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

by Lauren Blakely

  He arches a brow in a question. “It changed what you wanted to do with your life?”

  I draw a deep breath. “I think so.” I feel vulnerable admitting this, but also comfortable saying it to him. Liam makes me feel safe, like it’s okay to open up, like he doesn’t judge. He doesn’t drift off during conversations like Vince did—he was barely there at times. “I wanted to raise her. I wanted that more than anything, and Vince made it possible. He wound up getting a job as a project manager at a tech company, and he did well enough so I could be home with her,” I say, memories of those early years flashing before me. “He liked to play golf with his buddies on the weekend and hang out with the guys, and I wanted to raise my little girl and go to mommy groups, and I did that. I loved it, and I’m glad I did. I’m glad I had the chance, even though it was exhausting.”

  His smile is so soft, so genuine that it hooks into me, tugs at my heart. “You guys get along so great, you and Wednesday. All worth it, right?”

  “One hundred percent. And I didn’t even know that was what I wanted when I was pregnant. Until they put her in my arms, I didn’t realize that I wanted to spend all my time with her,” I say, and Liam’s beaming, like he finds this the most delightful thing. My God, it’s such an endearing look, but such a terrifying one too. It’s a reminder that he wants more of that—having a baby in your arms—and I want none of it.

  I try to laugh it off. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

  He shrugs a little sheepishly. “I think that’s lovely. It’s great that you felt that way. That you knew what you wanted to do. That you did it.”

  “It was the only thing I felt certain about then, Liam.” I lean a little closer, lowering my voice a bit more, compelled to share this with him. I rarely gave voice to these worries with Vince. I rarely discussed them with my parents. But talking to Liam is so incredibly easy. Words just flow, truths come out, and banter unfurls like ocean waves, softly lapping the shore. “And because of that, because I was so sure I wanted to be with her in those early days, I don’t regret that I didn’t figure out what I wanted to do for a living until I was older.”

  “When did you figure it out?”

  I confess what I didn’t say at IKEA. “Not till she was six or seven and going to school. At that point I’d been out of the workforce for so long I wasn’t sure where to start, so I went to work for my dad because it was flexible. I could leave when I needed to at the end of the day and pick her up from school.” These are things I didn’t want to tell him over that lunch at IKEA. We’d just met, and I’d thought maybe they would reveal too much about me. But now I feel like we’ve been sharing more and it’s safe to tell him. Or maybe it’s because it’s nighttime. Nighttime makes you braver.

  “And is that when you knew you wanted to start your own company?”

  I shake my head, remembering the turmoil but also the moments of clarity that eventually came. “It was a few years later. When she was ten, my dad retired, so that made the decision easier in some ways. At first, I was scared. But he helped me get set up, gave me some of his supplies and such. Still, I worried so much. I worried I’d make a mistake. I worried whether I’d be able to pull it off.”

  “Because of your mum? The champion worrier?” he asks, his voice gentle, thoughtful.

  “You remembered,” I say, a smile tugging at my lips.

  “It was only a few hours ago.”

  “Still.” I dip my head, trying to hide how much I like that he remembers what I say. I’m not used to that. Not used to someone noticing. I’m used to distance or obligation—those were Vince’s two settings on the washing machine of his emotions. There was little in between. “And yes, my mom worried a lot when we were growing up, not just over the elliptical. She worried when my dad started his construction company.” I rattle off all the what-ifs that plagued her, that she overshared with me when I was younger. “What if there’s a mistake? What if something goes wrong? What if there’s liability? What if we don’t have business? What if it all goes belly-up? What if something happens? She was masterful at worst-case scenarios. And I took on some of those worries as an adult too. That’s why it took me a while to finally do it.”

  “How did you push past that?” He dips his spoon into the pint one more time, then takes another bite.

  “My friend Alva. I met her when our daughters became best friends in grade school. She runs the hair salon in town, and I was stressing about starting my own carpentry business. One time when she was trimming my hair, she said, ‘At some point, you have to say fuck it to all your worries and just cut your hair off.’”

  He gives a laugh, the deep belly kind. “Did you cut your hair off?”

  I shake my head. “No. But her advice was the equivalent of going into a salon and asking for a wholesale change.”

  “Are you glad you did it?”

  I nod, big and long and proud. “Absolutely. Now I’m just doing my best to keep it going. To fight for it. To say screw the worries. I try not to bring them home, to let them consume me. I don’t want Wednesday to worry that my business might fail like I did with my parents.” I swallow roughly, taking a deep breath. “Or me to worry that the business would fail because my marriage already did.”

  He reaches out a hand and rubs my shoulder, kind of a friendly gesture, kind of a tender one, but even so, it sends a thrill through me. It’s wild and electric, because he’s touching me, and I like his touch very much. “You can’t beat yourself up over a relationship ending. It happens.”

