by K. A. Tucker
“Is that an offer?” Steve grins. “’Cause it sounds like that’d be more action than Bex got this summer.”
I lift my middle finger in the air and speed up, wanting to put as much distance as possible before this knot in my throat explodes into tears. I told Shane I wanted to take it slow and he said that was fine. He never pushed me.
Did he tell his friends? Was he laughing about it with them? Mocking me?
The parking lot has emptied out with only a few students lingering. Aside from Dean Fanshaw, no one left is associated with Shane and that crowd. Thank God.
Dean is Shane’s very best friend and, unlike Steve, isn’t known for being a jerk. What he is known for—and for good reason, based on what I witnessed—is boning every girl who’s willing. Currently, he’s too busy mauling Virginia Grafton’s neck against the hood of his truck to notice me.
I keep my eyes forward as I rush past them and his red pickup, trying my best not to think about warm summer nights stretched out in the back of it, cradled between Shane’s long, muscular thighs, my back resting against his chest, struggling to focus on the movie playing on the drive-in screen ahead.
I’m so focused on not catching Dean’s attention that I almost miss the two sets of legs dangling over the open tailgate, tangled in each other.
Almost.
One set, long and male, I recognize instantly. It’s the shoes I recognize, actually—white Vans. Shane’s favorite.
The other legs are shapely and lead into a short, powder-pink skirt that I distinctly remember from second period English.
I’m frozen in place as I watch Shane and Penelope Rhodes lost in a kiss, Shane’s fingers woven through her fiery-red hair, while his other hand slips beneath that tiny skirt.
I was so wrong.
Ignoring me earlier was not the worst thing Shane Beckett could have done today.
Chapter Two
August 2020
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I inhale the stale air in the living room, rife with the smell of old wood steeped in summer’s humidity. The widow Iris Rutshack left the house spotless, at least. Or rather, her children must have, because I can’t imagine the ninety-year-old woman on her hands and knees, scrubbing grime off the thick pine baseboards.
I smile with giddiness.
This place is mine.
I used to walk past this charming clapboard house every day on my way home from school. I’d admire the pale blue exterior and the covered porch running along the front, adorned by a matching set of rocking chairs that Mr. and Mrs. Rutshack—old even back then—filled every afternoon, watching the kids go by. On the odd day that their watchful gazes were distracted by a singing bird at their feeder, I’d stick my hand between the fence pickets and steal a bloom from the wild English-style garden that bordered the sidewalk.
Then I’d keep going all the way home to our low-rent apartment complex, my feet growing heavier with each step closer. When I closed my eyes at night, I’d imagine I was drifting off to the rhythmic sound of creaking chairs and cricket chirps, and not to the barfly screwing my mom on the other side of a too-thin wall.
“Thanks, Gramps. Whoever you are.” My voice echoes through the hollow space as I wander. Technically, my father’s father bought the house for me. He was never a part of my life, but he knew who I was—the product of a fling between his twenty-eight-year-old, truck-driver son with a criminal record and my then-fifteen-year-old mother—and was kind enough to name me in his will.
The house needs some TLC, more evident now that the furniture is gone. Nothing fresh paint, new lights, and a belt sander to the worn golden oak floors can’t fix. I knew that when I put an offer in, and ever since I signed the sale papers, my butt’s been glued to the shabby couch of my Newark apartment while I’ve binge-watched home-reno shows for inspiration. Of course, most of it I can’t afford. Slowly but surely, though, I’ll turn this place into the charming seaside retreat—minus the sea—that I’ve always envisioned.
Checking the time, I fire off a quick “Where are you?” text to my best friend, Justine, and then head to the porch to wait for the U-Haul. They were supposed to be here an hour ago. I’m annoyed, but I can’t be too annoyed, seeing as Joe and Bill—Justine’s brother and boyfriend—are driving two hours each way to move me in exchange for beer and burgers and a night on air mattresses.
Well, I’m sure Justine will repay Bill in some sordid way that I’d rather not think about.
Leaning against the post, I smile at the hum of a lawn mower churning through grass in the neighborhood. I’ll have to pay a neighborhood boy to cut my front yard until I can afford my own mower. The gardens, I’ll tend on my own. Iris and her husband doted on this property for sixty years, and I promised her I’d keep them thriving. Maybe that’s a tall order, seeing as I have yet to keep even a cactus alive. First stop tomorrow is to replace my long-lost library card so I can borrow some gardening books.
The low picket fence—more decorative than purposeful—that lines the front yard has seen better days, the layers of white paint peeling away, many of the boards needing new nails to secure them upright. The wooden rocking chairs will need attention too. They rest where they always have. Iris left them, saying they belong on this porch. I can’t bring myself to sit in one just yet, so I settle on the slanted porch steps instead.
Two children coast along the quiet, oak-lined street on their bicycles, throwing a curious glance my way. I’m sure they saw the For Sale sign out on the curb weeks ago. In a town this small, everyone is interested to know more about the woman moving into the neighborhood.
They don’t have to worry about me, though. I’m a native of Polson Falls, Pennsylvania, merely displaced for twelve years when I dashed away to college in New York, allured by the idea of starting over in a big city where people hadn’t heard the names Scarlet or Dottie Reed. It was fun for a time, but I’ve since learned big cities aren’t all they’re cracked up to be, and the luxury of anonymity has its own set of challenges. Like, how hard it is to catch a break in a school board where you have no connections. Seven years of substitute teaching while waitressing in the evenings to make ends meet dulled the luster for that life.
