by Sandy Lowe
Table of Contents
Girls Next Door
Edited by Sandy Lowe and Stacia Seaman
Cupcake - Georgia Beers
Guilty Pleasure - M. Ullrich
Hooper Street - Anna Larner
Snow Day - Missouri Vaun
Knocking on Haven’s Door - Brey Willows
Gold - Giselle Renarde
Love Unleashed - Karis Walsh
Bat Girl - Laney Webber
The Aisle of Lesbos - Allison Wonderland
Kiss Cam - Lisa Moreau
The Girl Next Door - Beth Burnett
October Moon - Sheri Lewis Wohl
Chemistry - Lea Daley
Black Out - Ronica Black
Dog Day of Summer - Kris Bryant
The Perfect Blend - Rion Woolf
Welcome to the Neighborhood - Aurora Rey
Neighbors - Elizabeth Black
Black Sheep - Nell Stark
Contributors
Other Bold Strokes Books Titles Available via Amazon
Books Available From Bold Strokes Books
Girls Next Door
Lesbian Romance
Sometimes the most intriguing girls are right next door—BFFs, ex-girlfriends, new girls in town, party girls, study mates, teammates, and sexy strangers. All it takes is a night out, the right moment, or an accidental kiss to discover what's been there all along—the perfect girl for a love that lasts a lifetime. Best-selling romance authors tell it from the heart—sexy, romantic stories of falling for the girls next door.
Girls Next Door
Lesbian Romance
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Girls Next Door: Lesbian Romance
© 2017 By Bold Strokes Books. All Rights Reserved.
ISBN 13: 978-1-62639-929-7
“Neighbors” by Elizabeth Black appeared in Vamps (Torquere Press, 2009)
This Electronic Book is published by
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Valley Falls, New York 12185
First Edition: June 2017
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Credits
Editors: Sandy Lowe and Stacia Seaman
Production Design: Stacia Seaman
Cover Design by Jeanine Henning
Edited by Sandy Lowe and Stacia Seaman
Girls on Campus
Girls Next Door
Cupcake
Georgia Beers
Okay, full disclosure: I do not enjoy yoga. I go, yes. Three times a week. I need to. I have to. At thirty-three, I’m not getting any younger and my muscles aren’t getting any more flexible. Plus, I have an office job, and sitting on my ass all day long doesn’t do much to keep me fit. My mother is always telling me I have to keep moving as I get older. Granted, she is a woman who never stops. Ever. If I could bottle an eighth of her energy, I’d be good to go for years.
Anyway. Yoga. Yeah. It’s not my favorite. I have terrible balance and it takes great effort for me not to fall over in the middle of class during any given pose. I’ve gotten better, but I don’t really put in the effort needed to become good at it. I go because I have to. The yoga studio is a good size and located in one of those large buildings downtown, populated by offices on the top three floors and retail shops on the ground. I can walk there from my office, which is nice, as I don’t have to find parking. Also of note: Next door to the yoga studio is a cute little place called Cherry on Top. That’s the other reason I must go to yoga: Cherry on Top is a cupcake shop, and I can’t seem to stay away.
Today is Monday, and class is no different than any other day. My muscles are still trembling as I roll up my mat and wave to Gina, the instructor who I’m pretty sure is determined to kill me one of these days. I always wave so as to stay on her good side. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve almost shouted, “I don’t bend that way!” in the middle of class. It’s only that everybody else seems to bend that way that keeps my lips sealed shut. Yeah, with her long legs, perfect bubble butt, and disturbingly cheerful instructor voice, Gina is a certified sadist. I’m sure of it.
