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

That makes my heart squeeze. Maybe even glow. Warmth fans through me as I linger on her statement for a moment. This thing between us seems like it ought to be quite simple. Two adults enjoying each other’s company.

  But it’s not simple at all.

  It’s fraught with complications.

  Even though we want a lot of the same things—connection, intimacy, conversation—I’m keenly aware that we don’t truly want the same things. I’m a relationship guy, and even if she’s been a relationship woman before, that’s not where she’s at right now.

  She’s choosing to take a break.

  She needs one.

  Hell, she deserves it.

  I can’t push her. I won’t push her. That’s not my style, and it’s also disrespectful of her journey. I can’t imagine extracting myself from a long, loveless marriage, finding my own way, starting my own business, and then being sucked into the vortex of another relationship.

  I wouldn’t want that.

  I understand why she doesn’t either.

  I move away from matters of the heart.

  I need to zero in on something inanimate.

  The furniture.

  Perfect.

  I gesture to the living room. “Thank you again for putting everything together. I know I said that when you first came over, but I was distracted by getting you naked, and now I want to properly thank you and say that was incredible, what you did.”

  “Oh, I think you did thank me properly,” she says, playfully lingering on the words.

  “I’m glad you feel it was a worthy way to show my gratitude.”

  “So worthy.” She taps her chin. “But are you saying you’re not distracted by getting me naked now?”

  I shake my head, laughing. “I’m pretty much always thinking about getting you naked. But I simply wanted to say your gift was a lovely, delightful surprise.”

  “Does it suit you? Your furniture?”

  I glance at the newly built couch, chair, and table in the other room. “Yes. No. I don’t know. I don’t really care that much about furniture and whether it suits me.”

  With a thoughtful look on her face, she asks, “What do you care about?” She takes another bite of the pasta primavera as she waits for me to answer her latest question.

  And this question is something I care deeply about.

  Because this question is part of the connection between us, the easy way we can segue between teasing, dirty talking, and then diving in deep.

  These talks matter to me.

  I care about her.

  About how we are together already.

  But I don’t say that yet. Now isn’t the time. The time might not ever be.

  Still, I answer honestly, repeating the question. “What do I care about?” I mull it over for a few seconds. “I care about doing the best job that I can as a vet. I care about helping animals. I care about my parents, my sisters, their children. I care the most, of course, about my own son, which still kind of amazes me every day, since I never intended to have a kid. And yet it’s as if I can’t remember a time when I didn’t care for him.”

  She smiles, big and genuine. “Does it sometimes feel like the first seven years of his life didn’t happen, because living as you know it started when he came into your life?”

  My eyes widen, and I feel completely seen, thoroughly understood. “It does feel that way. And I loved my life beforehand. I thought it was great. Then he came into it, and suddenly it felt like the most important part of it had begun at last.” I take a beat, noodling on those thoughts, on how right and true they feel. “Does that make any sense at all?”

  After taking a drink of wine, she nods. “It makes perfect sense, because suddenly you know exactly what you’re supposed to be doing and why. You go from sometimes wondering what the point of it all is to knowing what the point is of everything.”

  She’s speaking my language and touching my heart. “Exactly. I never thought I’d enjoy being a father so much. I never even thought about it at all. Then it happened, and all I could think was Wow, this must be why I really like being a vet. I love taking care of small creatures, with four or two legs.”

  She brings her hand to her heart and swallows roughly, almost as if she’s holding back tears. Then I’m certain she is, since her voice is wobbly as she says, “That is one of the sweetest things anybody has ever said.”

  I laugh, feeling the faintest flush in my cheeks, trying to dismiss the compliment. “Nah.”

  “Yes, Liam. It truly is.”

  I shrug, take another bite, chew, then set down my fork. “But that’s just how it feels. And I look back on the fact that he was alive for nearly seven years and knocking about with his mother and doing all of these things in Florida, and I had no clue. I wish I had a telescope that would show me those times. I wish he could tell me stories about those days, because it feels like this black hole of his life that I will never know and never have access to,” I say, the strength of my own wish powering my voice. I long for that insight into my son, and I’ll never have it. “Maybe that’s why I want every second now to be amazing. I want us to have a great relationship. To care about each other and look out for each other, because I didn’t get to when he was younger.”

  She sets a hand on my arm, her palm soft and caring. “Do you regret that? That you missed all that time?”

  “I do,” I say heavily, a weight settling in my gut. “But it’s stupid to regret it, since it was never in the cards.”

  “Did you ever want something with her? With Ethan’s mom?”

  “I didn’t even think about it. It was truly a one-night stand. I met her at a bar in New York City, and we were safe. Used a condom. I didn’t think twice about her or that night, to be honest. That’s what I regret. I wish she’d been someone I wanted more with.” I inhale deeply, then say something I don’t share with anyone. I speak the truest regret. The one that hangs over me. “Mostly, I wish I’d had the chance for more. That she’d made other choices. That she’d given me the option to be his dad for longer. When he was born.” I shake my head, annoyed all over again. “She didn’t give me that opportunity for years, and when she finally did, I couldn’t be angry with her. She was dying.”

