The Dream Guy Next Door: A Guys Who Got Away Novel
The Dream Guy Next Door
A Guys Who Got Away Novel
Lauren Blakely
Little Dog Press
Contents
Also by Lauren Blakely
About
The Dream Guy Next Door
1. January
2. Liam
3. January
4. Liam
5. Liam
6. Liam
7. January
8. January
9. Liam
10. Liam
11. Liam
12. Liam
13. Liam
14. January
15. January
16. Liam
17. January
18. Liam
19. Liam
20. January
21. January
22. Liam
23. January
24. Liam
25. January
26. Liam
27. January
28. Liam
29. Liam
30. January
31. Liam
Epilogue
Also by Lauren Blakely
Contact
Copyright © 2021 by Lauren Blakely
Cover Design by Helen Williams.
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. This contemporary romance is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners. This book is licensed for your personal use only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with, especially if you enjoy sexy romance novels with alpha males. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.
Also by Lauren Blakely
Big Rock Series
Big Rock
Mister O
Well Hung
Full Package
Joy Ride
Hard Wood
* * *
Rules Of Love Series
The Rules of Friends with Benefits (A Prequel Novella)
The Virgin Rule Book
The Virgin Game Plan
The Virgin Replay
* * *
The Guys Who Got Away Series
Dear Sexy Ex-Boyfriend
The What If Guy
Thanks for Last Night
* * *
The Men of Summer Series
Scoring With Him
Winning With Him
* * *
The Gift Series
The Engagement Gift
The Virgin Gift
The Decadent Gift
* * *
The Extravagant Duet
One Night Only
One Exquisite Touch
* * *
MM Standalone Novels
A Guy Walks Into My Bar
One Time Only
* * *
The Heartbreakers Series
Once Upon a Real Good Time
Once Upon a Sure Thing
Once Upon a Wild Fling
* * *
Boyfriend Material
Asking For a Friend
Sex and Other Shiny Objects
One Night Stand-In
* * *
Lucky In Love Series
Best Laid Plans
The Feel Good Factor
Nobody Does It Better
Unzipped
* * *
Always Satisfied Series
Satisfaction Guaranteed
Never Have I Ever
Instant Gratification
Overnight Service
PS It’s Always Been You
Special Delivery
* * *
The Sexy Suit Series
Lucky Suit
Birthday Suit
* * *
From Paris With Love
Wanderlust
Part-Time Lover
* * *
One Love Series
The Sexy One
The Only One
The Hot One
The Knocked Up Plan
Come As You Are
* * *
Sports Romance
Most Valuable Playboy
Most Likely to Score
* * *
Standalones
Stud Finder
The V Card
The Real Deal
Unbreak My Heart
The Break-Up Album
21 Stolen Kisses
Out of Bounds
My One Week Husband
* * *
The Caught Up in Love Series
The Pretending Plot (previously called Pretending He’s Mine)
The Dating Proposal
The Second Chance Plan (previously called Caught Up In Us)
The Private Rehearsal (previously called Playing With Her Heart)
* * *
Seductive Nights Series
Night After Night
After This Night
One More Night
A Wildly Seductive Night
About
A sexy, swoony falling-for-the-neighbor standalone romance from #1 New York Times bestselling author Lauren Blakely!
* * *
Just my luck - my new next door neighbor is a unicorn.
* * *
Yep, the British hottie is clearly a mythical man because - get this - he's a sexy, witty, charming, big-hearted single dad.
* * *
Who, wait for it, wants to find Mrs. Right and get hitched.
* * *
He’s a once-in-a-blue-moon kind of man, and it’s a darn shame I’m not on the market. If I were, his accent alone would melt me. Add in the fact that he's a veterinarian, and my animal-loving heart would be flip flopping.
* * *
But my heart's on the mend. I'm a single parent like him, and raising my teenage daughter is my top priority. Plus, falling for a guy who shares your property line is a line you shouldn’t cross.
* * *
Still, I'm an outgoing gal, so I do the neighborly thing and offer to be his dating insider.