It seemed like providence then, when I made the obligatory trip home to visit Mom for her birthday and ran into my elementary school principal at the 7-Eleven. Wendy Redwood always loved me as a student. We got to talking about my teaching career. Thirty minutes of chatter and what felt like an impromptu interview later, she asked me if I’d ever consider working for her. Lo and behold, she’s still the principal at Polson Falls Elementary and was looking for a sixth grade teacher for the fall. Sure, there were hiring considerations and board rules and all that, but she could navigate around them. Wink, wink. Nudge, nudge.
I smiled and thanked her and told her I’d think about it. At the time, I couldn’t imagine entertaining the thought, but then I drove down Hickory Street for shits and giggles, only to see the open-house sign in front of my childhood dream home.
Within fifteen minutes of stepping inside, I was dialing Wendy Redwood for the job and considering what I should offer on the property. It all seemed like kismet. I mean, the house was at a price almost too good to be true, and the school was two blocks away!
I sigh as I sip the last of my cold, burnt gas station coffee. This is a fresh start, even in an old world full of familiar faces. Besides, it’s been more than a decade since I last roamed the halls of any school here. Those painful years and cruel people are far behind me.
The peaceful midday calm is disrupted by the chug of a garage door crawling open, followed by the deep rumble of a car engine starting. A long, red vintage muscle car backs out of the garage next door and eases into the open space beside a blue Ford pickup. I can’t tell what kind of car it is, but it’s old and in pristine shape, the bright coat of paint glistening in the August sun.
I never asked Iris about the neighbors. The two times I’ve been here—once during the open house and once after I’
d signed the paperwork for the offer—nobody was home on either side. Both properties look well maintained, though. The bungalow with the muscle car has new windows and a freshly built porch off the front. There isn’t much in the way of gardens—some shrubs and trees—but the lawn is manicured.
I watch curiously as the driver’s side door pops open and a tall man with wavy, chestnut-brown hair steps out, his back to me as he fusses with his windshield wiper. Coffee pools in my mouth as I stall on my swallow, too busy appreciating the way his black T-shirt clings to his body, showing off broad, sculpted shoulders, muscular arms, and a tapered waist. He’s wearing his dark-wash jeans perfectly—not so baggy that they hang unflatteringly off his ass, but not so tight that cowboy boots and a wide-brimmed hat come to mind.
Damn.
I hold my breath in anticipation, hoping my neighbor will show me a beautiful face to match that fitness-model body. What a stroke of luck that would be, to live next to a gorgeous man. A single, gorgeous man, I pray.
Finally, my silent pleading is answered as he turns and his gaze drifts my way.
I struggle not to spew coffee from my mouth as my keen interest turns to horror.
Oh my God.
Someone, please tell me this is a mistake.
Please tell me I’m not living next door to Shane Fucking Beckett.
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Read The Player Next Door now!
katuckerbooks.com/theplayernextdoor
Acknowledgments
I hope you’ve enjoyed a bit more time with Calla and Jonah in this holiday novella. While I would love to hang out with them forever, it’s time to move on. The Simple Wild world has grown beyond these two, to a full cast of dynamic characters. One in particular deserves her own happy ending. I mean, unrequited love where the object of her desire is her best friend, the yeti? Talk about heartbreaking. It’s also good fodder for a new story. I can’t wait to write it, and I hope you’ll read it.
I’d like to take a minute to say an enormous thank you to my readers. You continue to shout about this series to anyone who will listen, and I continue to receive pleasant messages from new readers, excited to have discovered these characters and my books in general. You guys keep shouting and I will keep writing, deal?
I’d like to thank the following people for their help pulling this book together:
Linda Marie Drage, my Norwegian checkpoint.
Amber Sloan, for answering my random questions about Alaska.
Jenn Sommersby, for editing this darling … for your darling.
Chanpreet Singh, for sliding me into your schedule and catching those pesky last little errors.
Hang Le, for your cover-witch magic.
Nina Grinstead and the team at Valentine PR, for spreading the word about this book release.
Stacey Donaghy of Donaghy Literary Group, for being my sounding board and my support.
Tami, Sarah, and Amélie, for helping to maintain a positive and drama-free reader group—the only place on Facebook I enjoy being nowadays.
My family, just because.
About the Author
K.A. Tucker writes captivating stories with an edge. She is the internationally bestselling author of the Ten Tiny Breaths and Burying Water series, He Will Be My Ruin, Until It Fades, Keep Her Safe, The Simple Wild, Be the Girl, and Say You Still Love Me. Her books have been featured in national publications including USA Today, Globe & Mail, Suspense Magazine, Publisher's Weekly, Oprah Mag, and First for Women. She has been nominated for the Goodreads Choice Award for Best Romance 2013 for TEN TINY BREATHS and Best Romance 2018 for THE SIMPLE WILD. KEEP HER SAFE made Suspense Magazine's Best of 2018 list for Romantic Suspense.
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K.A. Tucker currently resides in a quaint town outside of Toronto.
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Learn more about K.A. Tucker and her books at katuckerbooks.com or sign up for her occasional newsletter here.