  “But it’s understandable that you wish things had been different.”

  “I would have been there for him. I would have shown up,” I say, frustration welling inside me, but also sadness, since I never had that chance to be a father to an infant, a toddler, a four-year-old. “Now I simply wish that he could tell me stories about what he did when he was four.”

  I sound as wistful as I feel, and I try to stave off the melancholy, since this night isn’t about regret. It’s about coming together. But the soft, open look in January’s eyes tells me it’s okay to be frank about my feelings.

  “It’s like a blank slate in your past,” she says gently.

  “Yes, but on the other hand, I’m also used to looking at the world that way. When my patients come in with a pet they’ve adopted from a rescue, it’s the same way. Sometimes they say things like What do you think Fifi did for the first four months of her life? What did she do for the first year? And I have no way of knowing, and just wonder. I make up stories, and they become part of the narrative for Fifi or Fido.”

  Taking another bite of the fruit salad, she’s quiet as she eats. “So Ethan has his own narrative. He has a narrative that you’ll never know, but maybe that’s something the two of you can do someday. Maybe you can invent a story, sit down, and tell your own tale about what those seven years were like. And then you’ll have a narrative you can share.”

  My heart thumps harder, pounding powerfully against my chest at that suggestion. It’s both creative and touching. And something I’d love to do. “I love that idea, January. I think that’s kind of beautiful. I could kiss you for that.”

  “Don’t let me stop you.”

  I don’t. I lean across the table, cup her cheek, and kiss the woman I care deeply for.

 
More than I intended to.

  More than she has room in her life for.

  But tell that to my heart.

  It’s speeding up, racing to be close to her, to this woman who’s in a vastly different place than I am.

  We are not the right-place, right-time couple.

  We are out of alignment.

  I find the will to break the kiss, take another bite of food, and enjoy the moment.

  That’s all this is, and that’s okay. We can have this moment. Hell, maybe we can have a few moments—a few nights, even.

  “I think that’s one of the reasons you’re so focused on family now. Because you’re keenly aware of what you missed,” she continues, seeing inside me, getting me.

  “That’s completely true. But that’s not the only reason I’m focused on family.”

  She tilts her head, curiosity etching her features. “What’s the other reason?”

  I draw a breath. I haven’t told her this yet. Odd because I sometimes feel like January and I talk about everything, but there is so much still to tell. “There’s another reason I came back to town.”

  Her brow furrows. “There is? Oh, I can’t believe I didn’t ask. I assumed you came back to be near your parents. There’s something else?”

  I don’t beat around the bush—I know that won’t make it easier. “My dad is going blind.” I explain about the condition he has and the pending surgery, looming quickly.

  Her voice breaks once again. “I’m so sorry, Liam. How is he doing?”

  “It’s hard for him. But I think he’s doing as well as he possibly can, and he has a lot of people here who love him.”

  She reaches for my hand. Squeezes it. “That includes you. That includes Ethan.”

  I turn my hand over, threading our fingers together, grateful for the contact. “It does. It definitely does.”

  “When did you find out?”

  “About six months ago. That’s when I started making plans to come back here.”

  “That’s why family is so important to you. Not only because you’re close to yours, but also because what’s happening to your dad made you realize where you needed to be and what you wanted in life.”

  There’s a weight to her words, almost as if she’s underscoring that this is where I am in my life, and she’s in a different spot. I want more. She does not.

  We are all on our own paths, and rarely do those intersect with the paths of the ones we want.

  My eyes travel over the gorgeous, kind, funny woman in my home, and land on her arms. Her sparrows. That seems like a safer topic than family—than the line that divides us.

  I run a finger along the black birds painted on her skin. “Why’d you have these done?”

  She draws a deep breath. “When I was feeling weighed down with Vince and my life, trying to figure out what I wanted, I hunted out images online that spoke to me. These jumped out. They felt like freedom. To make my own choices. To fly if I need to. To stay if I need to.”

  “You have that freedom. You always have that freedom. No one can take that away from you.”

  I can’t fault that she wants different things than I do. If I had a fifteen-year-old, I don’t know that I’d want to go back either. But I also don’t want to talk about the things that stand between us. And so I slide back to the start of this conversation as I serve up another spoonful of the fruit salad. “So, you asked what I care about.”

  A grin spreads across her face. She likes this shift too. “Yes, tell me more.”

  I take a bite of a peach, moaning in pleasure. “Peaches. I care about peaches.”

  “Me too.”

  “I care about my bike, about taking care of my body, being fit, and yet still being able to eat ice cream. I care about my friends, about finding new friends here and keeping in touch with old friends in New York. I care about cookies and cake and brownies and sunshine and tea.” I hold up a hand. “Correction: I care deeply about tea. I care about it so much that sometimes I think about marrying tea because I don’t know how I’d wake up in the morning without it.”

  She points an accusing finger at me. “I thought you were a morning person. Now I learn you need tea?”

  “I am a morning person powered by English breakfast.”