* * *
Surely, I can help this small town’s most eligible bachelor ever navigate his way through all the fantastic single ladies eager to make his acquaintance.
* * *
What could possibly go wrong in helping the dream guy next door find his one true love?
* * *
So I set him up on one date, two dates, three dates — and I’m about to find out exactly how dangerous my offer is.
The Dream Guy Next Door
By Lauren Blakely
By Lauren Blakely
* * *
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1
January
One fine Saturday that summer
* * *
One
thing you can count on for certain is the buzz when a new guy moves into the neighborhood.
The other sure bet? That rumor will be rock-concert loud if said newcomer is a stone-cold hottie.
That’s the chatter spreading through Duck Falls faster than an image of a sexy celebrity kayaking in the nude trends on Twitter.
The two-story bungalow next to mine on Mallard Lane has been empty all summer—the kind of vacant that crackles and hums with burning questions. Will a family snag it? Will a developer nab it? Will someone flip it and sell it for a mint, driving up the value of all the other homes on the block, including the ones with chipped paint and cracked windowsills?
Or will—pretty please with a serving of looks-like-Chris-Hemsworth-on-top—a handsome, single sweetie pie move in?
The For Sale sign transformed into a Sold one in June, but the only crumb of intel we Duck Fallsians could scrape together was that an out-of-towner had made the winning bid.
And so the speculation ramped up.
Was the buyer male? And if so, what box did he tick off on forms? Married? Divorced? Widowed? Separated, but still cohabiting, so please keep him far away from me because that’s not even remotely close to acceptable?
How about on dating sites? Would ladies deem him to be a smooth-talking player? A cougar chaser? An escape artist? A too-good-to-be-true-er?
No one knew. No one even knew if he was straight.
But by July, the notoriously tight-lipped realtor let slip three glorious words.
Straight.
Single.
Male.
With that settled, emphasis turned to the details. Valeria Rodriquez, owner of the small-batch ice cream shop in the town square, tossed out the first question.
Would he be wildly clever?
The next came from yogini LaTanya Smith.
Might he be deliciously funny?
Polly at the yarn store went so far as to post on the town’s online forum: Anyone know if he likes hedgehogs? I have five now, so I’m looking for a partner who’ll pet my hedgehog.
Yeah, no one knew the answer to that.
Or if that was a euphemism.
Other inquiries have floated through the air.
What if he’s a know-it-all? A boring blowhard? A cheating jerkface cad?
Ah, but what if he’s kind, smart, sexy, and a god in bed?
A woman can dream—dream of man-i-corns.
And so the ladies do dream here in Duck Falls, population 15,474, and the beloved gateway to wine and olive country. Our hamlet is home to the best combo bookstore-slash-wine shop on the California Coast. The train tracks that run along the edge of town are so Instagram-worthy that you could selfie yourself for days. We love our eponymous ducks and have pink plastic kiddie pools in the town square for them to splash around in. Our sidewalks seem paved with silver, and I don’t mean figuratively—we’re home to a glitter factory.
All that, and a nose for sniffing out eligible bachelors.
The whole town, it seems, likes to man-watch.
It’s the Duck Falls way.
But it’s not my way.
I’m simply not in the market, nor am I even considering a trip to the man counter. No deli number needed for this woman—no rump roast or ham hock for moi. Shacking up, hanging out, and Netflix-and-chilling hold no appeal for me.
But neither does seeming unsociable in this town that’s been my home forever. It’s a matter of striking the right balance between being politely interested in the town’s favorite topic and being too interested.
That means there’s no escaping when I walk right into a circle of Duck Falls speculation one Saturday morning in early August.
My spawn and I head into the boba tea shop next to the yarn store with no idea what awaits us. A wind chime tinkles as the door swings open, announcing our entrance.
“Good morning, Nina,” I say to the chirpy blonde proprietor behind the counter.
