense in the world.
The Dream Guy Next Door: A Guys Who Got Away Novel Page 14
