Love Next Door (Lakeside #1) by Helena Hunting

“What the heck is going on out here?” Dillion’s hand is raised in front of her face to shield her eyes from the glare of my headlights, which are pointed directly at her trailer.

Her hair is a chaotic blonde halo. She’s wearing a pair of barely there sleep shorts and a tank that, thanks to the headlights, is basically see through. Her nipples are peaked against the white fabric, and my stupid eyeballs home right in on them.

And because I’m fixated on her and her outfit, I’m not paying attention to Billy, who’s decided he doesn’t need my help getting out of the truck. He knocks into me with an oof, and I barely manage to stay upright while Billy sprawls across the driveway.

“Oh my God! Is that Billy? What did you do to him?” Dillion’s flip-flops slap angrily against the gravel drive.

“I didn’t do anything to him.” I prop the crutches against the side of the truck and crouch so I can help him up. He’s sloppy and heavy, and I’m starting to regret driving him home.

“Billy, are you drunk?”

“I had a few beers, chill out, Dil,” Billy mumble-slurs. “Chill, dill. That rhymes.” He barks out a laugh and then proceeds to vomit, barely missing my feet.

“You got my brother drunk? What is wrong with you?”

I pin her with a look. Her attitude is getting tiring. It might have been fun to poke at her and get a rise, but I can only take so many accusations. I have enough of those to deal with without her stupid ones. “You have an awful way of saying thank you. I didn’t get him drunk. I found him like this and wanted to save you and your family the trouble of coming to pick him up at the bar.”

Her hands drop from her hips, and her anger deflates like a popped balloon. “Oh. I didn’t even know he’d gone out.”

“Apparently he did. You’re welcome for making sure he got home safely.” I round the front of the truck and hop back in, ignoring Dillion when she calls my name. I don’t have the patience left not to be the jerk she assumes me to be tonight.





CHAPTER 10

NOT WINNING ANY POINTS HERE

Van

I don’t see Dillion for the rest of the week, but she does leave me a twelve-pack of beer and a thank-you note for bringing Billy home from the bar. I’m still irritated with her, but I appreciate the beer delivery.

I spend time emptying out the rest of the garage so I can get started converting it into a livable space based on the preliminary building plans I sketched out. It’s something I’m actually excited about and keeps my mind off what’s happening in Chicago.

Normally I develop structural plans and leave the building to someone else. But since I’m out of a job and every call I’ve made so far has come to a dead end on the employment front, contracting out the work would be a frivolous expense I can’t afford. Which means I’m going to do the work myself.

On Friday morning I get a call from Frankie to let me know that they’re coming to Pearl Lake and to make sure I’m well stocked on the booze front. He seems pretty damn excited about the party bus he rented, and I’m grateful that I don’t have to get the spare bedrooms ready for him and Chip. Especially since one of them would have to sleep in my grandmother’s bed. I’ve avoided going in there, apart from a couple of times since I arrived. It’s not that I think it’s haunted or whatever, but I’m not ready to face packing away her things. Her bedroom remains a shrine to her and my grandfather and all the years they spent together here.

While this place is full of memories, it’s also full of crap, and spiders, and an overwhelming amount of patterned wallpaper. It’s nothing like the pristine condo in the city that I left behind.

As much as I miss my job and the bustle of Chicago, there’s something to be said for the peacefulness of living here. Of not falling into the trap of feeling like I need the newest car or the nicest clothes, or the compulsion to keep climbing the social and financial ladders so I can be the best and have the most. Looking back, I don’t even know why I cared about all that. I haven’t even driven my BMW since getting here, preferring Bee’s truck instead.

It bugs me that I give a shit about what my friends will think of this place. That they might feel sorry for me because I lost my six-figure-a-year salary. My dad has always been the kind of guy who thrives on appearances. Part of it was to mask the damage losing our mother did to him, a way to look like he had it together when he was falling apart. Buying things was a Band-Aid for the partner he lost.

At six in the evening Frankie pulls down my driveway in the most ridiculously ostentatious RV I’ve ever seen. It’s a garish metallic purple with the words PARTY BUS scrawled across the side in gold letters. It looks like something a band would drive across the country.

He nearly clips the truck, which might be old and not in the best shape, but it was one of my grandfather’s and Grammy Bee’s favorite possessions. She taught me how to drive in that truck when I was fourteen years old, so it holds a lot of memories. The kind that aren’t replaceable.

Frankie parks the RV in front of the garage, turns off the engine, and climbs out. “The party has arrived! I hope your liver is ready for a workout this weekend!” He pulls me in for a hug and a backslap. “I’m sorry, dude—Chip’s balls are in her pocket.”

“Huh?”