  “But I can, and I do,” I say, though talking to him is hard with his hand on my shoulder. It’s hard because I want him to keep his hand there.

  Or maybe not.

  I want him to slide his palm everywhere.

  To explore me with his hands.

  With his lips.

  With his body.

  He squeezes harder. “Did you love him?”

  That is an excellent question. But it’s not hard to answer. “In college I did. At least, it felt that way. But it was also . . . young love. Do you know what I mean?”

  A faint smile crosses his lips. “I do.”

  “And by the time I was pregnant, it was more like . . . this is a math problem we need to solve.”

  “I get that.”

  “And we solved it for a while. But then, I suppose the solution no longer made sense. No longer added up.”

  “You didn’t want the same things at the same time, but you still tried to make it work, and the reality is, it would be worse if you’d stayed together just for her.”

  I look at him, meeting his eyes straight on, seeing so much honesty and insight in them that it thaws some part of my heart I didn’t know was frozen. “Do you feel like you’re doing that at all? In your quest to find Ms. Right, I mean? You’re not just trying to find a mom for Ethan?”

  He shakes his head, adamant. “I didn’t set out to be a dad. It happened, and while I wish I had known sooner, known right away, I had to make a choice when I found out. And to make the choice to be the best I could at it.” He inhales deeply. “But the thing is, I would like to find someone. I would like to be in love. I would like to know what that’s like. I have no idea, but I hear it’s good.”

  And my heart, it thunders. “You’ve never been in love?” The question comes out coated with emotion and maybe, just maybe, a little bit of hope.

  “I don’t think I have. Came close, maybe. Perhaps puppy love, but not the real thing.”

  “The throw-a-parade, toss-confetti, and change-your-life kind of thing?” My voice floats up, chased by that longing I seem to feel around him. A longing that grows more intense by the hour.

  “Yeah, that kind.” His voice is soft; his smile is gentle.

  And what it does to me is insane. The flutters cascade through my body, race down my arms, rush through my cells.

  Then, they double down when he adds, “I think I’d like that kind.”

  I. Swoon.

  And I don’t w
ant to. I don’t want to swoon. Or melt. Or fall.

  Drawing a deep breath, I do my best to be cool, even. “You’re a rare breed, Liam.”

  He shrugs and smiles. “Maybe I am. But what are the chances I’m going to meet someone I could love who wants the same thing at the same time? Eight billion to one?”

  He sounds sadder than I’ve heard him before, and I try to lift his mood. “It could happen.”

  He lifts his spoon, offering it as a toast. “To meeting the right person in the right place at the right time.”

  “I will toast to that.” As I clink my spoon against his, a drop of ice cream boomerangs and hits my cheek. He sets down his spoon, leans a little closer, and swipes it off my skin.

  I shiver as his finger runs across my face.

  And I swear, dear God, I swear that he lingers there longer than he needs to.

  I swear, too, that the moon seems brighter. That the stars shine more brilliantly.

  This whole moment feels like it’s the right place at the right time.

  Only I know it’s not.

  At some point later—later than I’d like to admit, since my daughter pops out at eleven with a yawn, saying she’s going to bed—Liam straightens his spine, clears his throat, and hooks his thumb toward his house.

  “I should go.”

  “Night, Mom,” Wednesday says, then gives me a peck on the cheek.

  “Night, Spawn.”

  She waves at Liam, saying good night too, but it’s crushed in a yawn the size of the Grand Canyon. She pads back inside as I gather the wineglass, my e-reader, my phone, and the spoons.

  “Thanks again for the ice cream.”

  “Thanks again for not giving me zucchini noodles.”

  I gasp. “Stay right there.”

  Rushing inside, I set the items on the kitchen counter, yank open the fridge, and grab the pasta salad.

  I find a small glass dish, scoop some of the pasta into it, and pop on a top.

  I carry it to the porch like I’m presenting him with gold-leafed chocolate. Admittedly, that’s something he’d like more.

  His eyes narrow. “You really love torture, don’t you? Was your nickname in college The Tormentor?”

  I hand him the dish. “Just try it. Before you know it, you’ll be begging for radishes.”

  One dubious brow lifts. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

  “C’mon. You liked the green beans.”

  He raises a finger. “I tolerated them.”

  “I bet you’ll find these . . .” I hunt for the right word. “Lukewarm. I bet you’ll find them lukewarmly delightful.”

  A laugh bursts from his chest. “All right. I’ll give it a go.”

  He takes the dish, picks up the bag with the remains of the ice cream, then bends closer, dusts his lips across my cheek, and says, “The best part of my date was how it started and how it ended.”

  My eyes float closed. A burst of longing ignites in me, a fuse about to spark.

