The Player Next Door: A Novel Page 2

  The last I heard, he was flying high on a full-ride football scholarship, somewhere in California. Mind you, I heard that way back in senior year, when people were strolling through the halls, bragging about the college offers they’d opened after school the day before. Back when all I could think about was getting out of this town and all the assholes in it—him being the king of them.

  Shane Beckett cannot be back in Polson Falls and living next to me.

  He just can’t.

  But, oh my God, he is heading this way, stalking smoothly across his lawn to mine, his long legs easily maneuvering over my picket fence. He strolls along my driveway toward me, eyeing my dented Honda Civic on his way past.

  He must not realize who I am. There’s no way he’d be so casual in approaching if he did. I look a lot different from the girl he slummed it with for a summer, back before our senior year. The boring, mousy-brown bob I used to sport in high school is gone, replaced by sleek, tawny hair that stretches halfway down my back. My once-average figure has been honed by years of running and yoga. And while I still sometimes shop at thrift stores for my clothing, I’ve acquired a discernible palate for higher-end consignment purchases. Even now, on “moving day,” my worn Guns N’ Roses T-shirt looks trendy paired with black leggings and jeweled sandals.

  Shane has changed too, but not by much. Being the star quarterback, he was always lean, but fit. He’s much bigger now, his neck thicker, his shoulders broader, his top clinging to a solid, curvy chest, his jaw more sculpted and angular. And the hair he always kept cropped is longer, gelled in a tousled, messy style.

  He’s still gorgeous. In fact, he’s more gorgeous than he ever was. I’d recognize him from a mile away, even all these years later.

  I’d recognize him as the guy with the deceptively sweet dimples who smashed my seventeen-year-old heart into a thousand pieces.

  I sit up straighter and pull my shoulders back to meet him head-on, readying myself mentally as my gut churns with nerves and my pulse races. Thank God I slipped on my sunglasses when I sat down. At least I can hide the panic from my eyes as he comes to a stop three feet from me.

  Those full, soft lips that I remember kissing for hours—so long that my own were left chapped and sore some nights—stretch with a wide smile. “Scarlet Reed.”

  His voice is deeper and sexier than I remember, and my stupid, traitorous heart jumps at the sound of my name on his quicksilver tongue. The first time he said my name, the night he asked me out, it took me forever to pick my jaw up off the drive-in concession counter. I was so shocked he knew who I was.

  Obviously, he knows who has moved in here.

  I clear my throat, trying to maintain calm. “Shane Beckett.” Shane Fucking Beckett.

  Sliding his hands into his pockets, he climbs the first step and leans against the railing. It creaks under his weight. “Your dream came true.” His warm eyes drift over the face of the house. They’re as stunning as I remember them, speckled with gold flakes and rimmed with dark brown. “You bought the old Rutshack house.”

  “You … you remembered?” I sputter, unable to mask my surprise. I mentioned my secret wish to own this place on our first official date—a balmy night in early July, the humidity making my hair frizz and my skin slick. I was so nervous, I babbled the entire time. I was sure he regretted asking me out.

  Shane’s gaze drops from its inspection of the porch ceiling to settle on me. His eyelashes are still impossibly thick and long, his nose still slender and perfect. “I remember a lot about that summer.”

  My chest tightens, and pain I’d long since thought faded flares with renewed vigor. “So do I.” The sweet words, the longing looks, the gentlest touches. He told me I was one of the coolest girls he’d ever met, and it didn’t matter that my few misfit friends would never gel with his many popular friends, or that I wasn’t a cheerleader or an athlete.

  He said he didn’t care that my mom and I lived in an apartment on the shady side of town, or that she was caught in a compromising position with our married town mayor the night of our school’s Christmas pageant when I was twelve.

  He swore he wasn’t the player everyone said he was, and he was okay with taking things slow, that he wouldn’t push me to give him my virginity.

  He told me that he thought he might be falling in love with me.

  I remember it all because it was in stark contrast with the personality one-eighty he pulled in the last week before school, when he started avoiding my calls and breaking plans. He dumped me the night before classes began, claiming he wasn’t looking for a serious relationship through senior year.

