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

by Lauren Blakely

  Another wince. Another contrite smile. “She’ll bring the cat.”

  Blinking, I shake my head. That can’t be possible. But then, maybe it can. “She’s bringing a cat on the date? Is it a therapy cat?”

  “No. Well, it’s more like she’s therapy for the cat.”

  “I’m not sure I’m following.”

  “The cat can’t be left alone, so she brings the cat everywhere.”

  I stare at her, bug-eyed, then set a hand on her shoulder. “You’re my dating insider. That’s information I should have known a few days ago.”

  She cringes, I’m sorry written all over her face. “I should have told you. I literally just remembered. I think I might’ve been trying to block it out of my mind.”

  “Yeah. I’d block that out too, but I feel like I’m not going to be able to,” I say as a plaintive meow comes from outside Oscar’s Wine Bar.

  Sounds more like a warning bell, an ill omen for my foray into romancing with felines.

  Only I wish this walk was the start of a different date.

  A date that can’t be.

  Because I’d rather be having zucchini noodles right now.

  13

  Liam

  I barely get a word in edgewise.

  The second I walk up near the wine bar and spot the cute brunette with the popsicle-blue glasses, she smiles, waves, and says, “Nina warned me.”

  “About what?” I ask, taken aback as I grab the seat across from her.

  She waggles long fingernails painted with cherry-red stripes. “She told me the new guy in town was honey on a stick, sugar on a stick, a chocolate-covered banana on a stick.”

  “Banana?” I file away a mental note to ask January if that’s a good thing.

  Maya waves a hand, dismissing that. She points at me, sizing me up. “Nope. That’s wrong. You’re a swirly lollipop. And Nina did not properly warn me about that. Oh sure, she warned me that you’re British, and therefore charming. But that’s understandable, because a woman needs to be warned that she’ll melt on cue with that kind of accent.”

  But I’ve barely spoken, I want to say. Instead, I smile and answer with “Reasonable warning indeed. Generally, my countrymen like to give women a heads-up so our accents don’t cause an overabundance of swooning.” Might as well try to live up to the charming part, at least. I nod to the creature in her lap, then scratch his head. The big orange guy lifts his face and stares at me, asking for more. “You must be Maya, and I hear this is your friend, Saul.”

  “My friend Saul—please. More like my ball and chain,” she scoffs as I pet his head a little longer. “But yes, I’m Maya, and this cat is my albatross. But it’s nice to meet you, doctor, and I bet any minute Saul will cast a disdainful glare in your direction, because he is a mercurial male cat.”

  “Cats can be mercurial,” I say with a smile. I stroke between his ears. “Particularly male cats. Isn’t that right, Saul?”

  Her brown eyes pop as I talk to the cat. She cocks her head like she’s listening to him. “Doc,” she whispers, eureka-style. “He’s purring. The devil purrs for no one. The devil doesn’t even purr for me. What is it with this creature?” She slides a hand down his back. “Maybe that’s his way of saying he needed this all along? A moment with a hot British vet at a wine bar. Get in line, pussycat. I want my moment too, dammit.”

  I’m not entirely sure that we’re going to have a moment, but Maya is sort of adorable in a manic kind of way.

  She also doesn’t seem to need much conversational effort from me, since she’s keeping up the chatter for both of us.

  “But I can’t get a break from this cat, who insists on sitting on my lap all the time,” she says, her eyes plaintive, full of worry. I set my hands in my lap as she continues, “If I take him off my lap, he jumps back on. He rubs up against me. He follows me from room to room. And all I want is to spend time with this man who is asking how Saul is and stroking the devil’s chin.”

  I’m not sure if she’s speaking to me about the devil or to the devil about me.

  “You’re the neediest male known to malekind,” she says.

  Yup, she’s still talking to Saul, and I’m not entirely sure I’m needed here. She might very well be a self-sustaining date.

