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

“Because people don’t understand the bennies.”

  I ruffle her hair, careful not to mess up her deliberately messy pony. “No hacking, K? It’s taken me long enough to start a business. I don’t need to compete with Big Beams and deal with the scourge that is my own hacker child.”

  “I’m not that kind of hacker.”

  “Don’t be any kind of hacker. Unless you are hacking a recipe for boba tea,” I say, savoring another sip then glancing surreptitiously behind me. “Because Nina Clawson makes the best boba tea.”

  Wednesday smacks her lips in agreement. “She definitely does. Also, did you know mango boba is about ten times better than non-mango boba? It’s a proven fact.”

  I arch a skeptical brow. “Proven by whom? By sassy fifteen-year-olds who don’t have to suffer through late nights paying bills and therefore don’t need the survival boost only caffeine affords?” I lift my oolong tea with the yummy bubble balls to make my caffeinated point, then slurp noisily. A slippery ball slides into my mouth, and I catch it between my teeth then show it off to her. Then I bite into the tapioca and swallow. “Score!”

  “I can do that too,” she says, then sucks on the straw, trying to capture the ball of bubble deliciousness right as it shoots into her mouth.

  She’s victorious, showing off her prize before chomping down on it.

  I sigh happily and pat her shoulder. “I’ve taught you so well, Spawn.”

  “You have, Spawner, but you are also wrong. Coffee is gross, tea is gross, and this is heaven. All beverages are better with fruit. And that’s what I hope Nina says in her blog post.”

  “Ah, to be young and innocent,” I declare, taking another life-sustaining sip of my beverage as we wander past the yoga studio where I’ve tried, I swear I’ve tried, to Savasana with LaTanya. “But if you continue to insist on this fruit-tea-is-better blasphemy, I’ll leave it to you to fend off all the questions about our new neighbor.”

  She gasps. “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “Try me.”

  She points at me like I’m a death-eater. “You’re not that evil.”

  “I might be.” We slow at the corner of Mallard Lane then turn onto our street.

  “I refuse to believe it, even of you.”

  I tap my plastic cup to hers. “Fine. You’re right. I still like you too much to do that. But remember, that can change at a moment’s notice—you’ve been warned.”

  “Hmm. I think you’re bluffing. You won’t stop liking me, because I am literally the best.”

  Confidence. It’s one of the many things I love about this kid, as well as how she makes my budding business look good online. “If you keep sassing me about tea, I make no promises,” I tell her. “Feel free to call me the worst mother in the world.”

  “You’re the worst.”

  We stroll past a yard so lush and green that it looks like a jewel. Betty Juniper is watering the poppies in her garden as she shamelessly peers at the yellow home next to mine. As our steps grow louder, she whips her gaze our way. Excitement shimmers in her eyes, and she calls out in a stage whisper, “Psst! January! I need to talk to you.”

  Ooh, Betty always has good stuff to share.

  “Hi, Betty. How are your flowers?”

  “My flowers? Oh, they’re fine.” She waves her free hand, the garden hose in the other apparently forgotten as it soaks her peonies and poppies and spatters the white picket fence.

  “Ahem, Betty.” I peer at the ground, which is becoming more of a lake. “You might want to reposition the hose.”

  “Yes, I think your poppies are donning their life jackets.” Wednesday points to the vibrant orange flowers. Betty just blinks at her, so she tries again. “Because they’re about to be submerged.”

  Yeah, this girl has no problem speaking her mind.

  Betty’s slate-blue eyes bug out as she finally notices the flood, which has broken the banks of the flower bed and is quickly turning into a bog. She fumbles to twist the nozzle so the deluge is more of a trickle. Then she drops the hose, and this woman who is so committed to a green thumb tromps across the lawn, giving absolutely no fucks what her navy-blue wellies do to the wet grass.

  She must have something vital on her mind, to put it mildly.

  She forges past the fence and marches up to me on the sidewalk. “Listen. About eight minutes and ten seconds ago, I saw a red sedan that looked suspiciously like a rental car drive by.”

