Mr right next door, p.1
Mr. Right Next Door, page 1
Praise for the novels of Naima Simone
“Simone balances crackling, electric love scenes with exquisitely rendered characters.”
—Entertainment Weekly
“Passion, heat and deep emotion—Naima Simone is a gem!”
—New York Times bestselling author Maisey Yates
“Simone never falters in mining the complexity of two people who grow and heal and eventually love together.”
—New York Times bestselling author Sarah MacLean
“Small-town charm, a colorful cast, and a hero to root for give this romance its legs as it moves toward a hard-earned happily ever after. [This] slow-burning romance is well worth the wait.”
—Publishers Weekly on The Road to Rose Bend
“Simone masterfully balances heart and heat...building a convincing slow-burning romance.”
—Publishers Weekly on Christmas in Rose Bend
“I am a huge Naima Simone fan. With her stories, she has the ability to transport you to places you can only dream of, with characters who have a realness to them.”
—Read Your Writes
“[Naima Simone] excels at creating drama and emotional scenes as well as strong heroines who are resilient survivors.”
—Harlequin Junkie
Also by Naima Simone
The Road to Rose Bend
Christmas in Rose Bend
With Love from Rose Bend
Look for Naima Simone’s next Rose Bend novel available soon from HQN.
For additional books by Naima Simone, visit her website, www.naimasimone.com.
Naima Simone
Mr. Right Next Door
Table of Contents
Mr. Right Next Door
Trouble for Hire
Mr. Right Next Door
To Gary. 143.
To Connie Marie Butts. I’ll miss you forever and love you longer than that.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Acknowledgements
CHAPTER ONE
WHAT IN THE actual hell?
Cursing is for those with small vocabularies and even smaller minds, Jenna Elizabeth Landon.
Jenna threw back the bedcovers, cringing as her mother’s cultured voice floated through her head at—she glanced at the digital clock on her bedside dresser—seven-twelve in the morning.
Jesus probably hadn’t even risen from the grave on Easter morning by seven-twelve. Because it was such an ungodly hour!
Horrible music—and she used the term loosely—currently blared through her windows at top volume.
Stalking across her bedroom, she snatched her silk robe, shoved her arms into the sleeves, slid her feet into her slippers, and headed down the hall. She crossed the living room and charged outside.
Damn. A hard shiver rippled through her as the cold wind copped a feel under her robe. September early mornings in the southern Berkshires didn’t play around. It’d warm to the low sixties later in the day, but for now? Jack Frost was getting friendly with places only Dream Jason Momoa had touched lately.
The strings of guitars and fiddles, the bass of drums and the twang of a male voice complaining about not having to be lonely tonight were even louder as she marched down the front steps. She didn’t bother with the walkway but cut across her pristine lawn, and once more her mother’s voice snapped out a reprimand in her head.
Ladies glide, Jenna. You’re not marching off to war, for goodness’ sake.
That’s what you know, Mother. I’m definitely headed to battle.
Awesome. Now she was arguing with her mother’s imaginary voice in her mind.
Arms crossed in front of her waist, she stepped over the stone path that separated her driveway from the one that belonged to the empty house next door.
Correction. The formerly empty house next door.
Apparently she had a new neighbor.
And though she hadn’t met him yet, she already knew three things about him.
One. He was a he. And it wasn’t just the wide shoulders or the back muscles flexing under a red-and-blue flannel shirt in a dirty dance that clued her in. Or the tight ass and powerful, thick thighs in faded blue jeans. Nope, it was the combination of...everything. Even with the top half of his body stuck under the hood of his truck, he was most obviously a he.
Two. Her new neighbor’s taste in vehicles left much to be desired. The dark blue monstrosity with a wide camel-colored stripe down the side panel landed somewhere between monster truck and I hear banjos in them there hills. Huh. Someone was overcompensating.
And three. His choice in music was terrible. Oh the guy’s singing voice might be okay, but all that whining. For the love of all that was holy she wanted to make. It. Stop.
“Excuse me,” she called out. When he didn’t budge, she tried again, louder. “Excuse me.”
Nothing. Not even a twitch of those broad shoulders.
Irritation spiked inside her. She hated being ignored. It was an effective weapon in her father’s arsenal, one he’d wielded during her childhood and even now as an adult. Nothing belittled a person more than making them feel beneath acknowledgment.
She tightened her arms over her stomach.
And glared at her neighbor’s wide back.
Gritting her teeth, she marched forward and none too gently poked him in a shoulder that had absolutely no give. She might as well have jabbed a rock.
“Shit!” Her neighbor jolted, and a baseball-hat-covered head smacked the hood with a resounding thwack.
Ouch. That had to hurt.
“Son of a bitch.” He straightened. And straightened. And straightened.
