Naughty Neighbor: Falling for a Libra (Falling for the Stars)

by Lauren Runow

  “What did she say?”

  “She called me an egomaniac. Said I needed to be the center of attention. You know what? She’s right. What’s so bad about wanting to be the sole focus of the woman you’re with? She knew this about me really early on, and then she threw it in my face like it was a bad thing.”

  “Did you know that she didn’t believe in love?”

  My sister’s comment earns her an intense side-eye from me.

  “Not exactly. She says she doesn’t believe in love, yet her entire living is based around that mere fact. I called her a hypocrite. I’m pissed that she believes it enough to write about it, yet she’s afraid to actually live it.”

  “Whoa … so shit got deep then.” She sits back fully in the chair and looks up at the stars the same way I am.

  She doesn’t say a word as I continue to drink my beer and count my favorite constellations.

  Eventually, she lets out a sigh.

  “Did I tell you I’ve read all of her books?” she says, and I turn to her, impressed.

  “That’s a lot of pages for an author you just discovered.”

  She raises one shoulder with a slight grin, shyly covering her face. “What can I say? I went on a binge. It’s not every day your brother dates a romance writer. I thought it was cool, having actually met her.”

  “What did you think of the books?”

  “I loved them. She’s really talented. I noticed her books have different themes, but they follow the same formula. The couple meets and gets together, and then some outside drama keeps them apart. They have to fight to get back together, and the end. Yes, they’re all super romantic, and the way she writes love makes you believe you’ll find it someday.”

  “I feel a but coming on.”

  “But”—she smiles—“there’s always someone who doesn’t believe in love fighting against the couple. Whether it’s a meddling mom or boyfriends who left the heroine scarred for life or even a father who deserted her … the conflict always revolves around the heroine saying true love doesn’t exist.”

  When our eyes meet, I know she’s thinking the same thing I am. Lacey writes about herself. She’s the one who’s fighting against the notion. It’s like her books are her own therapy. I know, deep down, she wants it because every couple gets their happy ending, yet she’s not living her own. I hate that she’s onto something.

  “She wrote a book about me. About us. Every single fucking detail.”

  “Every detail?” she asks slowly.

  “Every. Single. One. I should be flattered. Hell, I kind of am.” I turn back to face the stars. “I wanted to be her muse until I read it and saw me there. Do you think all of her heroes are old boyfriends she uses to create romance?”

  She shrugs. “I don’t think so or else she’d have an epic dating life that I’d envy. It seems to me, she inserts herself into her worlds, and she might not even realize she’s doing it half the time.”

  “She knew she was doing it with us. She even gave us a happily ever after.”

  Penelope laughs lightly. “What was it?”

  “She had us breakup—like she knew that was the next stage in our relationship—then we get back together in this big, romantic scene where I grovel for her love at the museum where I took her on our first non-date.”

  “I like that ending. Does it work for you? Do you want to beg for her forgiveness?”

  I run my hand through my hair. “I have nothing to apologize for.”

  “Do you still want her?”

  The question is simple and so damn complicated.

  “I do, but I want someone who isn’t afraid of love. A woman who is willing to put me first, and I don’t care how cocky that sounds.”

  “May I make a suggestion?” Before I even answer, she reaches for her phone, types something in, and then hits Send.

  My phone dings with an incoming email. I open it up to see Penelope just sent me a book of Lacey’s through Amazon, one I hadn’t read yet.

  “Start with this one. It’s her first book. Learn more about what’s inside her head. Then, maybe you’ll understand why she ticks the way she does.”

  “So, I read and then what? I already know why she is the way she is. She’s been burned in the past, which is why she can’t open up in the present.”

  She pats my leg as she stands up. “I was really glad you brought her home. Seeing you two together gave me hope for myself. Just don’t give up on her, okay? If her books are anything like her real life, she’s been let down a lot when it comes to love.”