  She waggles a finger at the ginger creature. “But I have a date with a vet. And I am going to get answers. Take that, cat,” she says, sassy as a reality TV star.

  Or perhaps I am needed.

  Just for something other than my company.

  For my expertise.

  “Would you like to order, Maya?” I suggest, since I’m pretty sure I need a glass or four right now for this unexpected vet therapy session.

  And something to soak it up.

  Once we order white wine and a plate of cheese and olives for an appetizer, she lets out a long, needy sigh, like a balloon losing all its air. “I can’t mince words anymore,” she says.

  “I didn’t think you were.”

  “I’ll beg for help if I have to. Dr. Harris, I’m going to level with you.”

  “Please do,” I say, patiently waiting.

  She flaps her hands at the big orange tabby in her lap. “Why won’t he leave my side?” Her voice threatens to break, and my heart softens more.

  Perhaps this is why Maya needed this date. To deal with her feline homunculus. “Tell me more about him.”

  She does. She spills all, the whole tale of her cat, finishing with “You’re wonderful. You listened. You listened to every word.” She sounds as if that’s never happened before. “My last vet didn’t listen at all. I was seeing a vet in the city.”

  “I have some thoughts on what might be going on with Saul,” I say.

  We chat about options for clingy cats with possessive behavior, until she slumps happily in her chair, a smile spreading across her face, bliss in her features as she announces, “This is the best date I have ever been on in my life because you’re smart, kind, and patient, and I just got an hour of free veterinary care and cat therapy.”

  Her hand flies to her mouth, then she removes it. “Shoot. I’m sorry. I don’t want you to think I was using you. I really like you, Dr. Harris. A lot. I like you a lot, and you’re handsome and smart and English, and I wouldn’t mind seeing you again and hearing you again and listening to your charming voice talk about cats. Do you want to go out again? We could go for a walk—the three of us maybe. I could put him in his harness. He’s great on a leash.”

  I shake my head, giving her a soft smile. “If you need any more help with Saul, why don’t you set up a time and come see me at the office, and we can sort through some of these issues? I had a lovely time tonight, but I think perhaps we’re better off as vet and client.”

  I pay the bill, walk her out, and wish her well, feeling oddly glad it didn’t work out.

  “On a scale of one to ten, was it the weirdest date ever?”

  The question comes from Oliver on the other end of the phone as I walk through the town square, post cat-date.

  I laugh, shaking my head. “No. God, no. The weirdest one I’ve ever been on was the ad exec who couldn’t stop picking her teeth with her fork to get the barbecue out of them, and she covered her mouth with her hand as if I couldn’t see her. She did it all throughout the meal.”

  “Why did you just remind me? I tried to block that from my mind.”

  “You literally just asked, wanker.”

  “Yes, but you should protect me from horror stories. You know I don’t like them.”

  “Because you have your own horror stories.”

  “Indeed. Like Hazel, who stalked my apartment six days in a row after we broke up. Just . . . lying in ambush. I had to call Summer to help me escape from her, to pretend to be my girlfriend.”

  I laugh. “And I’m sure that pained you, to have to play make-believe with Summer. How devastating to spend extra time with a woman who you’re secretly wildly attracted to.”

  “Whoever said I’m secretly wildly attract
ed to her?”

  “I actually just did.” I wander past the ice cream shop, the sweet scent of waffle cones drifting out the doorway and giving me an idea. “I need to nip off. I’ll text you in a minute. I’m popping into the ice cream shop.”

  I say goodbye, head inside, survey the menu, then order a pint of Chocolate Peanut Butter Dream, which sounds like the perfect end to an imperfect first date in Duck Falls.

  When the hazel-eyed woman with the toned arms who runs the shop hands me the pint, she slides me a business card along with it. “I’m Valeria Rodriquez. I’ve heard about you. Give me a call sometime. I’ll make you your own flavor.” She adds a wink, even though I heard the wink in her words loud and clear.