The class is pretty big, given it’s the 5:30 one. We’ve all come from our offices, changed out of our business suits and heels in the locker room and into Spandex in the hopes of having an ass like Gina’s one day. Most of us know our chances are slim, but we try anyway. I throw my towel over my shoulder and take a slug from my water bottle. Another advantage to this time of day is most of the women (and two men) in my class head home immediately, though some of them do what I do and hit Cherry on Top. They buy boxes of cupcakes to take home to the families, I imagine. I like to hang out. Still in my yoga clothes, I sit at Cherry on Top’s little counter next to the display case. It’s almost like a bar, with five red vinyl-covered stools.
“Well, hello there, Belle.” She calls me that because the first time I sat down at her “cupcake bar,” I was reading a book. She asked if I’d ever seen Beauty and the Beast. I basically laughed and said something along the lines of “duh,” and she’s called me Belle ever since.
“Hi, Katie.” I take a seat on one of the bar stools.
“I’ve got a new one today. You game?” Her blue eyes sparkle with approachability. You can’t not like Katie. She’s cute and friendly and cheerful and you just…want to be around her. I love to listen to her talk. I enjoy watching her work as I sit on my stool and eat my cupcake. When it’s not busy—like tonight—I really like just talking to her. About anything. About nothing.
“Always.” This isn’t the first time she’s tried a new flavor on me. I love when she does that.
Katie glances back at me, her deep blue eyes scanning down, then up what she can see of my body. “Yoga’s doing you good.” She turns her back—which I am thankful for, I can feel the heat in my face—and it gives me a chance to look at her. She’s small. I’d put her at maybe five-two, but with a solid frame. She does yoga, too, though we’ve never been in a class together, and I think it’s been much more beneficial for her. She looks solid, muscular but in a very feminine way. Her hair is light brown, just past her shoulders, and she’s wearing it down today. Most days, she’ll wear it in a high ponytail, which allows me a really great view of her neck. She’s dressed in snugly worn jeans and a blue T-shirt, a white apron tied around her waist. Her small hands move quickly, spreading frosting over a light-colored cupcake, then very carefully—and artistically, really—shaving a spiral of peel from an orange and sticking it into the white frosting. I am perfectly content to just sit and observe. Whenever she turns my way, I flick my gaze elsewhere. Can’t have her thinking I’m some creeper staring at her all the time. Even though I kind of am. (Staring. Not a creeper.)
At this point, I’m guessing you’ve probably figured out what I really like about Cherry on Top. Subtlety has never been a strong point for me.
She holds up the cupcake, and that pop of orange really makes it look pretty. It’s in a silver wrapper and it just looks…classy. Not bad for a cupcake. Once she’s satisfied, she nods once, sets it on a small plate, grabs a Diet Coke from the cooler behind the counter, and slides it all in front of me.
“Triple Citrus,” she say
s by way of explanation. Then she moves down the counter to take care of a woman from my class. She wants a dozen cupcakes and tells Katie to “surprise her” with the combination.
Katie has never watched me try her new flavors. I think it makes her nervous, though it’s not like any of them have ever been awful. I was not a fan of the peanut butter and jelly cupcake, but that’s just me. Peanut butter isn’t my jam (no pun intended) and I told her so, but the shadow of disappointment on her face was almost too much.
I swipe a finger through the frosting and taste. It’s got a very subtle hint of citrus and it’s hard to pinpoint whether it’s orange, lemon, or lime, but it’s delicious. I carefully unwrap the cake and break it in half. It’s a perfect size; not too big, not too small, fits right in my hand without overflowing. I pop a piece into my mouth and savor. The citrus is stronger in the cake, its tang surprising my taste buds in the best of ways.
Katie rings the woman up and sends her on her way. Then she looks at me, a hint of trepidation on her face. I grin and give her a thumbs-up. The relief in her expression is so obvious I almost laugh.
“This is delicious,” I say around a mouthful of cake. “One of your best.”
“Yeah?” She returns and leans her forearms on the counter. “Orange, lemon, lime, and a teeny bit of grapefruit in there.”
“So…quadruple citrus.”
“Technically. But Triple Citrus sounds better.”
“True. I never thought I’d say this about a cupcake, but it’s almost refreshing.”