  What he meant was, he wasn’t looking for a serious relationship with me.

  Worse, he wanted it with Penelope Rhodes, the daughter of the scandalized mayor having the affair with my mother. She’d made my life hell since seventh grade, and he knew it.

  Shane flinches ever so slightly, the only sign that he’s aware of what a thoroughbred douchebag he was in high school. “You look different.”

  “I’m surprised you recognize me.”

  “Iris told me who she sold to.” He chews his bottom lip, hesitating. “I probably wouldn’t have known it was you at first. Not with those giant sunglasses covering half your face.”

  “They’re Prada.” Five seasons ago, but still. And I feel stupid for announcing that.

  His eyes bore into the lenses as if trying to see beyond them. “Take them off.”

  I hate Shane Beckett with every fiber of my body, I remind myself. Even the fibers between my legs that are stirring right now, as I imagine him asking me in that deep, sexy voice to take something else off. Everything else off.

  A medley of short horn blasts sounds and a moment later, the U-Haul pulls in.

  I release a shaky sigh of relief, saved from the risk of bending to his will. I need to regain my composure before I come across as the love-struck teenager I used to be. I’ll never allow myself to be that around him ever again.

  “My friends are here.”

  “Do you need any help with—”

  “Nope,” I cut him off curtly, hauling my body up to charge down the steps, inhaling the intoxicating hint of bergamot and mint on my way past. My annoyance flares. He even smells sexy.

  I march across the lawn, needing to get away from Shane and fast. “Finally!” I holler as Bill slides out of the passenger seat, followed by Justine.

  Her sharp, hazel eyes immediately land on Shane. “Who is that?” she asks in her thick Bostonian accent.

  “Can you wait until I’m out of earshot before you drool over another guy?” Bill shakes his head as he wanders to the back of the truck.

  “Nobody. Can you stack the orange- and blue-stickered boxes in the dining room? That way we can get to the bedroom furniture as fast as possible. Pink-stickered boxes go upstairs. The ones with the green stickers are for the kitchen.” I spent three days researching how best to organize my belongings for efficient unpacking.

  Justine studies me warily. We’ve lived together since freshman year of college, and she can tell when I’m pretending to be indifferent while there’s a four-alarm panic fire burning inside me. But because she’s my very best friend, she also knows when not to push.

  “Come on, guys, you heard the boss!” She claps her hands. She’s barely five feet tall and diminutive in every regard except the range of her voice and her larger-than-life personality.

  Her brother, Joe, jumps out from the driver’s side. “Gotta take a piss first,” he announces, heading for the porch.

  “Put the seat down when you’re done!” I holler after him. I don’t know how many times I’ve fallen into the toilet in the middle of the night because Joe was crashing on our couch and had forgotten the common courtesy.

  Shoes crunch against the gravel driveway behind me, setting off a fresh wave of tension.

  Just keep on walking back to your side.

  Justine thrusts out her hand. “I’m Scarlet’s best friend, Justine. And you a
re …”

  Despite my greatest effort not to, I steal a glance in time to see the deep dimples form with Shane’s sexy smirk. Those dimples fed a lot of girls’ fantasies, including mine. Back before we dated, I used to spend all of chem class waiting to catch a glimpse of them.

  “Shane. I live next door.” He accepts her hand.

  “Shane. From next door.” God, I’m going to get an earful of lewd suggestions later. “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Shane. Have you lived in this thriving metropolis long?”

  “All my life, except for a few years while I was away at college.” He nods toward me. “Scarlet and I go way back. We were friends in high school.”

  A loud, unattractive snort escapes me, earning raised brows from them both.

  “Where’d you say you want these?” Bill rounds the corner, his arms laden with a cumbersome box, the top marked with a blue sticker.

  “Dining room. Far wall.”

  He juts his chin at Shane on his way past.

  Shane looks from him to the truck, and back again. “Are you sure you don’t want my—”

  “I don’t want anything from you,” I blurt, and my cheeks immediately burn. But I’m not going to let myself feel bad for being rude. Shane deserves it and far worse.