  And I don’t mind her directness. Don’t mind it at all.

  “Thanks.” I tuck the card into my back pocket. “A special flavor sounds brilliant.”

  I don’t feel a spark with Valeria, but maybe I will on a date. Maybe that’s when sparks happen. Not when you first meet, right?

  On the way home, a text from Oliver flashes at me.

  * * *

  Oliver: Cat lady is a definite no, then?

  * * *

  Liam: Cat aside, free vet consult aside, and drama aside, I didn’t feel a spark.

  * * *

  Oliver: A spark matters.

  * * *

  Liam: Absolutely. It matters tons.

  * * *

  Oliver: What about the lady next door? Octoberfest? Fourth of July? Sunday Funday?

  * * *

  The back of my neck pricks. Is it that obvious? I don’t even think I’ve told him much about January.

  * * *

  Liam: Her name is January, you twat. And what about her?

  * * *

  Oliver: You said she was going to assemble your furniture.

  * * *

  Liam: And you think that means there’s a spark?

  * * *

  Oliver: I think it means there’s a fox next door to you who wants to put together your coffee table, and I’m assuming the next thing you’ll do is test the strength of it with her.

  * * *

  Liam: I appreciate you plotting out my sex life. Do you want to send step-by-step instructions next?

  * * *

  Oliver: I just ordered a guidebook for you. Amazon Prime. Coming in a few days.

  * * *

  Liam: Better yet, I’ll just get the audiobook and start listening tonight.

  * * *

  A few seconds later, an email lands on my phone saying that the IKEA delivery will arrive next week.

  Is it normal for an email from a big-box store to turn me on?

  It is now because this email means January is coming over to assemble furniture. And that—that just gets me going.

  Then again, she gets me going.

  When I reach my street, I can’t wait to give her the update on my couch, table, and chair. And telling her is going to be incredibly easy—she’s on her porch sitting in her porch swing, her feet curled up under her, an e-reader in one hand, a glass of wine in the other, and a smile on her face as she chuckles at whatever’s on the screen.

  She takes a sip of her wine, looking fresh-faced and lovely in the moonlight.

  When she glances over the top of the e-reader and catches sight of me, I don’t even bother asking if she wants company. I turn into her yard, head up the steps, hold out the ice cream, and say, “Would you like some?”

  I bought the pint hoping for this kind of kismet.

  This kind of connection.

  “I would love some.”

  Everything sparks as I sit next to her, and that’s the trouble. But tonight, I’m going to invite trouble in.

  14

  January

  As Liam sits next to me on my porch swing, I’m holding my breath, crossing my fingers, and offering prayers to the universe that he’s endured a terrible date. Which probably makes me a horrible person, but still, I’m hunting for evidence.

  I want a furrow in his brow, a beleaguered sigh like he can’t believe that dates could be as bad as this date was tonight.

  But I see none of that, so I steel myself for the opposite. For Exhibit A that perhaps he had a magnificent time.

  Is there a hickey on his neck?

  I peer as surreptitiously as I can, but I don’t find a single black-and-blue splotch. Nor is his hair messed up as if fingers were run through it. His lips don’t look ruddy or over-kissed.

  I don’t find any proof of a great time, even in the moonlight.

  This should be reassuring, but it’s not. The trouble is, Liam looks the same as he did before he left. Maybe happier—is that the telltale sign that he had a great date?

  He’s grinning wildly.

  I swallow the little spoonful of jealousy that’s swirling in my mouth. I try to stomach the bitter taste of envy as I untuck my legs, straighten my spine, and point to the ice cream pint.

  “Do you need a spoon?” I ask, a little too evenly, as I focus on practical matters.

  He raises the pint, then says, “No. I thought I would just lick it straight from the container.”

  I roll my eyes. “Smart-ass.”