And she tipped her head back and looked up. And up. And up.
A fourth thing she now knew about her neighbor. He towered way over six feet.
And owned a voice that probably rivaled the power and rumble of the engine in that heap of junk masquerading as a truck.
Okay, technically, that was five things.
“Excuse me,” she tried again, stepping closer but still leaving space between them. Yes, it was seven in the morning, but she hadn’t lost all her senses. She was a single woman with crime shows on her TV, after all.
He whipped around, his heavily muscled arm lifted as he rubbed the back of his head. Thick eyebrows arrowed down over indigo eyes that must be a trick of light. Short tufts of black hair stuck out from under the cap, grazing bold cheekbones and drawing attention to his mouth. Equally dark scruff covered his jaw and chin, yet Jenna could still glimpse a faint cleft.
“Yeah?” her neighbor muttered, still massaging the back of his head. “And why the hell were you sneaking up on me like that? You damn near gave me a heart attack.”
She gaped at him. Was he for real?
“Sneaking up on you?” she repeated. “Excuse you, but I don’t sneak. And if you hadn’t had that noise blasting, then you’d know I’ve tried to get your attention several times and you didn’t hear me.”
“So your next option was giving me a concussion?”
She sniffed, hiking up her chin. “So now I’m responsible for your dramatics and lack of coordination?”
“Dramatics and...” His scowl deepened and his eyes darkened from indigo to a dark denim. “What do you want besides busting my ass and giving the neighborhood a peep show first thing in the morning?”
Irritation gave way to outrage. Narrowing her eyes on him, she fisted the lapels of her robe and yanked them tight around her neck—even though they were already closed. Peep show? His rude manners and wah-wah-wah music were the only reasons she stood out here in her pajamas in the first place.
She offered him one of her patented sharp-as-a-blade smiles. And the words to match.
“What I want is for you to show common courtesy to your new neighbors and not blast your music first thing in the morning while other people are trying to sleep. Or do they not teach manners along with how to boil peanuts, hunt critters and brew moonshine wherever it is you just trucked in from?”
His wide shoulders drew back. His thin nostrils flared and those lips pulled tight at the corners.
One second guitars wailed and in the next, silence boomed.
Then a wide grin spread over his face, rivaling the steadily rising sun.
She blinked.
Wow.
No “wow,” she scolded herself. You will not be awed by him. Get yourself in check.
“Well, I profusely apologize, lil’ darlin’,” he drawled, cocking his head. And that drawl dripped like sun-warmed honey. “When the real estate agent sold me the house, she told me the one to the left was vacant and a hard-of-hearing granny
Hard-of-hearing granny. Jenna ground her teeth as annoyance flashed through her. Gwendolyn Dansen had been the agent for his house. And true, no one lived in the house on his left. And Mrs. George’s hearing had been failing when Jenna had bought the house on the right, with its white shutters and wide porch. But that had been two years ago. And Gwendolyn damn well knew it. Just wait until she saw the wench...
You’re weaning off of terrorizing Rose Bend’s citizens with bitchiness, remember?
Sorry. Old habits die hard.
And yes. She was standing in her pajamas, in front of her new neighbor having a full-fledged conversation with herself.
Well, she might be trying to tilt a new leaf—turning it completely over was a little late at this point—but she’d make an exception for this guy.
“Was that really necessary?”
“The apology? Yes.” His grin widened, and though this one was more authentic, it also carried an edge. “And the rest of it? Oh most definitely. If you’re going to make assumptions about me, Malibu, then I’m going to do my damnedest to live up to them.”
“Malibu?” she snapped.
Yes. Because that was the most important detail in what he’d just said.
“Yeah.” The corner of his mouth quirked up in a smirk that shouldn’t be sexy considering it clearly mocked her. He flicked a hand in her direction, waving it up and down, from her long red hair to her shell-pink toes. “As in Malibu Barbie. You might wanna go back to your dream house before you catch a cold.”
Her lips popped open.
Son of a—
Then music blared again.
“Are you serious right now?” she yelled, jamming her fists on her hips. “Didn’t we just have this discussion?”
He turned back to the open hood of his truck but glanced at her over his shoulder, arching a dark eyebrow. “Yeah. Turn off my music because people are asleep. But you’re up now, Malibu.”
Then he gave Jenna his broad back, dismissing her.
Well, wasn’t that... Damn.
Glaring one last hole in his back, she spun on her heel and marched across her lawn. She refused to look back as she charged up the steps of her porch.
The house that had been a balm for her soul from the first moment she’d pulled up to the curb.
A sanctuary threatened by Mr. Monster Truck.
Here was her haven, with its fairy lights, porch swing and backyard brook. A place where no one rolled their eyes at her or cringed when they saw her approaching. A place where her last name didn’t inspire as much resentment as it did respect.
