Read Online Falling for the Guy Next Door by Claire Robyns - Free Book Online
Authors: Claire Robyns
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the path and through the gate she always left open.
He watched her
pert backside bounce to the rhythm of her stride until she
disappeared around the bend at the end of the drive. His gaze moved
to the blue expanse of ocean as he contemplated his options. Leave
Megan the hell alone. And leave Megan the hell alone.
“I am so
screwed.” He pushed away from the window, dragging his hands
through his hair.
Maybe he was
approaching this problem from the wrong angle. Their friendship
didn’t need to end gracefully; it deserved to go out on a big bang
for old time’s sake.
Megan wasn’t
going to be the girl-next-door for very much longer. She’d wanted
first option on 21a, and he’d give it to her as soon as the
contract arrived from his lawyer. He didn’t know her financial
position, but he’d set the sale price back four years to what he’d
paid for the place. He knew she wanted to restore the house to its
whole again, and he’d do his damned best to help her make it
happen.
Meanwhile, he
had a little free time on his hands and a hot soon-to-be-ex
neighbour to fill them.
When that
didn’t sit quite right in his chest, he knew he was deluding
himself. That argument might have worked initially, but since then,
he’d gotten to know her. He’d gotten to care. However
unintentionally, he’d already unearthed the kinks in his
tried-and-tested philosophy when it came to Megan Lane.
He refused to
risk hurting her again.
But damn,
there had to be more than one alternate angle to come at this. He
never gave up this easily when it came to looking for the perfect
shot
Fragments from
her outburst last night came back to him.
I’m entitled
to enjoy a fling without your preconceived notions making me feel
worse than shit.
I never
expected more than a couple of nights from you.
I thought once
we’d burned through the passion, we could find a way to go forward
without too much baggage.
Maybe it was
time he listened to the woman. She wasn’t a child and she seemed to
know exactly what she wanted. And how she wanted it. She even had a
strategy to conclude their fling in an amicable fashion.
He couldn’t
find a single flaw to argue against. His grin came out before he
recalled the obvious hitch: Megan was royally pissed at him.
He was waiting
for her on the porch when she pulled up in her car forty minutes
later. She must have jogged the two miles into town to collect it.
He jumped the hedge and strolled around her side of the house.
“Hey,” he
called as she climbed out, “I could have given you a lift in.”
“I was going
for a jog anyway.” She clicked the door closed and leant against
it. “What time are you leaving?”
“For
where?”
“Oh, you
know.” She shrugged, those expressive eyes narrowing on him. “The
Serengeti plains? The Amazon rainforest? The Republic of
Congo?”
“Tempting, all
of them.” He grinned, taking a step closer to her. “But my
immediate plans don’t extend beyond Smugglers Inn. This evening,”
he added succinctly. “Join me?”
“Yeah, right.”
She folded her arms, inadvertently—he guessed, given her
tone—swelling her breasts practically out of her low cut Lycra tank
top. “Because that worked out so well for us the last time.”
“It wasn’t all
bad,” he reminded her. The romantic setting of the
eighteenth-century Inn, tucked away in a sea-battered cove, had
lured them to their downfall faster than a smuggler chasing a case
of contraband rum.
In his
defence, they’d been trapped in a cosy room for the night, a winter
storm battening down the hatches outside and heat crackling off a
log fire inside.
Her mouth
opened in protest, then closed without a word. Some of the fire
left her eyes. Her lips softened a fraction. She was thinking about
relenting, but not without an inner struggle.
“It’s only
dinner,” he said, recalling all the unresolved shit between them.
He could at least attempt to go after her with more finesse than a
hormonal
the path and through the gate she always left open.
He watched her
pert backside bounce to the rhythm of her stride until she
disappeared around the bend at the end of the drive. His gaze moved
to the blue expanse of ocean as he contemplated his options. Leave
Megan the hell alone. And leave Megan the hell alone.
“I am so
screwed.” He pushed away from the window, dragging his hands
through his hair.
Maybe he was
approaching this problem from the wrong angle. Their friendship
didn’t need to end gracefully; it deserved to go out on a big bang
for old time’s sake.
Megan wasn’t
going to be the girl-next-door for very much longer. She’d wanted
first option on 21a, and he’d give it to her as soon as the
contract arrived from his lawyer. He didn’t know her financial
position, but he’d set the sale price back four years to what he’d
paid for the place. He knew she wanted to restore the house to its
whole again, and he’d do his damned best to help her make it
happen.
Meanwhile, he
had a little free time on his hands and a hot soon-to-be-ex
neighbour to fill them.
When that
didn’t sit quite right in his chest, he knew he was deluding
himself. That argument might have worked initially, but since then,
he’d gotten to know her. He’d gotten to care. However
unintentionally, he’d already unearthed the kinks in his
tried-and-tested philosophy when it came to Megan Lane.
He refused to
risk hurting her again.
But damn,
there had to be more than one alternate angle to come at this. He
never gave up this easily when it came to looking for the perfect
shot
Fragments from
her outburst last night came back to him.
I’m entitled
to enjoy a fling without your preconceived notions making me feel
worse than shit.
I never
expected more than a couple of nights from you.
I thought once
we’d burned through the passion, we could find a way to go forward
without too much baggage.
Maybe it was
time he listened to the woman. She wasn’t a child and she seemed to
know exactly what she wanted. And how she wanted it. She even had a
strategy to conclude their fling in an amicable fashion.
He couldn’t
find a single flaw to argue against. His grin came out before he
recalled the obvious hitch: Megan was royally pissed at him.
He was waiting
for her on the porch when she pulled up in her car forty minutes
later. She must have jogged the two miles into town to collect it.
He jumped the hedge and strolled around her side of the house.
“Hey,” he
called as she climbed out, “I could have given you a lift in.”
“I was going
for a jog anyway.” She clicked the door closed and leant against
it. “What time are you leaving?”
“For
where?”
“Oh, you
know.” She shrugged, those expressive eyes narrowing on him. “The
Serengeti plains? The Amazon rainforest? The Republic of
Congo?”
“Tempting, all
of them.” He grinned, taking a step closer to her. “But my
immediate plans don’t extend beyond Smugglers Inn. This evening,”
he added succinctly. “Join me?”
“Yeah, right.”
She folded her arms, inadvertently—he guessed, given her
tone—swelling her breasts practically out of her low cut Lycra tank
top. “Because that worked out so well for us the last time.”
“It wasn’t all
bad,” he reminded her. The romantic setting of the
eighteenth-century Inn, tucked away in a sea-battered cove, had
lured them to their downfall faster than a smuggler chasing a case
of contraband rum.
In his
defence, they’d been trapped in a cosy room for the night, a winter
storm battening down the hatches outside and heat crackling off a
log fire inside.
Her mouth
opened in protest, then closed without a word. Some of the fire
left her eyes. Her lips softened a fraction. She was thinking about
relenting, but not without an inner struggle.
“It’s only
dinner,” he said, recalling all the unresolved shit between them.
He could at least attempt to go after her with more finesse than a
hormonal
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