  I head inside, listening toward Wednesday’s room. She’s tapping away on her computer, probably still working on a website design. I pop into the kitchen, grab two spoons and some napkins, then return to the porch, the warmth of late summer wrapping around me, hugging me as I sit next to my handsome British neighbor, the good guy next door who is looking for Ms. Right.

  Not me, not me, not me.

  I swallow, bracing myself for the report he’s about to give his dating insider. For the words that will go with the smile on his face.

  “So . . . what’s the verdict?” I ask as he digs into the ice cream and moans around it in culinary delight.

  “Amazing. That’s my verdict.” He’s pointing to the dessert.

  I swat his leg before I realize we’re not on swatting terms yet. Especially at this dark, quiet hour as crickets chirp, the silence of the small-town evening enrobing us.

  His eyes lock with mine, and his voice is thoughtful as he asks, “Do you ever think about how hard it is to meet someone you truly connect with?”

  In a heartbeat, the tension in me unwinds and floats away, rising to the sky, turning into stardust.

  So it wasn’t a great date.

  That makes me ridiculously happy, even though it shouldn’t make me feel anything at all.

  He takes another spoonful of the ice cream, and I do the same, our utensils clinking inside the pint.

  “So the date wasn’t great?”

  He shrugs. “It was fine. She’s interesting and lively, though there’s no need for a second. But I realized it’s hard to click on a lot of levels.” His eyes find mine, like he’s eager for my opinion as he asks, “Don’t you think?”

  Chocolate melts on my tongue as I turn the question over in my mind. “I suppose that’s true.”

  “It should be easier. There are, what, eight billion people on this planet? But still, what are the chances that you’ll run into the right person for you?”

  “The person you get along with.”

  “Someone you laugh with,” he adds.

  “Someone you respect.” It’s like we’re finishing each other’s sentences.

  “And support.” He digs the spoon in again and takes a bite, the metal sliding past his lips.

  “Someone you want to kiss,” I say, trying to mask my wondering about how his lips might taste right now. A little cold, a lot sweet.

  All delicious.

  “Someone you want to sleep with,” he adds, and maybe he’s not masking his thoughts either. Our gazes seem to linger for dizzying seconds—seconds that thrum through my veins. But then he returns to philosophical mode, holding an arm out wide and sighing. “And just like that, the choice gets narrower and narrower.”

  “And even narrower still,” I add, following the contemplative direction of this conversation a
s I scoop another bite of the decadent ice cream. “Because you also have to meet the right person in the right place at the right time. Who wants the same things you do.”

  “That’s the hardest part of all, isn’t it?” His eyes align with mine, and my stomach jumps. It flips. It handsprings.

  His brown eyes are intense, and it feels like a whole new level of eye contact that we’re engaging in after his date that clearly went belly-up. He’s not giving me sex eyes. There’s something more in them. A connection perhaps.

  “And that’s how nearly eight billion funnels down to maybe, just maybe, one. If you’re lucky,” I say, a little melancholy.

  He takes a beat and sets the spoon down on the swing. “Did you want the same things as Vince?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t think so. But I also don’t think we had a chance to figure that out once we had a kid. Before then, yes. In college we wanted to have fun, to party, to have sex, to study a little bit, and to have a good time.”

  “Sounds like college,” he says dryly. “Or so I’m told.”

  “You didn’t go to any parties in college?”

  He pats his chest. “Geek here. I didn’t get invited.”

  I nudge him with my elbow, probably something else I shouldn’t do. “You don’t have to get invited. You just go.”

  “Gee, thanks for the tip. That’s super helpful now.”

  I laugh then dive deeper into his question about Vince. “I suppose we were compatible at the time in other ways. We were career-oriented. I had this vision that once I graduated, I was going to be the CEO of a business or something. I don’t even know what I wanted the business to be, but I thought I would be some badass chick running a consulting company. Funny thing is, I didn’t even really know what consulting was—I just imagined that was what I would do. Then Wednesday came along, and that changed everything.”