The Dream Guy Next Door: A Guys Who Got Away Novel Page 8
The question comes out sticky, like each word is glued to my tongue.
But what the hell?
He can date.
He should date.
“Soon. Very soon.”
“Online, I presume?”
“Tinder, here I come.” He sounds excited, but there’s some trepidation too. “Once I get settled in at my dad’s practice, I’ll start up a LovesToCookShowerYouwithGiftsandGiveFootRubs profile. Think that’s a good dating profile name?”
“I mean, maybe?” I tease. “The only edit, I suppose, would be AlsoGoodinBed.”
Maybe that was too flirty. Maybe I shouldn’t have said that.
“Ohhh,” he says with a sly grin. “You suppose I’m good in bed?”
My mouth falls open as a flush creeps across my cheeks. I hold up my hands, not wanting to touch that one, even though I started it.
He taps my toe with his. “C’mon. You think I’m probably good in bed. I give off good-in-bed vibes, don’t I?”
And the flush turns into flames. “I’m pleading the fifth.”
“Look, you can sense the truth. I get it. And let’s just be up-front, like you were about the furniture.” He leans a little closer, dropping his voice. “You’re completely right. But . . .” His tone goes low and smoky as he shoots me a dangerous look. “We can call it GreatinBed.”
A myriad of risqué thoughts gallop through my brain, runaway horses heating me up. I have got to wrest control of this conversation. So I take a breath, imagine the air clearing away filthy thoughts of saddling him up for a wild mustang ride, and say, “You came to the right town. The women will be lining up for a guy who cooks, loves animals, and is great in bed.”
“That’s all I’ve ever wanted,” he teases.
As we leave, I’m keenly aware of a few key facts.
One, I’m glad he moved next door.
Two, he already feels like a friend.
Three, he is going to be such a hot commodity in Duck Falls.
Later that evening, Alva, though not in the market, texts me to get a jump on everyone else for the details. She asks how the shopping trip went, but I know what she really means, because she follows up with a GIF of a doe-eyed celebrity, batting her lashes and saying, Tell me more.
* * *
January: He’s everything all the women in town whispered he’d be.
* * *
Alva: You lucky bitch. You get to live next door to him.
* * *
January: How does that make me lucky exactly?
* * *
Alva: Because you can just climb out your window when you want to bang him.
* * *
January: Yes, of course. I’ll sneak across the front lawn barefoot in my nightgown and get some lovin’.
* * *
Alva: Now you’re talking. Anyway, so . . . what’s next?
* * *
January: With Liam? What’s next is we are neighbors, nothing more.
* * *
Alva: *sigh* I was hoping for a good story. Make one up for me, will ya?
* * *
January: Does that mean fifteen years of marriage and three kids is getting a bit dull?
* * *
Alva: On the contrary! I was hoping your story would be all I needed to jump my hubs after a long day. And hey, it worked. K, thanks, bye.
* * *
January: I didn’t even tell you a story!
* * *
Alva: I made one up in my head, and now I’m going to pretend I’m sixteen again and sneaking across the lawn to bang my high school sweetheart.
* * *
January: I hate you and your perfect love life.
* * *
Alva: Sorry, not sorry! Love you madly too. See you at B&B night next week!
* * *
January: Board games and booze. I never miss it.
* * *
Alva: And I never miss sex with the hubs. Gonna go chase me some Os!
* * *
I close the text thread with my bestie, glad she’s still happy, glad she’s still in love and lust with her guy after all these years.
Glad for her, since I don’t want that for myself.
Even though I am keenly aware of a fourth fact concerning Liam.
I’m the slightest bit jealous of the women he’ll date, and the slightest bit annoyed that I’m not in the market.
Because I’m absolutely not shopping. Not at all. Not one bit.
I’ve only now gotten through a divorce and come out on the other side of sadness.
I won’t tango with my next-door neighbor, a man who wants more kids.
I resolve to be the best of friends with him.
And only friends.
9
Liam
A few days later, while Ethan is still asleep, I hop on my bike at the crack of dawn and ride.
The sun climbs above the hilly terrain of this edge-of-wine-country town, warming my shoulders as I crest the final slope of a long, hard climb. Reaching the top, I flash back to my conversation at IKEA with January.
As the glorious descent calls out to me, my legs and lungs crying for relief, my mind zooms in on the possibilities of dating.
After all, dating isn’t new to me.
I enjoyed my twenties in New York, thank you very much. My early thirties too. And my mid-thirties. Hell, it’s not as if I stopped dating when Ethan appeared on my doorstep. Scheduling became more complicated, but I still went out from time to time, enjoying the city—dining in new restaurants, attending ball games, checking out the top-ten small-batch ice cream shops.
Ice cream is a priority.
Love?
Not so much up until now.
I came close a few times, or at least I think I did.
