Love Next Door (Lakeside #1) by Helena Hunting

My dad blamed himself and became a workaholic, Teagan developed abandonment issues, and the youngest of us, Bradley, who was only four when it happened, lived a carefree life playing video games all the way through until the end of high school, and he put in just enough effort to get the grades he needed for college. Despite Mom’s death messing us all up, we came out the other side okay. I think.

Until now.

What was supposed to be a one-week vacation is now a permanent job hiatus. And with these accusations flying, it seems like finding a new job is going to present a real challenge.

I survey the cottage, drinking in the sight of mismatched furniture and Grammy Bee’s love of eclectic trinkets. At least I can stay here while I’m avoiding the media scrutiny in Chicago.

I grab my duffel and bring it to the spare bedroom I slept in when I spent time here in the summer as a teenager. I need to get my head around what I’m facing. And a shower. And probably a bottle of bourbon. I make my way to the bathroom and hope like hell the hot water is still working.

A text from Bradley comes through right before I get in the shower: I hear you just got three million richer. Share the wealth bro.

Of course my brother is making a joke about this. It’s just like him to not take anything seriously. Twenty minutes later I’m still standing under the pounding spray of water. It’s a great distraction from the shitstorm that has suddenly become my life. Fast and hard, the water pelts my back like a freaking jet stream. A few years back, when I was working on a project in college, I tested out some new plumbing options. Grammy Bee’s water pressure was terrible, as sometimes happens when the pump bringing the water up from the lake isn’t strong enough. Seems like maybe I overcompensated. I add it to my to-do list, which, based on what I’ve seen so far, is going to take the entire summer to get through. On the upside, it looks like I’ll have nothing but time to take care of all the home improvements.

I’m in the middle of rinsing off when I swear I hear someone’s voice. A female someone.

I step out from under the spray and listen. And there it is again. Faint, but there—a voice that belongs to a woman. It would be like Grammy Bee to start haunting my ass while I’m in the middle of a shower, on what’s turning out to be one of the worst days of my life. Considering how morose I am, I should think about dying my hair black and putting on some of Grammy Bee’s old Cure albums.

After a few seconds of silence, I decide I’m probably hearing things, and it’s more likely that this place has a raccoon problem, not an issue with undead visitors. Still, I’m sufficiently creeped out, so I turn off the shower and grab a towel. I scrub it over my face and grimace as soon as the dampness hits the fabric, bringing out a mild funk. The last thing I want is to dry myself off with a towel that smells like it sat in the washing machine too long, so my only option is to drip dry.

I make a mental note to see how ancient the washing machine is and whether it needs to be replaced. I have a feeling that list is going to be just as long as the to-do list.

I open the bathroom door and step into the hall. I have to cross the living room to get to the spare bedroom—no way am I sleeping in my deceased grandmother’s bed—and I manage to make it halfway across the living room before a banshee-level scream scares the crap out of me.

It’s not the undead coming to haunt me, though. It’s a woman. An attractive one. Her sandy-blonde hair falls in chaotic spirals to her shoulders. Her ocean-green eyes are wide, lashes coated with mascara, full lips parted in shock. She’s wearing a buttery yellow shirt that almost matches her hair and skinny jeans that highlight her curvy hips and athletic legs. She’s also wearing very impractical heels my sister would probably approve of. My gaze springs back to her still-shocked face. There’s something familiar about her, but I can’t put my finger on it.

“Who the hell are you, and how did you get in here?” I shout at the woman standing between me and the bedroom, where my clothes are. I’m not in the mood for guests or being nice, apparently, based on my volume and my tone.

Her wide-eyed gaze dips down and then springs back up, her cheeks flushing red. “Who the hell are you, and why are you naked?” she yells back.

She doesn’t bother to turn around. Instead she stands there, eyes bouncing between my face and my nakedness. As if I need to be objectified after the hellish day I’ve had.

“Seriously? Are you checking out my junk?”

“It’s right there! How am I not supposed to check it out?” She’s still yelling and turning even redder. At least her face has the decency to show her embarrassment. That still doesn’t explain who she is or what she’s doing here.

I drop a hand to shield my stupid penis, who has decided, regardless of the fact that this woman has broken into my grandmother’s cottage, that we still find her attractive and would like to give her the one-eyed salute. Maybe it’s an anger hard-on. “You could turn around!”

“You could put some clothes on!”

“I can’t! You’re blocking my way to the bedroom!” I bellow.

“Oh. Sorry.” She steps aside, obviously flustered, and finally raises her hand in front of her face.

I stalk past her and notice the gap between her fingers. “Are you still checking me out?”

“You still haven’t told me who you are! For all I know you’re some perv who likes to break into deceased women’s cottages and jerk off in their showers.”