Not My Neighbor by Flora Ferrari

 

Chapter One

Krystal

“I know I said I’d pick you up from the bus station honey, but the Baxter & Chambers account is what keeps a roof over our heads. I need to be in Houston tonight,” Dad says apologetically.

But something tells me this is only the warm up.

I’ve only just got home myself, a nine hour bus trip after spending two months working at the internship from hell.

No business class on a Greyhound either, I was lucky not to have a seat next to the bus’s bathroom.

“It’s okay, dad.” I lie. Still mildly furious that he texted to tell me, then didn’t pick up when I tried calling him.

Work.

His job as a legal services accountant means he travels a lot. It also means he has contracts open and close quicker than the books he’s working on, depending on the firm.

This month it’s Houston, next month might be Hawaii.

Sounds glamorous, but I’d forgotten just how much dad’s never around, being away at college for so long myself.

“Alrighty. Have a safe—” I start to say after a long pause, drawing the real reason for his call out of him, like water from a well.

“Uh. There’s just one more thing, Krystal,” he adds quickly and I roll my eyes.

I don’t really mind. Whatever dad needs I can help. I’m just cranky after a long bus trip and am dying for a bath at home after so long away.

“We have a new neighbor since you finished college,” he tells me. I can hear the airport intercom in the background and he breaks up for a moment.

“…only until his new house is built. I’ve been feeding his Koi while he’s been away.”

Fascinating.

There’s another long period of static where I can’t quite hear what he’s saying, but I think he’s trying to tell me the guy’s name.

“You’re breaking up dad,” I tell him twice, and he quickly explains, “I gotta go anyway honey, but he’s due in at four from London. The flight number’s on the kitchen table, along with the keys and some gas money.”

“What?” I almost shout, noticing the time as it clicks.

I’m the one picking this guy up from the airport.

Great.

I’ll barely have enough time to get gas let alone be at the airport by four.

“You can’t miss him,” My dad laughs to himself. “My age. Tall, dark, and handsome like me. Look, I gotta go. Oh! There’s a guy coming to look at the yard tomorrow morning, early, the neighbor recommended him. I just don’t have time to mow and clip anything anymore…I’ll call you tonight or tomorrow, thanks a million sweetie. Love you,” he says swiftly before the call drops out completely.

“Love you too, Dad,” I murmur, tossing my head from side to side, groaning as I drag myself through the door.

There are dad’s spare car keys, a scribbled note, and a crisp Ben Franklin, shifting my mood for the better staring up at me.

A hundred dollars for ‘gas money’ does sweeten the deal just a little. But dad always leaves something extra while he’s away if I’m home alone. ‘Just in case’ money he calls it.

Just in case I need a pizza later on instead of reheated leftovers.

I can see the flight number and I know the time it’s due, but what the hell was the guy’s name?

Dad told me his name but he was breaking up so much I couldn’t make it out.

Jake Casey.

Or was it Pete Basie? Nah. Couldn’t have been that.

Drake Lacey? No, that’s not it either.

Dammit. Now I’m thinking of ‘baked pastries’.

Shit. Either way, I’d better get moving if I’m gonna make it at all.

Tall dark and handsome sounds easy enough to spot, and I’m sure dad’s described me to him as well so we shouldn’t have too much trouble finding each other.

Petite, thick, and blondor most likely heavy set would be the polite description if I ever went missing.

Although dad would never say that about my weight. It’s just how I’d describe myself.

But how many tall and dark guys are there?

Just as many as there are short blond, thick girls I guess.

But handsome though? I think I’ll be the judge of that.

Not that an older guy or any guy for that matter would even think of looking at me twice.

Romance hasn’t exactly been a feature in my life, except maybe in a book or a movie.

Rushing now to get ready and knowing I’ll be pushing it to make it on time, I call out to the empty bathroom as I pass it.

“Tonight, bath. I promise.” I hear my voice echo back, already looking forward to a long soak in the tub and way too many slices of my favorite local pizza with my newfound wealth.

“Flights are always delayed anyway,” I tell myself in the car on the way, thumbing the flight number into my phone’s internet search and groaning loudly as the traffic backs up on the freeway.

But not today. No.

Shit. Damn thing’s a half-hour early, already landed which means Mr. What-his-name is most likely still waiting or has caught a cab home by now anyway.

Not having his number doesn’t exactly help either, aside from the fact he still doesn’t have a name.

Parking at the newly extended airport isn’t an issue, but paying for it is.

I can see why dad left so much money for this little trip of mine, calculating the huge hole left in my wallet once I pay for parking.

And gas by the time we’re done here. The needles in the red.

Thanks, dad.

I find a space close to the terminal entrance and move as quickly as I can towards the escalators directly by the huge glass sliding doors.

I stab a grunt as I check the time again, which only seems to slow the escalator stairs even more.

The faster I try to move, the slower everything gets, with what looks like a group of elderly tourists blocking the path just when I think I’m making some progress after getting lost on the way between escalators.

The newest part of the airport has great white arches spanning the huge ceilings, stretching and yawning across what looks like a football field of ant-sized people. Shadows swallowed by gleaming cream-colored flooring and eerily reflected in smoked glass and brushed steel.

Whoever designed the place has obviously never been in a hurry, and may well have needed glasses but I find the international arrivals gate exactly forty minutes late.