I’m pretty sure it was love with my college girlfriend, Anna. Though I might be basing that mostly on the stepped-barefoot-on-a-Lego pain I felt when she dumped me.
My first broken heart had me wallowing in misery so deep that my dad took it upon himself to comfort me, assuring me that it wouldn’t last forever and that someday I wouldn’t be sad over that girl.
And it was true. I stopped being sad about Anna long before I stopped feeling outraged that she left me for a long-haired, flannel-wearing bloke who fronted for a band called Tirade, which sounded like Soundgarden imitating Alice in Chains imitating Pearl Jam imitating Nirvana.
And Anna thought Tirade was fantastic.
Who was this girl? Had she always had such horrible taste in music? Had she only pretended to like the bands I’d introduced her to, bands like Snow Patrol, Radiohead, and the Foo Fighters?
So maybe it was less of a broken heart and more of an existential crisis.
Later in my twenties, there was Brittani with an I, who ran a dog rescue in the city. I handled all of their spays and neuters. We bonded over a love of animals and sex with an O, but eventually realized we had nothing to discuss outside of bed besides dogs and cats.
There was Stella, a baker I met through my friend Summer. It started as a match made in sugary heaven—she needed a taste-tester for her recipes, and I needed calories to burn as I trained for the centuries I was riding. We fell into friendship and wound up the best of mates. In fact, I took my next girlfriend as my date to her wedding.
Now, as I fly down this California hill on my bike, hugging the curves of the road, I look back at my serial monogamy without regret. There are no dreadful mistakes in my romantic past. No clingers or crazies, no one who cheated, stole, or banged my best mate.
Sure, I haven’t met the one, but I’m fortunate to have met plenty of women I liked. And if I managed that without trying, then the search for Ms. Right should be a piece of cake.
Ethan and I both long for a family, but I’m not scouting for a mother replacement for him. I’m looking for me, dating for me, because I want what I haven’t found yet.
What my parents have.
What my sister has.
I see it in clients wh
o come in as couples, doting over the brand-new tortoiseshell kitten or floppy-eared puppy they’ve acquired, doting on each other as they take the next step in their togetherness.
It’s there in the bookstore when I spot a pair checking out books, showing each other things they know will make them think, or laugh, or just enjoy.
In the park with my son, I see how the other parents are with each other, holding hands as the kids play. Love has been on my mind a lot since Ethan came into my life.
I make my way home, cycling past emerald-green grass and acres of grapes, and let myself imagine that kind of life. And as I slow my pace at the end of my ride, turning onto Mallard Lane, I let those thoughts fade away, shelving them for now. There will be time later to tackle all those wishes.
I roll past the houses on my street, which still feels a little like a foreign land. But it’s a map I’m beginning to learn. My yellow home comes into view, and beyond that is January’s light-blue one with the unmistakable ladybug mailbox in the front.
There’s something even better there too—my neighbor.
I stop my bike in front of my house, dismount, and wheel it to hers, where I lean it against the white picket fence. January is in her garden, picking green beans, it looks like. She shoots me a devilish look as she snaps one off and waggles it in my direction. I make the sign of the cross to ward it off, and she cracks up and climbs to her feet, swiping her hair away from her face.
She pushes her sunglasses on top of her head, and I take mine off too, tucking them in the neck of my bike shirt before I undo my helmet and rest it on the handlebars.
“How can a vet hate veggies? Doctors shouldn’t hate veggies,” she says.
“I’m a DVM.”
“Same idea.”
“It’s not the same at all. And actually, most of my patients detest green beans too.”
She raises her eyebrows. “So it rubbed off on you—a dog’s dislike of veggies?”
I smile. “Seems to be the case.”
A wicked glint crosses her eyes. “I should make my sautéed green beans for you. I bet you’d change your mind.”
I rub my ear. “Did you say cupcakes? If you did, I would be delighted to try them.”
She ignores my comment. “They’re so delicious, Liam,” she says, sounding so enticing that she almost tricks me into thinking I could like the veggie dish. “A little garlic, a little olive oil, a little salt and pepper—I swear, they melt in your mouth.”
I stroke my chin and hum out loud. “I feel like you have a fundamental misunderstanding of what happens when vegetables go past your lips. Chocolate melts. Green beans don’t.”
She laughs, dragging a hand through her hair, which drifts on the breeze like she’s advertising air or water or some other essential. “I promise—you won’t be able to resist them,” she says, still trying to reel me in. It’s not the green beans I can’t seem to resist though—it’s this beauty with the spray of freckles and bright blue eyes.
“Try me,” I say, then toss out a counter-challenge. “But I guarantee you won’t be able to resist my brownies.”
“You’re a baker?” she asks, sounding like I just announced I’m an astronaut.
“I’m pretty good in the kitchen.” I smirk. “You should see what I can do with a KitchenAid.”
“Wait.” She holds up a hand to pause the conversation. “You said you love to cook, but there’s a difference between enjoying something and being good at it.”