  “So if I came over some morning and stole all your English breakfast tea, you wouldn’t even make it out of bed?”

  I slide a hand along her thigh, under her skirt. “You’re not that cruel.”

  “You’re right. I’m not. I’d never do that to you. Just like I hope you’d never steal my coffee.”

  We’re so close our noses are nearly touching, and I have no choice but to kiss her again. When I break the kiss, I say, “I promise, January, I’ll never take your coffee away.”

  She presses her palms together, as if her prayers have been answered. “Thank God. I can’t live without it. I think it’s something that happens when you turn thirty-five. You decide you want to marry things like aspirin and ibuprofen and coffee. I like being over thirty-five though.”

  “Same here. I feel like some of that craziness of my twenties has dwindled. Now, I can just kind of meet each day on its own terms,” I say, finishing a cherry, then setting down my fork. “You learn to stop taking yourself so seriously, and then you learn to take the things seriously that ought to be taken that way. Like health and family, but not things like what kind of music you like or don’t like. Time takes on a whole new quality when it no longer belongs solely to you. You learn to value it even more. Time becomes the thing that you’ll do the most for. To make the best of it.”

  She’s finished eating too, and I begin cleaning up, putting the plates in the sink. And then I ask, “And what about you? What do you care about?”

  “I agree with you about time, for starters. And of course I care about my daughter. I care about my friends. I care about being a kick-ass businesswoman. I care about doing an amazing job at work. I care about growing plants and veggies outside and giving back to the earth,” she says, then takes a beat and moves behind me at the sink, her soft body pressed to mine. “I care about only sleeping with people I really like.”

  I did not expect that. That kind of came out of nowhere. But I love it, so much so that it heats my blood, warms my skin. I spin around. “I think that’s my favorite thing on your list.”

  She dips her head, maybe a little shy. I tuck my finger under her chin. “Are you shy, January?”

  She shakes her head. “I’m kind of aroused again.”

  My skin heats from her words. My cock hardens, and I can’t resist touching her. I run my fingers along her arm, tracing them over her sparrows. “I like touching you. I love making you feel good. I like how you look and how you feel when you come.”

  “I like what you do to me,” she whispers. “I like the way you feel under my hands. Your chest, your arms, your ass. You have a great ass, Liam. I love grabbing it when you’re inside me.”

  Okay. Forget hard. My dick is an iron spike right now. “You’re driving me crazy, woman. I am rock-hard here in the kitchen.”

  “And I’m wet,” she whispers.

  “You’re fucking perfect,” I say on a groan, my hands threading through her hair. “Now about that other orgasm . . .”

  But she has something else in mind because she slides down my body, gets on her knees, and unzips my jeans.

  Before I can even think twice about giving her an O, she’s got my dick in her mouth, and I have no interest in stopping her.

  No interest whatsoever, since she’s swirling her tongue around the head, licking me, sucking me, treating me like I’m an absolutely delicious piece of candy. Taking me deep, playing and gripping and stroking, as she lavishes delicious attention with her soft tongue and her firm lips and her gorgeous moans.

  Soon I’m grunting and grabbing her hair, roping it around my fist, pulling and tugging and fucking into her mouth. “If you keep doing that, I’m going to come,” I warn.

  Ever so briefly, she pulls off, h
er lips against the head of my cock as she says, “That’s the point.” Then, in a heartbeat she’s back on me, sucking me deep as pleasure roars through me.

  Closing my eyes, I savor every second of coming in her throat. When she’s done, I take her to the bedroom, and I have my dessert too until she comes on my lips.

  I crawl up her body and murmur, “There’s something I have to tell you.”

  “What is it?” Her eyes flicker with nerves.

  I kiss her cheek, then pull back to meet her gaze. “I think I’m addicted to going down on you. I’m going to need to do it many more times.”

  Maybe this is my way of saying I want more.

  That I want more than this night.

  And as I say it, I don’t think I ever felt like we could have only one time.

  When she looks at me, wraps her arms around my neck, and says, “That’s a really good addiction, and I’m happy to feed it,” I’m pretty sure she never felt that way either.

  Soon, I take her home, walking her to her door like a gentleman. I cup her cheek. “I’ll see you soon.”

  She grabs my shirt, tugging on a fistful of fabric. “We’re going to do that again, right?”

  “Which part?” My heart soars, hoping, hoping, hoping for the same answer that I feel.

  And she gives it to me. “Both.”

  I say yes.

  20

  January

  When I have breakfast with my daughter before she goes to school the next morning, I look her in the eyes over the scrambled eggs, toast, and peaches. She takes a bite, chewing, and I do the same, then I set down my fork, my chest swelling with a clobbering wave of affection for her.

  That’s not necessarily a surprise.

  I constantly feel affection for her. But when it’s your normal state of heart, you don’t always notice it. This time, though, the wave crashes over me. And I know why.

  “I’m lucky,” I say.

  She shoots me a curious look. “Why are you lucky?”

  My heart thumps harder, filling up like a hot-air balloon with love for this kid. “Because I’ve had you your whole life.”