  He holds up his hands in a sign of surrender and backs away slowly. “All right, Scar …”

  Ugh. I always hated that nickname.

  “But, just so you know, I’m around if you ever need help.” He juts his thumb in the direction of his house.

  “Thanks. I’m good.” I spot Joe storming down the steps and add on impulse, “Because I have him!”

  “Huh? You have me for what?” Joe’s face fills with confusion.

  “For everything.” I rush over to loop my arm around his waist and sidle close to his tall, lanky body, giving off the impression that we’re a couple. Just play along, I silently will him, staring up into his baby-blue eyes.

  If there’s one thing I know about Joe, it’s that he’s had a not-so-secret crush on me ever since I went with Justine to Boston for Thanksgiving, back in sophomore year of college. He knows I’m not interested, but that hasn’t stopped his shameless flirting. Pretending we’re together isn’t an issue for him.

  He throws an arm around my shoulder and pulls me close until my face is mashed up against his chest and my sunglasses are sitting crooked. “That’s right, babe. You don’t need nobody else.”

  Shane’s gaze flips between the two of us before shifting to my house, an unreadable look touching his face. “I hope you’re a handy guy.” With that, he heads back over the white picket fence.

  “Does this mean I get to sleep in your room tonight?” Joe whispers.

  I give him a hard shove in the ribs, earning his grunt.

  Four

  “Can’t believe you actually did it, Reed.” Justine settles into a rocking chair and hands me a Corona, the cap already twisted off. Her smile is wistful. “Is it weird to be back here?”

  “So weird. Never thought I’d see the day.” I suck back a mouthful of cold beer, parched after hours of hauling furniture, scrubbing cupboards, and unpacking boxes. A quick glance in the hallway mirror earlier proved that I shouldn’t look in a mirror again until after I’ve showered. “I still can’t believe this house is mine. And that I have a full-time teaching job.”

  It’s a far cry from where I was at the stroke of midnight into a new decade this past New Year’s—living off ramen noodles and afraid of what my uninspiring future held. A few months later, a lawyer appeared on my doorstep to tell me that a grandfather I’d once met briefly had died, leaving me—not his son, who’d fallen out of favor years before—everything he owned.

  Turns out it was enough to buy this place outright, and not battle with the bank for a mortgage they’d never agree to anyway.

  “Cheers to that. You deserve this. I’m so happy for you.” We clink the necks of our bottles and watch in comfortable silence as a middle-aged couple coasts along the street on their bicycles. It’s after eight and nearly nightfall. The guys are inside, listening to the ball game on the radio while they put my futon frame together.

  “When are you going to see Dottie?”

  “This week, I guess,” I say reluctantly. “I kind of have to, right?”

  “She is your mom,” Justine agrees with equal enthusiasm, her free hand toying with her messy topknot of black hair.

  Dottie’s also a narcissist with loose morals, and a functioning alcoholic—styling hair by day, downing glasses of chardonnay by night. She doesn’t touch a drop of it while on the clock, but once her shift is over, look out. There’s been more than one embarrassing story about her being escorted out of the local watering hole for being too drunk.

  I sigh. Justine has a good idea how deep and dark the rabbit hole goes with my mother.

  “I’ll deal with her when I have to. Tonight, it’s all good times.”

  “It’s going to be strange, not seeing you every day,” she pouts.

  “You’ll just have to come visit me. A lot.” I clink my beer bottle against hers again. We’ve lived together since we were eighteen years old. It was a random roommate match that turned out to be a godsend. Justine is family to me. She’s the one and only person I’ve ever been able to count on over the years. “Besides, I’m sure Bill will be a great roommate.”

  “Yeah, after he’s housebroken. Why are boys so gross?” She cringes. “Thirty-three years old and he still leaves his socks everywhere. Dirty, smelly socks rolled up in balls, all over my bedroom floor!”

  I laugh, even as my attention wanders to my neighbor’s property. The red muscle car is gone. I heard the engine rumbling hours ago, and I found myself wondering where Shane was going and when he’d be back. I’m sure he has a girlfriend. No one looks like that and doesn’t have a girlfriend, at least not for long.