  Oh, that’s how we’re doing this? We’re Miss Marple-ing the single man’s every move?

  “The car slowed outside the yellow house next to yours, but I couldn’t discern whether it pulled into the driveway. But let me tell you, I got a look at the man behind the wheel, and oh me, oh my, he was a kalamata olive.”

  “Earmuffs,” I tell Wednesday.

  Cue my daughter’s second eye roll of the day. “It’s nothing I don’t hear all the time, Mom.”

  “Even so, you don’t need to know about the olive scale.”

  With a third roll of her green irises, my daughter hands me her cup and covers her ears.

  Betty’s expression is staunchly serious as she dives into a topic worth drowning her perfect grass for. “We are talking full kalamata here. You know what I mean?” She deals me several girl, we’re in this together nods.

  I fasten on a smile, strapping in for the Naughty Betty ride. “You mean you wanted to sink your teeth into him?” I’ve heard her scale many times, especially over the last month, since every time I’ve seen her, she asks if I’ve met the man yet.

  “Oh, yes,” she says, adopting a deep Barry White bedroom baritone. “Sink them right into his tush.”

  Hold on a hot second. “How did you see his tush if he was driving?”

  She laughs, shaking her head, all very Silly child, Trix are for kids. “You don’t have to see something to believe in it,” she says. “And I believe in your new neighbor’s yummy butt.” Putting up her hand, she forestalls a reply I wasn’t going to make. “But this isn’t about me. This is for my youngest daughter, Missy. She’s single again, and well, you know how it goes here. Something in the water causes a disproportionate number of women to spring from our wombs.”

  “That is true,” I agree. It’s our town’s greatest gift and greatest mystery. We are blessed by a fertility goddess, only she seems a helluva lot more fond of girl babies than of boys.

  No one quite understands the Athena phenomenon, but we all understand the effects. Duck Falls counts more female-owned businesses than most towns, more women than most towns, and more women in need of a man-bang than most towns.

  Might as well call it Fuck Falls.

  There you have it—the reason that new men in town, be they passersby or residents, receive such avid interest.

  Or crazed, horny, give-it-to-me-now interest, I suppose.

  Betty continues her man-quisition. “Have you seen him yet? Can you verify if it’s true?”

  “His biteable tush? That would be nice to know, but I haven’t seen it.”

  “So you haven’t met your new neighbor? Are you sure? As in absolutely positive?” The skepticism is strong in this one.

  “Scout’s honor.” I hold up two fingers, then I tap my daughter’s hands, signaling that she can remove the earmuffs.

  “I heard every word,” she says dryly, and turns to our neighbor. “Do you want me to text you an update on the olive scale later?”

  Betty stares at my kid like she’s given her the secret to having a flat belly while eating cake daily. “Yes. Would you do that?” she asks, glomming on to this idea.

  I clamp a hand onto Wednesday’s shoulder. “She won’t be issuing olive-scale reports.”

  “But maybe consider it,” says Betty. “And maybe let me know before you tell the others? I want to line up Missy before anyone else can grab the olive.” She mimes squeezing melons with her hands.

  “I’ve always got my eyes open for Missy. She’s a hoot, and one of my favorite board game partners.”

  “And we�
��ll make sure no one else gets the olive but Missy,” Wednesday cuts in. I dig my claws into her shoulder, letting her know she’s in big trouble now for egging Betty on.

  “We—” I begin to express how much that’s not going to happen, but Wednesday interjects again.

  “Maybe we can discuss it when my mom fixes those spice racks for you?”

  Ohhhhhh.

  Oh, yes. I see now.

  My child is an evil genius.

  “They’re still not closing properly, right?” Wednesday asks, tilting her head with innocent curiosity as she closes the deal.

  Betty seems to like this win-win idea too. Her smile spreads. “They aren’t. So frustrating.” Turning to me, she asks, “Can you fix my spice rack later? And there’s no need for another on-the-house job. I’ll pay you.”

  “Sure. I have some time this afternoon to work on it.”