There’s nobody here, save a guy who doesn’t fit the description of my man who’s pushing a floor buffer over what looks like a half-acre of work ahead of him. His head nodding in slow time to his ear pods.

I close my eyes, taking a breath in a desperate attempt not to scream, cry, or both once I realize I’ve come all this way and spent all this money for nothing.

As quickly as the feeling comes, it’s gone again as I feel a set of eyes on me from behind and a very different feeling comes over me.

A kind of shiver runs through my whole body, and before I even turn around or begin to get up the courage to turn I know my man has found me.

At least, I hope it’s the guy.

I’ll take that cologne scent, in my memory, to my grave even if it isn’t him though.

Whatever he’s wearing makes me feel like...

Well. It makes me feel like everything they say a good cologne should but never does.

This one definitely does and I become aware of how flushed in the face I am, suddenly shy as I feel my nipples stiffen with arousal.

It’s not just the scent either, it’s the man wearing it.

That’s why I’m suddenly too scared to even turn around, suddenly so self-conscious of my butt.

Wishing I was wearing something a little more flattering than jeans, flats, and a sweater.

Hoping it is him.

His deep voice is the sweetest bait, turning me on my heel as he speaks and reels me in. Hook, line, and sinker.

“You look like someone who’s lost or looking for somebody.” He observes. A slight curl of his lip and a sureness of himself as he cocks a brow. Shamelessly running his eyes up and down my body.

Only stopping his scan by instinct at the places I feel flushing with heat and stiffen under his powerful gaze.

A little moan, more like a whimper is the only thing to escape my lips as I have no trouble taking in his massive appearance.

My eyes dart from his to his thick muscled chest. His ample pant bulge, taking in those cut thighs through tailored suit pants before rushing back to meet his penetrating stare.

A low sound reaches my ears, like the low rumble of a distant jet landing or taking off.

It’s with a shudder now more than a shiver that I realize it’s him making the sound that travels to all the places his eyes have already set aflame.

I feel dizzy for a second and clear my throat, remembering why I’m here.

“I’m Krystal,” I rasp, straining to find some saliva in my throat.

All the rest of my body’s wetness has migrated south, leaving my mouth and throat very dry and giving my voice a husky edge I don’t mean to.

“Blake Mason,” he says, a matter of fact. A little smoke in his own deep voice.

He flashes a smile that seems to push me back it’s so freaking perfect on the one hand, but it draws me in at the same time.

If his dark eyes aren’t enough, that winning smile convinces me instantly I’m not dealing with any ordinary man.

My dad’s little joke about them looking similar makes sense now, they’re so unalike. But I’m not laughing.

I’m trying to swallow and stand like my knees aren’t about to give way just at the sight of him.

Blake Mason stands well over six feet and fills a tailored suit like clothes were invented because of him.

If he was walking around uncovered, there’d be chaos.

He has dark, almost jet black hair with the subtlest hint of silver above his broad temples.

His chiseled jaw angles seamlessly into a strong chin with a cleft that makes me want to touch it straight away.

Makes me want to run my finger down it.

Have him run his huge hands, his thick fingers all down my body.

At a glance, and as a photographer, I can tell you he’s got a look that commands attention.

As a female I can tell you his appearance makes me want to pinch myself, to have someone take me aside and tell me this is real. That I’m not dreaming.

He looks like he’s stepped straight off the cover of ‘Hunk’ magazine and I just won a free subscription for as long as I’m looking at him.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” I squeak, my voice rising an octave now and sounding like it’s coming from behind me.

He cocks his head to the side a little, puzzled.

“To pick you up, I mean,” I almost stammer, feeling my face redden again as I helplessly shift my gaze down to the man’s crotch.

Apart from me being late and sounding like a lunatic, he only seems to be more satisfied by the second.

His low growl of approval as he catches me peeking at him a second time shows he’s not shy. Embarrassed or upset I’m late or eyeballing his fun zone.

“I think your timing’s perfect, Krystal…?” he asks me, still looking slightly puzzled but that smile eclipses everything. Erasing any doubt this is the man I’m here for.

“Krystal Carter,” I announce, blushing again. Feeling stupid for not introducing myself properly, watching my tiny hand reach out for his.

As my hand disappears in his I feel something deep inside me shift.

“Pleased to meet you,” I wheeze, feeling my legs press together as I stifle a moan.

“The pleasure is all mine,” he says with such intensity as he grips my hand a little firmer that I gasp.

“Mine,” he repeats knowingly before our hands separate. A loss I feel instantly, craving more of his touch already.

I realize in a second he could tell me to do anything right now and I’d obey him. I’d bend over backward if I thought it would please him.

If I could bend over backward.

He could bend me—

“I guess we should get your bags,” I finally manage, pushing aside my erotic thoughts and working overtime to at least try not to sound like a blushing schoolgirl.

I’m twenty. I can adult as much as the next grownup.

Okay, maybe not with this guy. But I need to hold my shit together if this is gonna work.

“Already sent on,” he tells me swiftly, making it my turn to mirror his puzzled look.

“Well, let’s get you home then,” I shiver nervously, moving closer towards him with no idea why.

He casually takes my trembling hand in his again and before bowing slightly to press his lips to it, he tells me that’s the best idea he’s heard all day.