  “So, are you going to make me ask?”

  “Huh?”

  Justine points a finger a Shane’s house, her eyes wide. “What the hell was that about earlier, with Mr. Hot As Fuck who you iced out?”

  We’ve been so busy with the move, I’ve been able to avoid that conversation all day. I sigh. “I dated him for, like, two minutes back in high school.”

  “And?”

  “And we broke up. End of story.”

  “No.” She shakes her head vigorously. “You’ve dated plenty since I’ve known you, and you have never given enough of a shit about the guy to be harsh after the fact.”

  “Yeah, well, Shane deserves it.” For all that I’ve told Justine, Shane Beckett is one painful, humiliating story I’ve kept buried, convincing myself he was the part of a past I’d never have to face again.

  “Spill it, Reed.”

  She’s clearly on a mission to ferret information, and I’m too tired to fend her off. I give her the rundown.

  By the time I’m done, her face is twisted with disgust. “Why tell you he thinks he’s falling in love with you and then dump you to hook up with someone else?”

  “Because he’s a total player and a douchebag.” And I was too stupid and enamored to see it. “He was just trying to get laid before the summer was over.”

  “But you didn’t sleep with him, right?”

  “No.” I almost did. The night we broke up, I tried to sway him with my virginity, desperate to make him change his mind. Things went further than they ever had between us but stopped before it went too far. He stopped it. I walked away telling myself he obviously wasn’t attracted to me anymore, which was a crippling hit to my ego. In hindsight, I figured it was likely because he’d already started something with Penelope and was struck by a millisecond of decency, warped as that may be. When I look back on that entire disaster, my willingness to so freely give him what he’d clearly been chasing all summer is my biggest regret.

  “His friends had bets going about how long it’d take for me to put out. They nicknamed me BB.” I give her a knowing look. “Blue Balls.” I’m not sure if I prefer that n
ickname over Scar, Scarface, and the tad cleverer, Pacino.

  She rolls her eyes. “So original. Man, I would have punched him right in his blue balls.”

  “Yeah, well …” I shrug through another sip. “It was my own fault. I knew better.” I’d had a crush on Shane since the Beckett family moved to town in fifth grade. I’d heard the rumors, I’d seen him cycle through the pretty girls, and yet the night he flirted with me during my shift at the drive-in concession stand, I was a giggling fool. All I could think was, “Shane Beckett is interested in me?” I should have turned and run the other way.

  But he was the sexy high school football star, and I was nobody. And when he asked me to grab a burger at the Patty Shack, a greasy spoon in town, I was too stunned to use my brain.

  Of course, I said yes. I spent the entire next day pinching myself and trying on everything in my closet, and even a few more modest things from my mother’s closet.

  He pulled up to our shabby building in his dad’s green Buick with a smile and two cans of Coke. He opened the door for me. In fact, he was the perfect gentleman the entire night, no devious intentions in sight. When he dropped me off, he laid the sweetest kiss on my lips and asked if he could see me again. It was like a dream that I kept waiting to wake up from.

  Unfortunately, when I eventually did wake, it was to a nightmare.

  I sigh. “Whatever. Once a player, always a player. I don’t want anything to do with Shane Beckett ever again.” It doesn’t matter how attractive he is, and he is up there with the most beautiful men I’ve ever laid eyes on. Despite my anger and attempts to forget him, I still secretly use him as a physical benchmark against the guys I’ve dated since.

  They always come up short.

  Justine’s lips twist in thought. “So, you really wouldn’t put out at seventeen?”

  The incredulity in her voice has me reaching across to smack her arm. “Shut up!”

  “What! It’s just … you’ve come a long way since then, Padawan.” She gives me a pointed look.

  “Whatever. I had a reputation to uphold.” Or rather, a reputation not to uphold. I’d heard the rumors abound, wondering if I was my mother’s daughter. It’s probably why Shane targeted me in the first place. The last person I wanted to be compared to was Dottie Reed, so it wasn’t hard to keep guys out of my pants throughout high school. The hell if I would provide fodder for any more rumors about the Reed women by even entertaining the idea of a blow job.