Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 94220 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 471(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94220 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 471(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Is it wrong that I watch him?
Leif Anderson seems like a friendly, kind, normal, boy-next-door type.
Unlike me.
His stalker, a creep who moved into the place next to his parents' house to keep an eye on him.
I'm not the bad guy, though.
I'm the one who will protect him.
The cops don't believe he's in danger.
Maybe they're right, and this is all in my messed-up head.
I've been wrong before.
And no matter how I justify this to myself, my motives aren't entirely pure.
It's impossible to watch a guy this hot walking around in those adorable beanies without getting a little turned on.
When he discovers my secret surveillance, I'm sure it's over.
No way he believes my reasons for watching him, but he doesn't report me for my crime.
He's curious about me in a way I don't expect from a straight guy.
Or as I quickly learn, maybe not so straight.
Before I know it, we're on a journey, exploring this wild, exciting part of Leif while I try to keep him safe from harm.
But the closer we get to one another, the more I what if it was all in my head?
What if no one's coming for him?
What if the real threat to Leif is me, the guy next door?
*The Guy Next Door is a steamy romantic suspense but contains content that may trigger some readers. During the book's preorder period, a complete content warning will be available on the author's website. When the book is available for order, the warning will appear at the start of the book and can be viewed using the Look Inside feature.
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
1
LEIF
I recognize the guy taking his time at the bread aisle.
Like, a weird amount of time.
His complexion is something between ghostly and sickly pale, like he doesn’t spend too much time outside.
Probably around my age—late teens, early twenties.
Short, dirty-blond hair, nearly brown, and spiked in the front.
Guy can’t be over five-five or so, and even that might be a generous guesstimate.
I’m sure that’s the same black hoodie I’ve already seen on him a few times.
What’s his name again? Mom mentioned talking to the Rodgers about him, but for whatever reason, it’s not coming to me.
Feel like it starts with a Z… Zack? No, something less familiar.
Zander?
That’s not it either.
As he scans his bread options, I can’t imagine he has to make a serious decision about white, wheat, or grain. Maybe he needs gluten-free alternatives. Or maybe he has a preferred brand they’re out of, so now he must find an acceptable substitute.
With how he’s fidgeting, rubbing his thumbs across his fingers, I can imagine him being the kind of guy to give too much thought to the type of bread he needs to buy.
Maybe he’s not thinking about bread at all; my mind can drift off from time to time while I’m grocery-shopping.
Because of my previous interactions with him, part of me thinks it’s a little creepy.
That’s a shitty thing to think about someone.
Just because he’s different doesn’t make him creepy.
My parents live in a friendly neighborhood. Most everyone on our street has lived there for over a decade, so we all know each other. We’re the kinds of neighbors who wave and stop on the sidewalk to catch up with each other. This guy has only been renting the Morgans’ place next door for two weeks, so it’s possible he hasn’t had a chance to acclimate to the neighborhood yet. Although, I’ve made every effort to smile and wave if he’s in his yard when I’m driving by. I’ll even try to say hey when I pass him while I’m out for a jog or a walk.
And I get nothing, except maybe a glare.
It’s possible he’s an introvert—the quiet type who spends time staring at bread for a few minutes as his mind wanders. Can’t fault him for that.
He starts to turn, so I look back at the beef, picking up another packet to check the expiration date. I debate if I should try to approach him, maybe start a lighthearted conversation that will make him more receptive to my occasional waving to him in the neighborhood, but I’m not in the mood to get another glare, so I continue with my shopping.
After I finish, I return home. As I’m parking near the garage doors of my parents’ place, my phone starts buzzing. I put the car in Park and check it. Mom.
“There you are,” I answer.
Her voice comes through the Corolla’s speakers: “Are you in the car?”
“Yeah, and you are too now. I wanted to make sure I didn’t miss you again. Gimme a second.”
I get out, and we go through a familiar dance until the car releases her back to my phone.
“How was today?” I practically sing out, pressing against what I know will be a sore subject.
She groans. “Can we start with your day?”
“I was on a jog when you called earlier. Then I swung by the store to pick up some beef for stroganoff tonight. And now I have some meals planned for the week.”
“Please, Leif, don’t tell me about the delicious meals I’m missing. I don’t need any more reasons to miss being home right now.”
I chuckle, though I can hear the sincere exhaustion and pain behind her words.
“Speaking of…how is my dear grandma doing?” I notice one of my reusable bags slipped to the back of the trunk, so I have to really get in there for it.
“Oh, the usual,” Mom replies.
A.k.a. insults, demands, and just plain cruelty.
A little over a month ago, Grandma was diagnosed with stage four breast cancer. In most families, this is when everyone would eagerly join together to aid their fallen loved one. We don’t have that kind of relationship with Linda, who I’m confident is a sociopath. And even with Mom’s boundaries, being the compassionate woman she is, she wasn’t about to let Linda go through this alone—not to mention helping her sister deal with their mother—even if it meant enduring Linda at her worst.
“You’d think she’d be appreciative that her daughter and son-in-law flew out to Indiana to help out,” I say, unable to disguise my irritation.
As I lean into the trunk to grab the bag in the back, my elbow hits one of the overstuffed bags near the edge, and a can tumbles out, thumping as it hits the driveaway. “Great. Dropped the tomato sauce.”
I’m determined to finish what I started, so I grab the bag, pull it out, and collect the others.