Love Next Door (Lakeside #1) by Helena Hunting

“Sure, sounds good.” And it does. If I can’t be in Chicago right now, at least my friends can come visit me here.

A ping comes from the other end of the line. “I have to go,” Frankie says. “Got a hot date tonight.”

“Oh yeah? With who? Anyone I know?”

“Nah, just some girl I met at a club last weekend. I’ll fill you in when I come visit. Stay chill, my man.” He ends the call, and I tip my head up, staring at the nearly cloudless blue sky, sun shining down on me like it has no idea my life is a mess.

I don’t like that I’m here, in Pearl Lake, and that my dad is now under investigation. Or that he didn’t bother to tell me when I spoke with him. It makes me paranoid. Like people are keeping things from me, and I no longer know who I can trust.





CHAPTER 9

EVERYWHERE I GO, THERE YOU ARE

Van

I don’t have time to wallow in self-pity, unfortunately, or obliterate brain cells with alcohol, neither of which would be particularly productive. The alarm on my phone reminds me that I have an appointment with Bernie, the lawyer who dealt with my grandmother’s will.

I should’ve done this months ago, but I wasn’t in the headspace to manage it. There’s some irony in the fact that the moment I arrived to finally deal with things here, my life in Chicago turned upside down. I’d rationalized that as much as I loved Grammy Bee, she wasn’t leaving behind much. Just the cottage and a lot of junk to sort through. I’ve always loved the place, but cleaning it up wasn’t a job I had the time to take on. Now all I have is time.

I hop in the truck, the springs in the seat squealing in protest (although almost everything in this truck protests), and make a stop at the dump—again—before I drive into town. The law office is on the edge of downtown in a small outbuilding on the same piece of property as Bernie’s house. It’s actually the office for the only town lawyer, an accountant, the city planner, and an art therapist. I’m not sure what the therapist has to do with law and accounting, but there it is.

When I get there, my favorite surly neighbor happens to be coming out of the building. She’s with a guy on crutches. He’s tall and thin, with the same sandy-blond hair, his a shorter mop of curls. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s her younger brother. I never saw much of him when I stayed with Grammy Bee, but then again, I didn’t see much of Dillion either.

I pull into the spot beside her truck, purposely crowding the driver’s side door. I’m about ten minutes early for my appointment, so instead of heading inside, I cut the engine and wait.

She frowns when she sees the truck, and her eyes turn to slits when she spots the narrow gap I’ve left between our vehicles. The side mirrors are almost touching. Her tongue pokes at the almost-closed gap between her front teeth, and she knocks on the hood of my truck.

I wave.

“What the heck?” She motions toward the space between our vehicles.

I pretend I can’t hear her and tap my ear. Her brother continues around to the passenger side, not even sparing her a glance.

“You can hear me just fine, asshole!” she shouts.

I can’t help it. I grin. Man, she’s fun to piss off, and it seems to be something I excel at. Annoying her is a bright spot in my otherwise lackluster day.

Her nostrils flare, and she pushes her side mirror in so she can get between the trucks without having to do the limbo. Her face appears in the passenger-side window, eyes on fire. She makes the roll-down-the-window motion with her hand.

I slide across the bench seat and roll it down a couple of inches. She arches a brow, so I roll it down a few more, until it’s below her eye level. She’s not short, but she’s not particularly tall either, so it’s about halfway down. “I got the check, thanks for that.”

“Awesome. Do you think you could move your truck over, oh, say, about a foot?”

I ignore the question. “Did you just come from the lawyer’s office?”

Her elbows jut out, which makes me believe that she’s propped her fists on her hips. “That’s actually none of your business.”

“Or maybe you were visiting the art therapist, talking about your anger issues and such.” I tip my head, waiting for her reaction.

“I don’t have anger issues!”

“Then why are you yelling at me?”

“What is your deal? I don’t get you. This morning you were all ‘gorgeous this’ and ‘beautiful that’ and doing whatever the heck you were doing downtown, and now you’re boxing my damn truck in. Why are you such a confusing asshole?”

“Why do you hate me so much?”

“Because you want to subdivide Bee’s lot. Or sell. Or build a freaking McMansion on it!”

“I’m not subdividing Bee’s lot. Or selling. I already told you that.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“Why shouldn’t you? And this morning your expression said everything, so I figured I’d save that guy from getting punched in the nuts—although I’m kind of regretting that I didn’t do it myself, since he seems to think you’re interested in getting on your back for him. Or your knees.”

“Excuse me?”

“Those were his words, not mine.”

Her lip curls. “Tucker is a delusional jackass. I would do neither of those things, even if he was the last man on earth.”