Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Henley
Welcome To The Neighborhood
I stood frozen at my window, staring through my front blinds at the two people in the driveway next door.
The Beeman’s house had been on the market for the last five months after Mr. Beeman passed away and Mrs. Beeman moved to Arizona to live with her one daughter. It needed a lot of work. Renovations that would easily add up to six figures or more to update it.
Rarely did I see anyone come to show the home, but I’d recognize this realtor anywhere. A giant picture of her face was plastered on a billboard near my exit off the highway.
She wore an expensive black suit that was two sizes too small, had perfect bleach blonde hair, excessive makeup, and articulated with her hands way too much.
Last time she was here, she brought a young couple and their three kids, who started running in circles around the yards.
I recall thinking, there goes the neighborhood, but at the time, I was fretting overhearing children laughing and playing, knowing that it would be a constant reminder of what was missing in my life.
After all, I’d have to be willing to let someone in my heart to have a family, but after what I’d been through, always questioning how I was disappointing Bill with everything I did, dreaming about that felt dangerous.
Yet, here I was now, fantasizing about the man outside.
Was he single or married? Why that house?
Amanda was right, the home needed repairs.
Lots of them. But the right man with dedicated ambition could bring out the best of the bones that still remained.
Either he’d buy it because he saw its potential and restore it to its original beauty or knock it down and rebuild a perfect vision he had in his head.
I prayed he would see the allure it had to offer and give it the tender loving care it needed to blossom again. Well, that was if he chose to buy it.
I’d lived next door to Mr. and Mrs. Beeman for only two months before that horrible night when the ambulance came for Mr. Beeman.
I’d only been inside their house twice—both times to give Mrs. Beeman a hand with a frail Mr. Beeman before he was put on hospice care.
I didn’t know either of them well, but Mrs. Beeman was always friendly.
I think she could sense I needed healthy doses of kindness.
They were sweet people in their eighties, so fixing up the place wasn’t a priority anymore.
It had been their home their entire marriage.
It had sat vacant ever since.
“Now that’s a whole lot of hotness right there.” Amanda sighed. “Look at that body.”
She was right. Standing beside a shiny black Range Rover was definitely a whole lot of hotness.
Tall. Lean. Chestnut wavy hair itching to be touched.
He wore a light grey thermal that stretched tightly across his chest. The sleeves pushed to his elbows revealed a single tattooed forearm.
Ink was sexy as hell on a man. His stance alone spoke volumes.
Commanding. Formidable. Definitely someone who would control any situation calmly and with ease.
I watched him cross his arms over his chest, now standing tense and rigid.
I guessed he was tiring of her incessant flirting.
Couldn’t she see that? The way she stole every moment to touch him appeared unwanted.
“He does have a great body,” I replied. And that body, right now, screamed of annoyance.
“Most definitely. The kind you want wrapping around you while he tugs your hair, telling you how you’re going to take his pounding.”
“Yes,” I sighed, watching until they disappeared from sight. “Maybe you should write Chapter One.”
“Nah. I’ll leave that up to you. But you may want to figure out how to stop your dog from eating the pillows.”
I’d been so focused on Mr. Hotness next door that I missed the puppy’s destruction.
“Hulk, no. Bad boy.” As soon as I tugged the pillow from his mouth he wagged his tail, gazing up at me as if he hadn’t just been scolded for doing something wrong.
And just like that, he moved on to play with one of the twenty new toys strewn all over the floor.
Amanda raised a brow, and the corner of her lip turned up in a devilish grin. “Naughty Next-door Neighbor.”
“What are you talking about?”
“It could be the title of your book. Ooh, maybe he’s one of those male strippers like in Channing Tatum’s movie but by day, he works shirtless, repairing old houses with his trust fund money.”
I laughed and shook my head. “Again, maybe you should be the one writing a book. You’ve got an active imagination.”
“That’s because I’m the only one focusing here. You just need to free your mind.”
Hulk, however, was not amused by Amanda. Later that night, he curled into me while I took Amanda’s advice and let my imagination run wild.