Love Next Door (Lakeside #1) by Helena Hunting

CHAPTER 16

BLEEDING HEART

Dillion

My alarm goes off at what would be a reasonable time the next morning if I hadn’t stayed up until stupid o’clock. My dad and I have a meeting with a homeowner named something Kingston who’s looking to renovate his kitchen this fall. He’s one of the Bowmans’ friends who also happens to be a former NHL hockey player. There seem to be more and more of those guys popping up on the lake.

I roll over and grab the device, silencing the alarm. Before I can slide out of bed, a strong arm wraps around my waist and pulls me back across the mattress.

“Where are you going this early?” Van’s raspy voice sends a shiver down my spine. Last night, after I showed him where Bee had hidden pieces of her fortune, he took me back to bed, and we got naked again. It was even more intense than the first time and absolutely worth the very limited hours of sleep I clocked as a result.

“I have a meeting at nine thirty.”

“On a Sunday?” I can practically feel his frown and the furrow in his brow against my neck.

“Unfortunately, yes.” I shift so I can face him.

His dark hair is a tousled mess, he has sleep lines etched into his face, and his lips are gloriously puffy, probably from all the kissing. His dark eyes roam my face, hot and searching, and he brushes an errant curl away from my face. It springs right back into place. It must be a terrible rat’s nest.

“Is it a long meeting?” His tongue peeks out, dragging across his top lip.

“I’m not sure.” Sometimes they’re short; sometimes they go on for hours. One thing the people on the other side of the lake seem to have is oodles of time. Decisions on things like paint colors and countertops can end up as long discussions on what colors and materials work best together. And when you’re spending half a million on a renovation, I can understand why it’s not a five-minute decision.

“Hmm.” Van tips his head. “Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?”

“You mean here?”

“Or we can go somewhere. It’s up to you.”

“Like a date?” The words are out before I can consider them. And I immediately want to stuff them back in and swallow them down.

But a small smile pulls at the corners of his mouth until it makes his eyes crinkle with mirth. “Yes, like a date.”

I don’t know why I’m shocked. After all the revelations last night, I probably should have expected something like this from Van. “Um, sure, okay. Yes. But there aren’t many restaurants in town, and if we go out together, people are going to talk.”

“I’m okay with that if you are. I promise I’m not into excessive PDAs.”

“What do you consider excessive?”

“Sharing a plate of pasta like Lady and the Tramp, under-the-table handies, quickies in public bathrooms—you know, excessive stuff.” I’m not sure whether I should laugh until a huge smile breaks across his face and he chuckles. “Relax, Dillion. I won’t try any of those things, especially not on a first date.”

I push on his chest. “Oh my gosh, you’re too much.”

“Last night it seemed like you couldn’t get enough.”

I try to wiggle out of his arms, but he rolls us over so he’s on top of me. “Six o’clock. No overt displays of affection. I won’t even try to hold your hand. I’ll leave two feet of space between us at all times. Unless we see Tucker the Fucker. Then all bets are off.”

I roll my eyes.

“I’m taking that as a yes. I can’t wait to not touch you in a public place later.” He flops over beside me and tucks his hands behind his head, grinning like a loon.

“I bet you don’t last more than twenty minutes before you put your hands on me.”

“That sounds like a dare.” He winks. “Careful, Dillion. I’m a fan of a challenge.”

I leave Bee’s cottage with a spring in my step and a smile on my face; despite the fact that I haven’t slept much, nothing can get me down.

At least not until I step inside my trailer and find the place is a huge mess, thanks to last night’s storm. I left the windows unzipped, and I was obviously too busy getting busy to remember to close them, so my sheets are soaked, and I’m betting so is my mattress. The floor has several puddles, and the paperwork I was going over on my table is scattered across the floor, the ink bleeding across the pages. I’m lucky my laptop is at work and not on the table where I usually leave it, since there’s a very prominent leak there, based on the shallow pool that a few dead bugs and pine needles are floating in.

The rain has stopped, but the damage is already done, and there isn’t anything I can do other than throw everything I can in the wash and put all the cushions out to dry in the sun for the day. I don’t have time to tackle the rest of the mess, so I do what I can, then rush into the house and have a quick shower.

I’m grateful that most of my clothes are stored inside the house; otherwise, I’d probably be struggling to find a clean, dry outfit that doesn’t smell like old wet trailer. My dad and I spend the next four hours at a huge, gorgeous five-thousand-square-foot “cottage” that has not one, but three kitchens: one on the main floor, one in the walk-out basement (which functions like a fully outfitted apartment), and a third outside.