  When I open my eyes, I see everything I feel reflected back at me.

  “That was my favorite part of your date too,” I whisper.

  For a few seconds, we stay like that, gazes locked, eyes searching, longing wrapping around us.

  Like a low, steady pulse of music.

  Like a waft of smoke.

  It’s longing stitched with wishes and wants, with desire and heat.

  With things we can’t have because we’re out of sync.

  He turns to leave.

  The next morning, I find the empty dish on my porch, along with a note.

  * * *

  Yes, they were lukewarmly delightful. I eagerly await your next vegetable torment.

  * * *

  I clutch it to my chest.

  So do I, Liam. So do I.

  15

  January

  Dear Universe,

  * * *

  Why, oh why, did you send Liam Harris to live next door? Did you want to test my resolve? Force me to prove my mettle?

  * * *

  If you want to make this sweet torture up to me, please send me extra measures of resistance.

  * * *

  Thanks so much,

  January

  I try my hardest to stay strong.

  Tactics include but are not limited to:

  Waving like Forrest Gump when I see Liam riding his bike to work the next day.

  But not shouting, I want to strip off your scrubs and lick you all over.

  Flashing super-duper friendly grins every time I catch a glimpse of him.

  But not wiggling my eyebrows and saying, Let me torment you in other ways.

  And forcing myself to dip my head in a bucket of ice water and chant, Do not go over there just because you saw him in his garage wearing basketball shorts while sorting through the dryer, and your eyes nearly popped out of your head on account of that gorgeous view of the finest ass you’ve ever seen.

  Biteable tush indeed.

  Yup. I do that instead of flinging myself at him and suggesting we bang on top of the vibrating appliance.

  Self-control, thy name is moi.

  Work keeps me busy, as does back-to-school prep for Wednesday, who starts tenth grade on Monday. I finish the door for the family with the boy who thinks he’s a monkey, I win the gig for Nina Clawson’s boba tea shop, and I send estimates to potential clients.

  I am killing it as Jackie of All Trades. Yay me.

  But these sky-high levels of resistance also require support. A woman cannot survive a hot AF neighbor by willpower alone.

  She requires friends.

  By Sunday, I am climbing the walls for some girlfriend time, and it’s coming that evening in the form of board games and beverage night, which we have occasionally. Alva sends me a check-in text that morning, and I pounce on it.

  * * *

  Alva: For tonight, are you thinking Candy Land and Cocktails, or Scrabble and Sangria?

  * * *

  January: How about Monopoly and Margaritas again? I can always go for that.

  * * *

  Alva: Sold. Chips and guac with that?

  * * *

  January: Girl, those go together like dolphins and AAA batteries.

  * * *

  Alva: I love your dirty mind. Speaking of, how is Prince Single Daddy Everybody Wants to Bang?

  * * *

  January: Ugh.

  * * *

  Alva: That bad?

  * * *

  January: That good . . . He’s better than fuzzy socks.

  * * *

  Alva: Hold on a hot second. How long has it been since you’ve had sex?

  * * *

  January: Two years, five months, and three days.

  * * *

  Alva: And six hours and thirty-two seconds, but who’s counting?

  * * *

  January: Exactly. Not me.

  * * *

  Alva: It’s probably time for an intervention. Want an escort?

  * * *

  January: Yes, that’s all I’ve ever wanted. Send one now, please.

  * * *

  Alva: On his way. Until then, I’m just going to gently remind you that comparing a hot man to socks means you have completely forgotten how to ride a bike.

  * * *

  January: I have. I won’t even try to deny it. But in my defense, I haven’t forgotten how to work the dolphin.

  * * *

  Alva: And is Prince Fuzzy Socks starring in your dolphin dreams?

  * * *

  January: He is the lead actor, the supporting actor, the cameraman, the tech crew, and the sound engineer. And I have no regrets.

  * * *

  Alva: You should never regret your dolphin fantasies. But is he appearing in other dreams?

  * * *

  January: Sigh. Yes. In my dating dreams. And I don’t want to have those. I don’t want to have those at all! Make them stop.

  * * *

  Alva: Girl, I think we need to talk.

/>   When I pop into her salon later that day during a break between appointments, Alva shoots me a come to your bestie smile. But as I slump down in the red chair in front of the mirror, I’m not sure what to say.

  Other than what’s become brutally obvious.

  “I like my neighbor,” I confess.

  She squeezes my shoulders. “I know, sweetie. I know.”

  16

  Liam

  On Sunday night, after Ethan slips into the land of Nod, I wander through my new home like a dog unsure where to settle.

  I push open the back door, head down the steps, and flick on the pool lights. Flopping down on a lounge chair, I swipe to an audiobook on my phone, trying to zone in on the power of virality.