Love Next Door (Lakeside 1)

“Yup. I’m her next-door neighbor.” I give him the same smile back.

He nods, gaze sliding over my shoulder to my car and then back to me. “You from the city?”

“Chicago, yes.” I’ve noticed that everyone in town says “the city” instead of “Chicago,” as if Chicago is the only city that exists.

“How long you planning on sticking around before you sell?” He rocks back on his heels. His whole persona screams trying too hard.

“Dunno that I’m gonna sell.” Or that I want to, especially with my prickly neighbor, whose buttons I enjoy pushing entirely too much, and the fact that this is the only place I can be right now. Going back to Chicago isn’t an option. Not until we can figure out what happened to the missing money. I considered draining my dwindling savings to pay back at least a tiny part of it, which my father and brother seemed on board with, at least until my dad’s lawyer pointed out that it would only serve to solidify the appearance of my guilt.

Tucker pulls his wallet from his pocket and slides a business card out while flashing a wad of hundred-dollar bills. “Well, if you decide you want to, give me a call. I’ve got lots of buyers looking to get into the market. And don’t listen to Darlin’—it’s not about what side of the lake you’re on. She just doesn’t want a new build going up beside the shithole her family calls a house.”

“How do you know Dillion, again?” No one offered the information in the first place, but I’m banking on him wanting to tell me.

“We go way back.” He smirks.

“How far back?” I press.

“Dated in high school. Popped her cherry and taught her everything she knows. Girl’s got a mouth on her, if you know what I mean.” He follows that comment with a wink.

“Wow. That’s not the kind of information I was looking for.” This guy is a jackass extraordinaire. It’s hard to believe that the woman who reams me out for hammering past nine o’clock at night would put up with this guy and his shit. Although I’m guessing his shit is why he’s an ex.

“I give her three weeks before she’s on her back for me. Or her hands and knees.” This time he waggles his brows.

“Is that right?” I glance at his hands and see he’s not wearing a ring.

“She couldn’t stay away from me then; can’t imagine much has changed. You can take the girl out of the trailer, but you can’t take the trailer out of the girl.”

That’s it. I can’t stand this jackass. “Could you be any more disrespectful? I don’t know you, but I’m going to go out on a limb and say that there’s probably slim to no chance that she’s interested in doing anything but kicking you in the nuts.” I say it loud enough that a couple walking down the street give me a disgusted look.

Tucker’s expression shifts to something like embarrassment. “What the hell, bro?”

I motion between us. “We’re not bros. The last thing you should be doing is trash-talking your ex to someone you just met. It sure as hell isn’t a way to get my business.”

He opens his mouth to respond, but I flick his business card back at him. It hits him in the chest before it falls to the sidewalk.

“You don’t even know me, and have no business discussing Dillion’s skill sets with anyone, let alone a stranger. And if I do decide to sell, it won’t be you getting the commission.” I walk away, thankful the street is empty of cars and I can make the somewhat dramatic exit I want.

I get back in my car and drive away without my lunch from the diner, all in the name of sticking up for a woman who hates my guts and doesn’t even know I stood up for her or witnessed my awesome exit. But I’ve learned a few things about Dillion today—her ex is a jerk, she doesn’t put up with crap, she doesn’t like being rescued, and she’s honest.

I make a stop at the grocery store on the way home and pick up sandwich meat from the deli counter and a loaf of fresh bread. The good thing about small-town living is that almost everything is owned by locals, and that also means most of the food is fresh and locally sourced. The bread only stays fresh for a few days, but it’s freaking amazing.

When I get back to Grammy’s place—I’m still struggling to call it mine—I drop the groceries on the counter, then go back to close the front door.

I find an envelope on the floor with my name scrawled in neat writing on the front. I carefully tear it open and find a check for a grand inside and a note from Dillion asking me to let her know what this month’s porn charges are so she can cover those too. I feel mildly bad that I’m going to accept her check. Unfortunately, being unemployed means I have reason to be concerned about the cost of the cable bill.