Nuala’s Neighbor Daddy (Clover City Littles #9)
Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
“ G od fucking dammit, Nuala,” Remy Watson muttered from his kitchen window.
His knuckles whitened as he gripped the countertop, and then he couldn’t stand it anymore. He put down the turkey Reuben he’d been devouring and wiped his hands on his pants while he shoved his feet into his shoes and headed out the front door.
Why was that woman carrying boxes that were almost as big as she was out from her gigantic and bougie-ass SUV? Why was there no one helping her? He knew why her husband wasn’t— Well, ex-husband now.
It was because Cabot Foster-Webb, who he’d never liked, was in prison where that man belonged. And while Remy would totally understand a person who stuck by their spouse while they were behind bars, he’d perhaps pumped his fist in the air when he’d read that the dark-haired beauty next door had dumped her jackass of a spouse. Even if it had taken him being convicted of attempted murder—of his brother’s girlfriend no less, Jesus Christ, what a family—for her to do it.
Nuala and Cabot had already owned their massive “cabin” out at Mountain Lakes when Remy had bought the place next door. He’d left the modest cabin he purchased in the community of mostly second homes essentially as it was, except for the addition of a closet-sized recording studio in the basement—no bringing up the property values in the neighborhood from his lot, that was for sure.
It had taken a few months before he’d met his neighbors though. They didn’t come up to the quaint, mostly vacation town of Thistledon from Clover City often. Or hadn’t. Which was a mixed bag.
He’d gotten a bad feeling about Cabot from the start and it really ground his gears that a seemingly sweet woman like Nuala was married to an asshole like that. Not just because he had a thing for the petite raven-haired, blue-eyed doll either. That was a lost cause. A woman like her wouldn’t think twice about a guy like him. Younger, kinda scruffy, and with only enough money to keep himself fed and clothed and housed comfortably but not much more.
At least he’d gotten to be friendly with Nuala when she was up here alone, though. Helped her carry stuff when he could, otherwise waved and said hello whenever he saw her. She was shy, though, always darting in and out of the house like a hummingbird at a flower, so he hadn’t talked to her all that much. Enough to tell her to call him instead of carrying heavy shit into the house though.
If he didn’t think he would startle Nuala, he would’ve yelled at her out the window to put the goddamn box down and wait for him to help. But she’d always been skittish, and he didn’t want her dropping the thing and crushing her foot.
It would be one thing to take her over his knee and redden her bottom for being reckless. Of course that would hurt; it was supposed to because it was discipline. It would be another matter for her to be in pain from an actual injury.
Not that he’d mind at all coming to her aid, scooping her up in his arms, and tending to her. Wiping tears away from her rosy cheeks and cuddling her close until she’d stopped crying. But he’d probably die of guilt for harming her. He kind of wished Cabot had done the honorable thing and dropped dead, but Cabot Foster-Webb had always seemed like honor wasn’t in his vocabulary. That guy was a real prick.
Remy jogged down the steps from his front porch, down the unpaved road, and back up Nuala’s driveway. It would’ve been faster to go through the woods, but something crashing through the underbrush would probably scare the shit out of the small woman too.
At last he’d made it, and with perfect timing. Nuala had just set the enormous box down at the foot of the steps up to her cabin—if a person would call the massive wood and glass house such a thing—and was pausing with her hands on her hips.
Goddamn she was pretty. Even when she was flushed, had sweat beading along her hairline, her usually glossy and impeccable hair was piled on top of her head in a frizzy bun, and she was a bit out of breath. She wiped her wrist across her forehead and bent to pick the box back up, but there was no way in hell that was happening on his watch.
“Don’t you dare, Nuala,” he said, voice coming out louder and firmer than he’d meant it to.
He’d obviously surprised his neighbor more than he’d surprised himself because her eyes went wide and her lashes fluttered as she stood upright with a start.
“I-I’m sorry?”
Was it his imagination or maybe just wishful thinking that her blush deepened?
“You don’t need to be sorry, you just need to stop hauling boxes. Why didn’t you text me, tell me you needed help?” Remy asked, squatting down to lift the big, awkward box with his legs instead of his back.
It was heavier than he’d even thought it would be and he was begrudgingly impressed. He wouldn’t have thought she’d be able to lift this much at all. But he was also even more hot under the collar because she really shouldn’t be picking up something so heavy.
Remy carried the box up to the porch and Nuala skittered in front of him to hold the front door open.
