Love Next Door (Lakeside #1) by Helena Hunting

We go through the details of the will, which are straightforward. My sister and brother both received checks for $50,000 each, the value of one-third of the standing cottage. At least at the time the will was written. Things have changed in the past couple of decades, with all the renovated mansion-style cottages on the other side of the lake. Regardless, I’ve inherited everything else, which consists of the property and all its contents. A small amount is left in the bank, but most of it was cleared out by the checks to my brother and sister. By the end of the meeting, I’ve signed everything I need to get it all transferred into my name.

On my way back through town, I decide to stop at the bar. I miss socializing and friends. So far the only people I’ve spoken much to are cashiers and Dillion. Although Frankie and Chip have both reached out, it’s not the same as hitting the bar or the golf course. I’m not even particularly good at golf. I just play because my friends do.

I scan the bar, take one of the empty seats near the end of the row, and order a glass of their best whiskey—which is pretty cheap shit. It tastes like lighter fluid and smells about the same.

Two women who are most definitely locals take the seats to the right of me. I know they’re local because they’re fresh faced and natural looking, not overpolished like most of the women in Chicago. Like they’ve already added the Snapchat filter so they’re always social media–post ready. These ladies look low maintenance.

Also, they order beer.

Usually the women at the bars Frankie and I used to frequent would drink martinis or wine.

I raise my glass. “Evening, ladies.”

They arch their eyebrows in sync and look around the bar. It’s full of townies. “You should probably head next door if you’re looking for a good time, buddy,” the one closest to me says.

“My good time is right here.” I tap my glass.

The two women start talking to each other, mostly ignoring me but giving me the occasional side-eye. The TV above the bar is set to a dirt bike competition, so I focus on that while I eavesdrop.

“Tommy said he took the mailbox right out, and you know that was a steel post anchored in, like, six feet of concrete,” Woman One says.

“Do you think that’s why Darlin’ came back? Because of the accident?” Woman Two asks.

“Who knows? But Sue is fair well losin’ her damn mind over it, thinking she’s gonna try ’n’ steal her man.”

Woman Two rolls her eyes. “That man can’t keep his pants zipped to save his life. I heard Sue’s only staying with him because of the baby, and she doesn’t want to have to move back in with her parents or get government assistance.”

“Excuse me.” My mouth works before my brain does.

Both women turn to look at me.

“I don’t mean to eavesdrop, but would you two happen to know a woman named Dillion?”

Woman One’s eyes narrow. “What’s it to ya?”

“I’m her neighbor.”

That gets me some more raised eyebrows. “You have a place on the south side?”

“My grammy did. Grandma, I mean. Bee Firestone.”

“You’re Bee Firestone’s grandson?” Woman One seems to be the talker of the two. This gets me another head-to-waist visual inspection.

“Yeah. She gave me the cottage. So I’m living there now. Next door to Dillion. Who everyone apparently calls Darlin’ for whatever reason. There isn’t even an r in Dillion, so I don’t get how that even happens.”

Woman Two laughs, big and loud.

“Why is that funny?”

They look at each other. “Because Dillion is nobody’s darling.”

“And that’s funny?”

“Look, I wouldn’t expect you to understand. Dillion was always determined to get her ass out of here, and she did. Worked hard to do it too,” Woman One says, slightly defensively.

“When you come from a place like this, you can try to fly all you want, but your roots always bring you back,” Woman Two says.

They clink their glasses and take another drink.

“Right. Of course.” But I don’t really get what they mean, because I’ve never lived here. Sure, I’m happy to be back, in part because it reminds me of good times and Grammy Bee, but also because it means escaping Chicago and all the crap that’s currently going down as a result of the missing money.

I don’t know what it’s like to come from a small town. I only know what it’s like to visit one. But I guess I’m learning, because here I am, sitting in the local bar, not fitting in because I’m from the city, when really, the only place I’ve ever felt comfortable is where I am right now. Not the bar, but Grammy Bee’s.

I keep sipping my drink, listening to the two women whisper-gossip about everyone in town. Apparently Tucker the Fucker has earned that title. It’s amazing how much everyone is up in everyone else’s business.

“Oh hell.” Woman One nudges Woman Two. “Speak of the devil.”

I follow their gaze across the bar. Leaning against the wall near the pool tables is Dillion’s brother.

“Has he lost weight? He looks thinner, doesn’t he?” Woman Two observes.

“Mmm. He was always lean, like a runner, but I don’t know—he’s not looking good these days.”