A smile breaks across her face and my day is made. She raps her knuckles on the counter. “Excellent. I’ll put a batch out tomorrow morning.” And she’s off toward the small whiteboard on the wall where she jots a note in purple marker.
Early mornings are when she’s busiest. I’ve only been here once before work, and I won’t ever do that again. The line was massive, and despite having one of her two employees helping her out, Katie could barely register my presence. I’m pretty sure I pouted like a ten-year-old girl.
I take another bite, then a swig of the Diet Coke. “I hope my yoga instructor doesn’t come in here and see me eating this. She lives to try to make me tip over in class.” Katie laughs, and it’s something I adore so much about her. When she laughs, she really laughs. Like, throws her head back and just lets it loose. Unabashedly unashamed.
“I’m sure that’s not true,” she says.
“Oh, it’s true. Trust me.”
People are milling about in the hallway outside, some from my class still exiting and heading home, others meandering in for the 7:00 class. Cherry on Top isn’t busy, so Katie props her elbows on the bar and gazes at me with those eyes.
“So, Belle, how was your day?”
And that’s another thing about Katie. When she asks you a question, she seems to really want to know the answer. She seems really interested in what I have to say. Of course, I could be projecting. I am, after all, a customer, and it would simply be good business for her to keep me coming back for my three-times-a-week sometimes-more-than-one cupcake and soda. Maybe she’s like this with every customer. Right now, with that face looking at me, I couldn’t care less about them.
I know. I know. I might have a slight crush. Slight. I’m aware.
“It was okay,” I say honestly. “How about yours?”
“Well, that sounds less than convincing, but I’ll let your not-very-subtle subject change slide for right now. My day was good. Lunchtime was busy. And I’m working on another new flavor.”
“Oh?”
She nods. “It still needs some tweaking. You can be my guinea pig when I’m ready to share it.”
“That’s what I’m here for.” Our gazes hold for a beat longer than necessary, and I pop the last bit of my cupcake into my mouth. “All gone.” I hold up my empty hands.
She laughs that laugh and closes her hand over my forearm. “I like you, Belle. I’m glad you’re here.” And before I can absorb the feeling of her grip or her words, she’s sidling down the bar to take care of one of the two guys in my yoga class who has decided he needs a cupcake more than I need to talk to Katie. I silently grumble at him as he says something I can’t quite make out and she laughs. He’s done this before, taken her attention away from me, and I’ve decided I hate him just a little. Or maybe quite a bit. I try hard not to glare at him, especially as he is obviously flirting with her. I fail miserably and, as she laughs at something he says, I am once again reminded of the dangers of crushing on a most-likely-straight girl.
I narrow my eyes in the guy’s general direction, try to make his head explode using just my mind. Sadly—and unsurprisingly—it doesn’t work.
Yeah, just aslight crush.
*
So, by now I’m sure you’re wondering why a charmer like me doesn’t have a girlfriend. That’s a good question, one I try not to ask myself all that often, mostly so I don’t drive myself insane. Or make myself cry. I guess the standard, very, very clichéd answer is that I just haven’t found the right girl yet. I date. Of course I date. I’m attractive enough, have a good job, I’m smart, I’m funny. My bestie, Morgan, would tell you I’m a catch, that any girl would be lucky to have me. Apparently, Any Girl is having some trouble finding me.
“I don’t know why you don’t just ask her out,” Morgan was saying now. We rarely talk on the phone, but when I’d texted her that it was Cupcake Night, as we call it, she had too much to say for typing and called me instead.
“Because I don’t even know if she plays on our team, Morgs.”
“One way to find out.”
“Yeah, that’d go over well. ‘So, Katie, I notice you seem to enjoy my company here in your cupcake shop, and I wonder if you’d also enjoy it in the bedroom.’”
I can almost hear Morgan roll her eyes. “Yeah, that’s exactly the right approach.” She scoffs. “Go with that.”