“Oh, I’m good.” I lean in closer and whisper like it’s a dirty secret, “The best.”
“Wow. Good in bed and good in the kitchen? How is that possible?”
I give an if you’ve got it, flaunt it shrug. “Like I said, I’m a hot commodity. Oh, wait—you’re the one who said that.”
She laughs. “I did say that. Speaking of, when does the great dating escapade begin?” She taps her wrist, but there’s no watch there. Still, ticktock.
“Soon. Actually, I guess I could start today. I suppose I should get on the apps, at least.”
She shoos me away. “Get moving, then, Liam.”
But I don’t leave, and I don’t think she wants me to either, judging from the smile she’s sporting.
The one that matches mine.
We stand there for a moment, and neither of us says anything. The silence feels awkward, like perhaps we ought to fill it. Maybe with questions—like the kind I’d ask if I invited her over for dinner. We’d cook, crack open a bottle of wine, and I’d find out what she likes most about living here, what makes her happy, what makes her sad, what makes her tick.
But I don’t ask any of those things, because that’s not the conversation we’re having or going to have.
Instead, I return to her other question, answering as best I can. “I suppose I better make that GoodinBed profile tonight.”
“Are you ready to take the plunge?”
Am I? That’s a damn good question.
“As ready as I can be.” I pat where the pockets would be on my bike shorts, as if checking for my keys and wallet. “Small talk? Check. Questions about the other person? Check. Skin as thick as a rhino’s? Check.”
Chuckling, she shakes her head. “Ability to make a rhino sound both appealing and off-putting? Check.”
“I guess I am ready, then.” I try to imagine what this great dating escapade will look like as I admit to the ladies of the apps that I hate green beans and love brownies and enjoy a good audiobook on science and live for long, punishing bike rides that make my thighs scream and clear my mind of whatever is weighing on it.
A hard ride is blissful oblivion.
Except today, for some reason, with the trip down relationship memory lane. But thoughts of love and dating have dug in deep, and they’re hard to bat away when they’re tied to my plans for the near future.
“You’re brave, Liam,” she says, her voice kind, almost like a gentle caress.
“How’s that?” I ask.
“For putting yourself out there.” I look for sarcasm, but it seems to be a true and earnest compliment.
I like the sound of it. I like the feel of it. “You think so?”
“I do. It takes courage to be honest about what you want, like you were with me at IKEA.” Her smile is so warm, so inviting. It’s like the blue sky above.
But am I braver than her? Than this woman standing in her garden, who’s been equally forthright? “You’re honest too. About what you want, what you don’t want.”
She simply shrugs and shakes her head. “I don’t know. It seems easier to shut down an idea than to open up to one. Is it courageous to say I’m not interested?”
I nod, and keep nodding, like the movement of my head can underscore the truth of my words. “Yes. I think it is. Knowing and saying what you don’t want is just as brave. Maybe more.”
She lifts her chin, looking a little bit proud, and taps me on the shoulder in playful acknowledgment. “Then, we’re both brave.”
“We’ll be brave together, just in different ways.”
“Yes. I’ll hold down Fort Single, and you trek into the dating wilds,” she says, sweeping her arm out wide as if to indicate the rocky terrain I’m about to traverse.
Rocky indeed. “Sounds like a plan.”
That evening, I find a white Pyrex dish on my porch with a note affixed to it. I unfold the paper, an unexpected warmth bursting in my chest chased by a widening smile as I read, “I promise these will melt in your mouth. They are a guaranteed tastegasm.”
I laugh, reading the note one more time, staring at the curves in her handwriting, the deliberate neatness of it. She writes like I bet she builds cabinets—determined, orderly, and organized, but with a little bit of flair and panache.
Flair? Panache?
What the bloody hell?
What am I now? A crime scene investigator? A handwriting analyst?
I blink the thoughts away, take the offending vegetables inside, and then serve them to Ethan at dinnertime.
That is as big a seal of approval as one can get, especially coming from the tween.
I try them next, considering the flavors as I chew. They’re subtle but tasty too.
Melt in my mouth? No.
But they are strangely sort of kind of good.
“You are correct,” I say. “Shall I serve you these every night?”
“Hmm. Maybe not every night. Unless we can have dessert too.”
“Brilliant idea. How about we bake brownies?”
His answer is a resounding yes.
After we finish dinner and clean up, we mix the batter, him dropping a dollop of the chocolate mixture onto my nose and me doing the same to him. Naturally, that requires a photo, so I snag my mobile, snap a shot, then send it to Aunt Jane.
Her reply is swift.
* * *
Aunt Jane: Send some of those brownies straightaway! Also, give that boy a kiss from me.
* * *
Liam: Brownies in the mail as we speak. Kisses commencing in 3, 2, 1 . . .
* * *
I set the phone down.
“Want to know the only thing better than baking brownies in August?” I ask Ethan.