  “Great. I’ll bake a coffee cake, and we can catch up while you work.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” I say.

  “Olives and coffee cake,” Wednesday adds.

  “Spice racks and coffee cake,” I correct.

  “Everything and coffee cake,” Betty says.

  As we leave, my neighbor picks up her hose and resumes drowning the flowers as she scouts down the street.

  Once we’re a few houses away, Wednesday clears her throat. “You think she considered that the guy in the rental car might be, oh, gee, someone just passing through?”

  I laugh in agreement. “That is exactly what I was wondering.”

  “Also, who needs a man that badly?”

  I hold up my hand. “Preach, sister.”

  She smacks my palm then downs more of her beverage. “I like boys too, but I don’t get the man-session this town has. Who cares if the neighbor is a hottie or a nottie? There are plenty of other things to do besides date.”

  “Exactly. I have taught you well.”

  After more than a decade with a man who didn’t love me, I am a happy camper to be single at last.

  Single and not in need of a date.

  Not in want of a man.

  Single and truly single.

  No men need apply. Not for anything.

  I’ve been teaching my girl the same thing—that you don’t need another person to complete you. You are enough.

  I believe that with my whole heart.

  At the teal mailbox painted with ladybugs—an adorable addition courtesy of my best friend, Alva—we turn onto the stone walkway leading to our porch.

  In spite of myself, my eyes swing one house over.

  A red sedan is parked in the driveway.

  Hmm. Perhaps Betty is Miss Marple after all.

  And call me Agatha Christie, because I spy with my little eye a moving truck and a couple of burly men in blue dockers lugging a black leather couch up the steps.

  There’s no sign of the owner though.

  “We’ll pop over later and introduce ourselves. See if they need anything,” I say as I climb the porch steps.

  A door creaks, and a voice rumbles across the yard. “Yes, this is a little quieter than New York City. But I have a hunch it’s going to be absolutely fantastic.”

  I stop in my tracks.

  That voice.

  He sounds like an English hottie, like Tom Hardy, Daniel Craig, or Henry Cavill.

  What are the chances though? That the face will match that kind of a voice?

  One thousand to one?

  No.

  One million to one, easy.

  No way can any man have that yummy of a voice and as fine a face to go with it.

  He’ll be a nottie.

  I turn around.

  There go the odds.

  2

  Liam

  A few days before

  * * *

  I’m a glass-half-full kind of person.

  Life gives you lemons?

  Don’t just make lemonade. Make lemonade with vanilla bean extract, organic lemons, and homegrown honey from your own beehives and sell it at a roadside stand. You’ll make a mint.

  Yes, I did that when I was younger. I made a pretty penny with Liam’s Roadside Lemonade, thank you very much.

  Wake up well before the alarm clock? Log ten extra miles on the bike as the sun rises and the birds chirp, and don’t forget to stretch your hammies when you’re done.

  Sounds like my day yesterday, and I like to think my heart thanks me for the cardio love I give it every morning.

  But being asked to diagnose a malady I don’t treat? That ranks right up there with eating broccoli.

  That happens to me more than one might think. Not the consumption of broccoli—one of the greatest benefits of adulthood is never having to eat a veggie you hate. Goodbye, broccoli. Farewell, brussels sprouts, and see you never, radish.

  But I can’t escape people telling me about their corns, even though my work has nothing whatsoever to do with feet.

  My profession is paws.

  Trouble is, when your patients can’t speak, their owners make up for it by flapping their gums, mostly about themselves. When someone’s beagle has an allergy to fish, you learn about the owner’s reactions to salmon, and Have you ever heard about salmon allergies, and what should I do about it? When Rover comes in with an upset belly, you’re the audience to a soliloquy from his master about his own digestive woes.

  To hear or pretend not to hear—that is the question.

  But ignoring a client goes against my nature, so I wind up listening to all sorts of ailments every time I examine Fido and Fluffy, Puss and Boots, and Lucy and Rex. I love my job, but this is one of my least favorite parts of it, and that’s saying something, because I have to give rectal exams daily.