  I nod. Penelope’s the second person to say that to me about Lacey, the first being her friend Charisse when she told me to read the book, though I’m not sure if it’s already too late.

  She kisses me goodnight and heads inside. I finish my drink and stare at the dark night as I hold up my phone.

  “Fuck it,” I say and open the Kindle app.

  Looks like I have some reading to do.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  LACEY

  “I feel like shit,” Charisse says over the phone as I tell her for the tenth time that it’s not her fault.

  “Stop apologizing. You’re an adorable meddler. It’s in your nature.”

  It makes me laugh a little that I’m the one who is calming her down. But that’s why she’s my best friend. When Charisse gets something in her head, she acts on it. This time, it was my love life and her need to fix me.

  “I know how you get, and when you told me you were freaking out about the relationship, I heard it in your voice—you were going to bail,” she says, stinging me a little.

  “Actually, I wasn’t. Doesn’t matter though. Turns out, me not seeing ourselves twenty years from now was a deal-breaker.”

  She groans, annoyed. “But you love him.”

  With my hand on my chest, I steady myself and take a breath. “I care for him deeply.”

  I don’t know why I can’t just admit that I’ve fallen for Jake in more ways than just caring for him. The fact that I can’t breathe without thinking about what he must be doing right now shows I’m more attached to him than I thought.

  Do I love Jake Moreau?

  Yes, I fucking love him so much, it hurts.

  I just don’t know how to dig my way out of this hole of self-pity.

  I haven’t seen him in a week, yet it feels like a year. I went so long without him in my life, and now that he’s gone, I miss him like crazy. I’d try telling him that, but then what? He’s too nice of a guy. He’d come over and want to talk. He’d wind up understanding my issues, as he always did, but then we’d never move forward. He’s a romantic, and I am … scared.

  “Do you need me to come over? Melody will understand if I tell her you’re in need of an impromptu girls’ night.”

  Curling onto the couch, I tuck my knees into my chest and sigh. “I’m fine. I plan on watching Inception. Tom Hardy is so hot in that film.”

  “You need a new muse. That guy is old news.”

  I give her the finger through the receiver even though she can’t see it. She seems happy that I’m in a good mood, and then we hang up.

  I feel okay, too, even though the thought of a muse tugs at my gut.

  My muse.

  Our story was pretty epic. I didn’t mean to write it word for word, but as our friendship progressed and the relationship ensued, it felt natural. I was only going to use it as a launch point for scenes, but the feelings were jumping off the page.

  It was raw.

  It was real.

  It was ours.

  And now, it’s over. Cue dramatic music and romance author sitting on her sofa with a bowl full of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream and a sweatshirt that hasn’t been washed in three days. Not my best look, I know.

  Tom Hardy finally appears on the screen, only a side character in this film, when my house phone rings. It’s my mother, and she’s here.

  Surprised by the impromptu visit, I buzz her in.

  “Hey, Mom,” I
say when she gets off the elevator. I’m standing in my open doorway, watching her walk toward me. “Wasn’t expecting you.”

  “I know. That’s why it’s called a surprise visit.”

  “That’s also why God invented the telephone—so you could give someone a warning that you were arriving.”

  She walks in my apartment and raises her brow. “If I called first, would you have changed that sweatshirt?”

  I look down and shrug. “Yeah, probably not. I would have set out some snacks. I don’t have anything to eat. I’m down to Pringles.”

  “That’s fine. We can order in.” She takes off her coat and her shoes. There’s a large tote on her shoulder that she places on my dining room table.

  “Staying awhile?” I ask as I see the size of the thing.

  Walking to the Keurig, she pops in a pod and grabs a mug. “Depends.”

  I hold my arms out and wait for her to finish her sentence. She watches the coffee drip into the mug before it makes that gurgling sound at the end. When it’s ready, she grabs her coffee and walks to my living room.

  I follow her in. “You going to finish that sentence? Depends on what?”