“I didn’t want to bother you,” she told him as he crossed the threshold.
He’d been in the Foster-Webbs’ “cabin” a few times before—once when a bat had flown into the house and Nuala was shrieking like a banshee—but it never failed to surprise him. Massive double-story foyer and living area with a kitchen, den, office, bathroom, and a couple other rooms tucked in the back, and a second floor of mostly bedrooms and bathrooms that lined a catwalk and a smaller living area with the whole thing open to the glassed-in front room.
Apparently that much money didn’t buy good sense and he gave Nuala a chastising look.
“Texting me doesn’t bother me. What bothers me is seeing you carrying something as big as you are after I told you to call me whenever you need something.”
“Sorry,” she muttered again as she trailed him inside.
“Where do you want this anyway?” he asked, trying to get a hold on his emotions and his imagination.
She might not be married anymore but he didn’t want to be a creep. And if he made her uncomfortable, she definitely wouldn’t call him when she needed a hand. He needed to have a soft touch with her because while she could seem icy when Cabot had been around, he got the sense that she was actually delicate underneath. As if to reinforce his impression, he could barely hear her whisper of “In the bedroom, please.”
“Which one? You’ve got like six of ’em.”
“Th-the master, please.”
“All set?” Remy asked once he’d set the box down next to the other four she’d already carried up.
It was far more enjoyable to have Remy’s help than hauling all this baggage herself, and not just because that box really was heavy. Her neighbor was a dream to look at.
She couldn’t tell exactly how old he was because while his face looked young, his sandy blond hair and beard had some grey and white creeping in which frankly made him all the better looking. And she could tell that under the jeans or work pants and long-sleeved flannels he favored that he was in good shape. Partly by the way he carried that huge box like it was a bag of groceries. And partly because his butt and thighs filled out those pants just so, and his broad shoulders and flexing biceps did the same with those button-up shirts.
Nuala had gotten so distracted by thinking of what he’d look like man-handling the rest of her stuff she’d be bringing up from Clover City that she’d forgotten to answer him. Was she all set?
For carrying things, yes, and she wasn’t about to ask her hot neighbor for anything else. There were enough wild animals in the woods around Mountain Lakes, she didn’t need to add a cougar. Not like those women at the country club who made a hobby of ogling and aggressively hitting on the much younger caddies and lifeguards. Ew.
“Yes, thank you.”
“You don’t have lead bricks hiding under your seats that you’re gonna carry up to the house once I’m gone, do you?”
“No.”
“Promise?”
His inquisition should’ve felt like badgering—from Cabot it would’ve, because it would’ve been—but the way Remy’s salty blond brows went up as he looked down at her… Yes, her neighbor meant it but not in a mean way. It just felt as though he legitimately cared whether she hurt herself, and wasn’t that a change?
Sure, Cabot had been concerned when she was unwell or injured, but that was because of the optics of the situation, or what she wouldn’t be able to do for him. He’d never actually cared about her beyond dressing her up like a paper doll and making sure she said all the right things and spied on all the right people at all the right parties.
“Yes.”
“What’re you moving all this stuff in here for anyway?” he asked.
“Oh. I’ll be living here now,” she told him, knitting her fingers together to help keep herself steady. “After…everything, I wanted to get away from the city.”
Remy nodded, and she was relieved he didn’t give her one of those fake sympathetic looks or ask her how she was holding up. How was she supposed to be holding up after her ex-husband had tried to have a woman killed and very nearly succeeded? It was never clear how people wanted her to answer.
She hoped he wouldn’t be one of those “friends” who didn’t speak to her anymore now that she couldn’t be of use to them, what with her disgraced ex-husband and all, but Remy had always seemed to prefer her to Cabot. Also, he’d come bounding over here to help her when he could have just as easily pretended not to see her struggling with the giant box.
“Then I assume you’ll be moving more stuff in and getting some deliveries. Are you going to call me the next time you need help?”
She opened her mouth but nothing came out. Would she, actually? Even if she wanted to?
Remy took a step closer and all the breath left her body when he curled an index finger under her chin and tipped her head up ever so slightly.
“Nuala. I’m not asking this time. I’m telling. You are going to call me the next time you need help.”
Oh, it was embarrassing the way she swallowed audibly and how the rest of her body responded to his touch. She’d be fantasizing about this for weeks, if not months, maybe years. No way would she be doing more than that though, for a million reasons.
“Yes.”