  Thankfully, that’s something I don’t have to do at the last appointment of my last day at my practice on the Upper East Side.

  It’s simply needle time for Cecily.

  I administer a distemper shot to a sleek black cat decked out in a bejeweled velvet collar, then scratch the kitty’s chin. “There you go, Cecily. What a good girl.”

  The cat lifts her head, eagerly accepting the chin rub—give it up for the cat whisperer in the house—while her owner smiles demurely and taps her lip. “One more thing, Dr. Harris.”

  “Yes, Blair?”

  She flips her red hair off her shoulder and poses her question. “If Cecily is having trouble sleeping, like, say, she’s waking up in the middle of the night and can’t fall back asleep, what should I do?” Perhaps realizing her blunder, Blair straightens, clears her throat, then smooths a hand down the cat’s back. “For her. What should I do for Cecily? The cat?”

  Of course. Because so many cats suffer insomnia. It’s amazing there’s not more research into the problem.

  “Well, funny you should ask, Blair,” I deadpan. “I see a lot of cats who have trouble sleeping through the night.”

  “Really?” Blair’s green eyes widen, looking delighted by my answer. She must really want validation. Or really not want to see her internist for her sleeplessness woes.

  She’ll be so disappointed to learn I can’t prescribe Ambien.

  I nod, still straight-faced. “It’s true. It’s a very common problem with nocturnal animals.”

  “I had no idea.” She misses my irony completely. “What do you recommend, doctor? Is there something she should take?”

  First of all, I recommend asking a human doctor. As in, a doctor for humans.

  I don’t say that though, because as much as I dislike twofers, they’re a part of life as a vet. And being a glass-half-full person, it’s not that hard to pass along a little tip.

  Ugh, I’m such a softie sometimes. If I were a country vet, I’d be that guy with a llama, a goat, and an emu roaming my garden.

  Come to think of it, raising an emu isn’t such a bad idea. Will I have room for one in Duck Falls, I wonder?

  I shake my head, force my straying thoughts back to the present. There will be time later to daydream about patches of land an
d the possibility of flightless birds.

  “For starters, you’d want to look at Cecily’s sleep habits,” I say, stroking Cecily’s chin—such an Upper East Side name for a cat. “Ask yourself: Is Cecily going to bed at a decent hour? Is Cecily drinking too much caffeine late in the evening? Is she turning off her phone?” I rattle off all the bad habits that might lead to poor sleep for, ahem, cats. “And more so, is she looking at her mobile in the middle of the night when she wakes up to use the litter box? That is the single biggest cause of sleep interruptions.”

  “L-litter box visits?” Blair asks, her brow creasing.

  “No. It’s the time the cat spends checking out email or Instagram on the phone while in the litter box.”

  “I had no idea.” She sounds as if I’ve just dazzled her by pulling a rabbit out of a top hat.

  “Yes,” I say, nodding as I pet the soft, silky Cecily, who purrs with each stroke. “Do you think that might be preventing her from nodding back off? The blue light of screens wakes up the feline brain.”

  “The blue light of screens,” Blair says, like I’ve handed her the answer to all her problems. Twofer indeed. Though Google would have told her the same thing. Maybe I should charge extra for the advice sessions.

  “There you go. Maybe you . . . I mean, Cecily,” I say dryly, finally meeting Blair’s eyes and giving her the I see what you did there look, “should stop peering at her phone in the middle of the night.”

  A contrite grimace twists her face, and she dips her head, hand on her chest. “Sorry, it was me. I’m having trouble sleeping, and I do check my Insta at night.”

  “Yes, I was able to put two and two together. But if the troubles persist, you should see your doctor. One who has an MD. Especially if you’re going to need to take something to aid your sleep. But hopefully some good, old-fashioned unplugging will do the trick. I’m sure all those pokes and finger tags will still be there in the morning.”

  “Finger tags?” Her brow knits.

  “Finger taps?” Social media is right up there with broccoli for me.

  “Just tags, Dr. Harris. They’re just called tags.”

  “And the tags will still be there in the morning,” I revise.