I make a sound of frustration and change the subject. “How’s work?”
“It’s great. I can get you in. I know it.”
Morgan and I met three years ago when I started working at my current company. When the owners sold to a larger conglomerate six months ago, Morgan took the opportunity to flee to a competitor. Which turned out to be a smart move, as the rest of her department was laid off three weeks later. The reality is, I could be let go at any time, but I’m not so good with change, so I’m sticking it out. For now. “I know you can. I have it filed in the back of my mind.”
“All right, I’m gonna say something now.” Morgan’s tone has changed, cluing me in to the fact that I am probably going to hate the words about to come out of her mouth. I brace myself. “You need to learn to make a move, babe. You let yourself…stagnate. You know? You won’t look into changing jobs, even though you know they’re going to lay you off eventually. That’s just a matter of time. You like this girl. You like her. I know you. And you won’t make a move there either. I mean, what’s the worst that happens? She says, ‘Sorry, Charlie, I don’t swing that way, but you’re swell. Let’s be friends.’ What’s wrong with that? At least you’d know.”
She seems to run out of steam then and we’re both silent for a few beats.
“Are you mad?” she asks softly.
“No.” I’m mostly telling the truth. Nothing she said is off base, but nobody likes to have a giant mirror held up in front of their face either, you know?
“I just…think you deserve more.” She pauses, and I picture her collecting the right thoughts, the right words to say. “You’re an amazing woman. You’re smart and you’re funny and you’re pretty and you’re sexy.”
“Hey.” I slide a joking lilt into my voice. “Back off, lady.”
Morgan laughs, as we both know I’m not her type. Because I’m a girl. “I’m just saying that any company and any woman would be lucky to have you. I don’t think you feel the same way, and you should. That’s all.”
“This is why I keep you around, Morgs.” And then we’re back to casual conversation
and I’m relieved. We talk a bit longer and finally hang up.
Morgan is right on all counts. I hate to admit it, but it’s true. I hate change. I always have. I am not a go-getter. I like stability and routine and things that I can predict, and I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that. I know people who like to shake up their world every once in a while. They move often or take impromptu vacations or switch jobs at the drop of a hat. Those kinds of things make me twitchy. Which is not to say I can’t be spontaneous. I can. I just like to…plan it out first.
Romeo, the handsomest calico cat on the planet, hops up onto the couch and settles himself on my lap, preventing me from moving for at least the next forty-five minutes. “It’s a good thing I planned on watching TV, pal.” He looks at me and yawns, bored with me. Both of us know I’d never move him anyway. He kneads my sweatshirt and yoga pants (ow) until he’s comfortable, and I turn up the volume on Bones because I can’t hear it over his ridiculously loud purring.
*
I don’t know what Morgan did.
Did she conjure something?
I need to call and ask her. But that will have to be later because right now, I’m busy. Darren, a security guard I say good morning to every single day of the work week, hovers awkwardly over me while I clean out my desk. There are four of us, and we’ve all been laid off on this sunny Tuesday morning. We are packing up our meager personal effects while a uniformed guard watches to make sure we don’t steal a stapler or mouse pad.
It’s nothing personal. I know this in my brain, but my heart and, more than that, my ego is taking a beating. We look like criminals. Like we’ve been caught stealing corporate secrets and selling them to the highest bidder. The rest of the office is trying not to watch, but it’s hard, like driving past a car accident without looking. I get it. I went through the same thing when the last batch of people were let go. Your facial expression shows a mix of sympathy and relief, and no matter what you do, you can’t manage to mask it because all you can think is “Thank God it’s not me.” It’s sad and embarrassing and emotional and awful and I pack as fast as I can, throwing framed photos, stress-relieving gadgets, and my coffee mug with the picture of Romeo on it into the banker’s box they gave me. I just want to get out, get away from the stares and the scrutiny and the pity. Most of all, the pity.