  She turns her head and smiles.

  I narrow my eyes.

  With a pat on the sofa, she says, “I read your book. Now, sit. We need to talk.”

  Okay, I’m really uncomfortable with where this conversation might go. My mother is my worst critic, but she’s also been a champion of my writing style. We’ve discussed prose and turn of phrase, but this feels like more than the intellectual chitchat.

  Dragging my feet, I make my way over to the couch and take the seat she’s offering on the sofa.

  “Should I be concerned?” I ask her as I tuck my heels under my butt.

  She sighs, something between melancholy and disappointment. “I think I’ve failed you.”

  “I don’t know why you’d say such a thing. Do you think my book was that bad?”

  “The opposite.” Her mouth twists. “It was beautiful.”

  A surge of emotion rushes up my chest and into my eyes. I’m twirling my hand in the air in an attempt to push away the tears threatening to come up.

  “Lacey, are you crying?” Even she knows this is very out of character for me.

  “Yeah. It’s something I’ve been doing a lot of lately.”

  Her eyes widen as she looks around, feeling equally out of place as I do. “Well then, you need a hug.”

  She outstretches her arm and pulls me in. It’s awkward and yet so very comforting. My mom has never been a hugger per se, but she did know how to hold me when I was a child and in need of affection.

  I wrap my arms around her and hug her tightly. The tears that I had are subsiding, and I’m feeling more like myself.

  Sitting up straight, I take a deep breath. “Thanks for that.”

  She wipes a tear from my cheek. “I can tell exactly why you’ve been crying. This book is different. Yes, it was romance, but it didn’t feel like fiction. It felt real.”

  I sit back and wipe my cheek. “How so?”

  “Well, for starters, the heroine is afraid of love. She’s been hurt by her father, her ex”—she pauses—“her mother.”

  Now, I know this book has more of my real life than others, but everyone is really treating this book like it’s an autobiography. “You’re reading too much into it.”

  “The story is about Jake. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to see you’ve fallen in love with this man. And rightfully so. He’s charming, attractive, and sympathetic.”

  “Which means he’s just setting me up before he leaves.”

  “Maybe.” She shrugs. “Maybe not.” She adjusts her hips and turns to me, so she can level her gaze with mine as she speaks sternly, “I don’t trust men, and neither do you. We’ve been burned. That’s our history. However, I don’t want you to ever believe that love doesn’t exist.”

  “I know it does. I just don’t believe it will happen for me.”

  “That was then. Your other books all reflected that. Yes, the hero and heroine always wound up together, but it was superficial. In this book, what you have with Jake shows through. I don’t know if it will last. No one does. I just want to make sure you know that I’m happy for you, and I don’t want you to hide your relationship from me anymore.”

  I smile; it’s the kind of grin that hits my eyes. Unfortunately, it falls just as fast. “We’re not in a relationship. It ended.”

  She leans back, confused. “What about that epilogue you wrote?”

  “That wasn’t real. Our story ended at the cottage. In the book, the heroine realizes she’s in love with him on the drive home, and, yes, that was me, but in real life, I panicked. It was all downhill from there.”

  She nods knowingly. “I see. Did he panic too?”

  “Nope. He’s pretty steadfast in his feelings.”

  “And you still love him?”

  With a nod, I’m finally ready to say it out loud. “Very much so, yes.”

  “But you’re scared?”

  I nod again. “Very much so, yes.”

  “Then, there’s only one more question,” she says, and I look up and wait for her to ask it. “Do you love him more than you’re scared?”

  Closing my eyes, I smile. “I think so.”

  “Then, it looks like you have a new epilogue to write.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  I’m standing outside Moreau Flowers, entirely too nervous to be doing this. If Jake won’t come home, then I need to go to him, and work is the most obvious place to find him.

  I open the door, and the chime goes off, sounding more like a siren in my head than a sweet jangling, as it probably does to everyone else.