A place where she could close the door, lower the mask and simply...be.
Fear shimmered inside her. Only the iron decorum Helene Landon had drilled into her daughter from the time Jenna had been old enough to haul herself out of her toddler bed kept her shoulders from slumping and her head from bowing.
One never committed the ultimate sin of revealing weakness. Especially not in public.
Most especially if your last name was Landon.
Some habits really did die hard.
And some haunted a person. God. Usually, she left everything related to Jasper and Helene Landon at the curb; they didn’t even follow her onto her porch. But now, they encroached like skulking shadows.
This time, she did look over her shoulder to the man blasting his music again, and an irrational spurt of anger flared in her chest.
He had caused this disturbance.
He, with his ugly truck, loud noise, big presence and condescending grin.
Maybe they just needed distance. That’s what made great neighbors. He might live next door but that didn’t mean they needed to talk. This initial interaction could be their last.
If she was good at anything, it was alienating people. Shutting them out and walling herself in.
She was an old pro.
Ignoring Mr. Right Next Door wouldn’t be a problem at all.
CHAPTER TWO
ISAAC HUNTER DROVE down one of the familiar streets in the village of Mount Holly, Massachusetts, one town over from Rose Bend.
Huge sugar maples lined the sidewalks. Older, well-kept, single-family homes with flags waving from their porches crowded next to one another. And though the September air had turned cool, people hung out on porches and steps or postage-stamp-sized front yards.
Mount Holly was a quaint village so small they had to travel twenty minutes to Rose Bend to get McDonald’s. They had a QuikMart, twenty-four-hour LaRue’s Diner and an old-fashioned pharmacy with a malt fountain. But no place to get a Big Mac.
It was a tragedy.
Yet, his hometown had been the perfect place to grow up. Where a half-wild boy could roam free with confidence, knowing that not only his older sister and mother looked out for him but also a whole neighborhood. It’d truly taken a village to raise him. Especially since his deadbeat father had been out of the picture before Isaac could form sentences.
Even as his mother met another man and his biological family grew with another sister and brother—and another man left—their neighborhood family remained steadfast, loyal and there.
And as Isaac pulled up in front of the yellow single-family home in need of a coat of paint, something pulled tight inside him loosened.
Until this moment he hadn’t grasped how much he needed to be here. Needed to be...home.
He pushed open the door to his beloved 1989 Ford F-150. Just as he stepped out, the front door to his family’s home flew open and his nine-year-old nephew, Jacob, burst onto the porch.
Arms stretched wide, he yelled, “He’s here! Uncle Isaac’s here!”
Then like a heat-seeking missile, he charged down the steps and across the front lawn. Isaac swept the kid up and over his shoulder.
“Isaac,” Lena called from the top step, exasperation and affection filling her voice. His older sister shook her head, crossing her arms. “You’re going to drop him.”
Isaac snorted. “How dare you, woman? I’ve pile-driven two-hundred-pound men into mats for a living. You think I can’t handle one squirmy, stinky, scrawny—oops!” He dipped his shoulder, allowing Jake to plunge down his chest, grinning at his nephew’s delighted scream, catching him before he hit the sidewalk. “My bad.”
Tossing Jake back over his shoulder, he continued up the walkway.
His nephew belatedly yelled, “Hey, I’m not scrawny!”
By the time Isaac climbed the steps and set Jake next to his mother, his oldest nephew, twelve-year-old Edward, and his niece, five-year-old Bella, spilled out the front door. It never ceased to amaze him that his sister—reserved, serious, responsible Lena—had named her children after the ménage in Twilight.
“Uncle Isaac! Uncle Isaac!” Adorable Bella, Belle for short, jumped up and down arms outstretched, and he obliged by picking her up and settling her on his hip.
She grinned wide, her freckled cheeks plumping, and he poked a finger through the gap where her two front teeth should be. Giggling, she wrapped her arms around his neck and smacked a loud, wet kiss on his cheek.
“Hey, Uncle Isaac,” Ed greeted with a hike of his chin, already too cool for a hug.
Amusement and a pang of regret echoed in his chest. Living in a different state and being on the road had meant missing much of his nephews’ and niece’s milestones.
Those were the moments he’d never get back.
And the last year had shown him nothing was guaranteed. Dreams could shatter with one negligent blow.
So he’d be more careful, more intentional. And that began with his family.
“What’s up, Ed?” Isaac bumped his nephew’s fist.
“It’s about time you made your way here,” Lena gently scolded. “Mom’s been cooking the fatted calf for the last few hours and has smacked our fingers if we dare to come close. We’re all starving so get your a—” she shot a glance at her kids “—butt on in here.”