“A very good morning to you, January,” she says, her face packing a grin that translates into I’m about to pepper questions in your direction at the speed of sound. She shifts her gaze to my kiddo. “Hi, Wednesday. Don’t let me forget to send you the new content for the blog later today. I wrote a piece on the merits of fruit tea versus black tea.”
My daughter smiles. It’s her professional grin, and she wears it well—she’s the Web developer for half the town’s businesses, it seems.
“I will put it on my Google task list to check in with you,” she says.
“Google task list,” Nina says with utter delight, clasping a hand to her chest. “I love it.”
I squeeze my daughter’s shoulder—this kid, I swear. She’s a badass CEO at age fifteen.
We order, and Nina makes the drinks, sliding me two tall cups locked and loaded, right along with a serving of “So, what’s the Mallard Lane dealio?”
Wednesday snags her mango boba, cutting in, “Why don’t you two chat? I’ll wait outside. I have a podcast to listen to on new coding techniques.”
“New coding techniques,” Nina repeats, seeming tickled pink by Wednesday’s habits and hobbies. “That’s so . . .” She pauses, hunting about perhaps for a trendy word before she says, “Rad. It’s just rad.”
Wednesday smirks. “Super rad,” she replies, as if that’s something she’d actually say. She knows the value of keeping clients happy.
“I’ll be right there,” I call out as Wednesday pushes open the door.
Once it’s just the women over age fifteen—fine, we’re both over thirty-five, but barely, in my case, at thirty-seven—Nina waggles her drawn brows at me, and I know what’s coming. She’s married, so presumably she isn’t scoping the “dealio” for herself. But with a newly single sister, it’s no mystery why Nina’s fishing for gossip in Mallard Lane waters—for Maya. “Has the guy next door moved in yet?”
And yes, she’s angling to catch a big one.
I swipe my credit card over the card reader. “I haven’t seen him yet. But I will keep my eyes open.”
There. That’s just the right level of interest, isn’t it?
Nina squees. “You do that. I hear he’s moving in today. I’m dying to know if he’s perfect for you-know-who,” she says in a whisper, even though we’re alone.
“Of course. That makes perfect sense.”
See? That’s a balanced amount of interest befitting a businesswoman who needs to be in good graces with everyone.
I gesture toward the storage room at the back of the shop. “And you be sure to let me know if you still want me to build you those new cabinets.”
Nina’s brown eyes go blank for a few seconds, then they flash with awareness before she smacks her forehead. “Oh, I nearly forgot. I’ll let you know who I’m going with soon, January. Either you or Big Beams Construction.”
Big Beams.
The new franchise of a national carpentry company that loves to underbid the locally owned shops with its 10 percent discount off the competition.
With a smile that says I hope it’s me, but I know it won’t be, I say goodbye, tea in hand, then head outside, shoving aside thoughts of price cuts I can’t afford to give.
Wednesday is parked on the green wooden bench in front of the shop, sipping her tea. Her dark-blonde ponytail bounces as she jumps up and pops out her earbuds.
“Learn lots?” I ask.
“I’m pretty much ready to hack into the town electrical grid now if you need me to.”
I sigh contentedly. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted. To raise a cybercriminal.”
“Well, you got it,” she says, bumping her hip against mine as she lifts her cup and takes a drink.
I wag a finger. “No hacking, missy.”
She rolls her green eyes, shooting me a droll look, the kind that teenagers are particularly skilled at firing at their mothers. “I don’t hack.” She pauses, lifts her brows precociously, then adds, “Yet.”
“You better not hack ever,” I say.
We make our way hom
e, passing my friend Alva Chang’s hair salon on the corner. This corner is the most silver-speckled in town, thanks to its intersection with the road to the glitter factory. The silver brick road to beauty.
I wave through the window at Alva, who’s the spitting image of Ali Wong. She raises one hand, a pair of scissors in it, and brings it to her ear without stabbing herself in the eye. Call me.
Later, I mouth, knowing call me really means text her.
“Hacking isn’t always bad, Mom,” says Wednesday.
“How do you figure? It’s not like anyone wakes up and says, Gee, I hope I’ve been hacked this morning.”