  Jake is at the front desk, doing a floral design for a client. He’s smiling that gorgeous grin I’ve missed and making the client laugh. His ease while working actually makes my racing heart simmer down a bit. That’s just what he does. He calms you with his presence.

  That is, of course, until he looks at you.

  Those chocolate eyes make me melt into a puddle of goo as he stares at me.

  “Hi, Lacey,” he says, and I’m surprised.

  The couple he’s working with is standing right here. They turn around to see who he’s talking to.

  I give a wave. “You can get back to helping these nice people.”

  His eyes narrow, but his mouth tilts up as he stands straight and states nonchalantly, “It’s okay. You remember my buddy Kent from the museum. And this is his fiancée, Sydney. Guys, this is Lacey.”

  His ease with me being here is unnerving. I thought he’d be angry or pissed. Instead, he’s just … lovely.

  Kent and Sydney are smiling and take a step to the side, as if to give me a path toward the counter, where Jake is working. The way Sydney grabs Kent with a big smile on her face proves to me that they know exactly who I am and why I’m here.

  “Can I get you anything?” Jake asks, and I panic slightly.

  “Um … yes. I came for daisies.”

  He quirks a brow. “Daisies?”

  “Yes.”

  Without another question, he turns to the cooler behind him and takes out a bunch of the happy-looking flower. He walks them over to a side counter, where tissue paper and cellophane are ready for him to make a bouquet. My skin is prickling as I watch him make the bouquet, the entire event not going as planned. I wasn’t expecting there to be people in the store, and I certainly wasn’t prepared for him to squeeze me in while he was working with them.

  “Here you go.” He hands me the bouquet, and I get lost for a moment in how handsome he looks in his green sweater.

  “Thanks.”

  I take out my wallet, but he holds up a hand.

  “On the house.”

  He’s acting friendly. It’s not like the man who walked out of my apartment. It’s like the guy who was my neighbor. This is all too easy. It’s as if he’s giving me an out. If I want to end things, then he’ll let me
, and he won’t make it awkward.

  I should be grateful. Yes, I’m happy with this turn of events.

  Taking my flowers, I thank him again and then smile at his friends. That’s what normal people do.

  I turn around and head toward the door, pushing it open and hearing that bell chime.

  Then, it hits me.

  This is all wrong.

  We’re not friends. We’re not casual. And we certainly aren’t cordial.

  We’re fire and ice and everything in between.

  “I’m rewriting my book,” I say with my back still to him.

  Closing the door, I turn around and see he’s looking up at me. A pen is in his hand, like he was about to get back to working on his friend’s arrangement.

  They’ll have to wait.

  “The ending wasn’t right, so I’m revising it,” I say.

  Kent turns to Sydney. “Um, maybe we should come back, let them have their time.”

  Sydney shushes him. “Are you kidding? Once Jake told us about her, I read her books. I need to know how this one ends.”

  I can’t help the slight laugh that escapes my lips.

  Jake leans back on his heels and crosses his arms in front of his body. “Oh yeah?” He seems intrigued. “How does it end this time?”

  “Well …” My hands fiddle with the flowers I’m holding. The cellophane crinkles with every push of my fingers. “She walks into his flower shop and buys a bouquet of flowers. Daisies, to be exact, because he once told her they were the best way to show your love.” I turn to Kent and Sydney and explain, “They’re actually made of two flowers—the yellow middle is one, and the white outer ring is another. Together, they become one.”

  I take a sure, steady breath and walk closer to Jake. “You see, she was wrong. It’s not the longevity of the relationship that makes it more likely for the couple to have true love. It’s the depth. It is lust and great sex and witty banter and laughs. It’s listening to the other when they open up to you and being there when they need a friend.” I step forward. “It’s showing up at his place of work and making a complete fool of yourself because you’re sorry for acting the way you did.”

  The air in the room feels ripe with tension as I stare at Jake while his eyes travel over my face, searching for something.