Protector next door, p.1
Protector Next Door, page 1
part #2 of The Older Man Next Door Series
Protector Next Door
The Older Man Next Door Series
Lauren Milson
Copyright © 2020 by Lauren Milson
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Created with Vellum
Contents
About the Author
Protector Next Door
1. Sammy
2. Xander
3. Sammy
4. Xander
5. Sammy
6. Xander
7. Sammy
8. Xander
9. Sammy
10. Xander
11. Sammy
12. Xander - One Week Later
Sammy - Six Months Later
Mechanic Next Door
1. Peach
Also by Lauren Milson
About the Author
I write sweet, smutty romance - the kind that you stay up past your bedtime to finish ❤️
Get a FREE insta-love romance when you sign up for my mailing list! - http://eepurl.com/difde1
I can't be held responsible if your Kindle sparks, melts, or combusts. I'm happy to take responsibility if the same happens to your clothes.
Thank you for reading!
xx, Lauren
Protector Next Door
Being a woman in tech is hard.
What’s harder? Living next door to the hottest man I’ve ever met.
Even harder still? The fact that he’s my dad’s best friend.
Hardest of all? He’s been hired as my personal bodyguard…
There aren’t many women working in tech.
There are even fewer working in the gaming and app development industry.
With a big gaming conference coming up, I’ve been getting threats left and right.
I think they’re petty. They seem harmless. I can let them roll off my back.
But my dad is overprotective. He doesn’t want his girl to be harmed in any way.
So he hires his friend to be my bodyguard.
His ex-military, big, tough, hot friend.
And when the threats become all too real, he shifts into beast mode.
He transforms from caring and a little distant into a possessive, protective beast of a man.
But am I his to protect, to take care of?
Or am I his in a whole different way, too?
Because I know he would never put a hand on me…
He’s too old for me. He’s too much my dad’s friend.
Even though I want him to. Need him to. Like no one has before…
No…he wouldn’t…
Right?
Protector Next Door is a short, high-heat, alpha male and younger woman romance. Each book in The Older Man Next Door series is a complete stand-alone and the books can be read in any order. No cheating and HEA guaranteed.
Enjoy :)
xx, Lauren
1
Sammy
I just had the month from hell.
I sent my boyfriend - now ex-boyfriend - some provocative photos. I wasn’t nude. He pushed for nudes and I said no. As a compromise, I sent him a few “tasteful” selfies in my undergarments and with what I thought was a sexy pout. It wasn’t sexy. And according to the comments I received on social media, the gaming community didn’t think it was sexy either. The comments were just straight-up gross. If I knew well enough to not send an actual nude photo, I should have known to not send something partially nude, either.
I knew it just didn’t feel right. I should have listened to my own intuition. Intuition, or paranoia. Whatever you call it, it’s there for a reason.
“Hey,” I say into my earpiece, “did you know comedian Richard Lewis claims to have invented that line, the ‘so-and-so’ from hell, like date from hell, mother-in-law from hell, etcetera and so on?”
“The guy with the red hair?” my friend back in New York, Ramona, replies. “The guy who was accused of masturbating in front of random women?”
“No, no,” I reply. “That’s a different guy.”
I hit pause and take a sip of my beer. The early-evening sun is streaming into my Silicon Valley house through the big, sliding glass doors. The backyard is walled off from the ones surrounding it by dusty brown clay fences and there’s a row of tall palm trees along the perimeter for an extra measure of privacy (or maybe they’re there because they look awesome and provide a little shade). But even with these barriers to the outside world, the sun is bathing my cozy living room in beams of sun and lengths of shadows. Long shadows, the kind that tell you it’s almost time for night to come. The kind that always give me goosebumps.
It’s going to be the perfect night. Me, my classic game console, my best friend on the phone, a couple of cold beers and a carton of ice cream.
I am in desperate need of a night like this.
“I’m talking about the comedian with the long hair,” I say, unpausing my game. “He’s like, sexy, but in an odd sort of way? He has this kind of mullet thing and he’s kind of old now but is it wrong that I think he was super freaking sexy back in the day?”
“Right, I know who you’re talking about now. He has these really soulful eyes and he’s super smart. There’s nothing sexier, I get it,” Ramona replies. “So did he invent it or not?”
“Claims to,” I reply. “Different sources say different things.”
I’m about to put a frog suit on Mario to tackle a water level when my phone vibrates on the coffee table. It’s my security app telling me there’s someone at the front door. I grab it and pull my headset off as my heart jumps into my throat.
There’s a vague shadowy figure on the screen. Hoodie, hands in pockets, dark pants, shifty gaze, erratic gait. As I watch him dash toward the sidewalk, I tell myself I’m being paranoid.
Yes, paranoid. I am the living embodiment of the phrase just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they aren’t after you. I was paranoid about an intimate photo leaking, and then it leaked, so there you go.
If I’m going to be a little paranoid, so be it. It’s helped me avoid dangerous situations before and I’m banking on it preventing dangerous situations in the future. If I’d actually sent a nude selfie like my shitty ex had asked, I might be unemployable and I’d definitely have died of humiliation.
Upon closer inspection of my front-door-cam, I see that my mystery guest has left a gift behind for me. A manilla envelope. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up and I feel my blood run cold.
“Ramona,” I say, putting my phone to my ear, “I have to go. I’m dealing with a prankster at best and a harasser at worst.”
“Oh gosh,” she says. I can feel the color draining from her face and her shoulders falling. “Be careful. Do you want me to stay on the phone with you?”
“No, I appreciate it but it’s okay. I’m going to call Xander and ask him what to do.”
“Okay,” she sighs. “Please call me as soon as you figure out what the hell’s going on, and do not hesitate to call the police.”
“Okay. Here I go. Wish me luck.”
“Good luck, lady. Talk soon.”
I end the call and clutch the phone to my chest. If this were a horror movie, I’d be grabbing a big-ass knife from the wooden butcher’s block on my counter, or even better, I’d have a set of golf clubs right near my front door and I’d be pulling one out to swing wildly in my general vicinity.
Instead, I inch toward the door, ready to call Xander. He isn’t in town, but he should know what to do.
Xander is my dad’s best friend, and even though he moved out here to California for work years ago, he was always an absolute staple at our house when I was growing up. He was handsome, nice, and absolutely brilliant. He was in the military with my father and they were both in the intelligence field. I always pictured him going home after a long day at work to a house that was basically the real-life version of the Jetsons’ house, complete with an adorable dog who’s collar looked like a duo of flying saucers and a robot maid. It made no sense because he and my dad had the exact same job, and our family of course lived in a regular house. But for some reason I always elevated Xander to something higher. Maybe it was out of the respect and admiration I always had for him, which apparently translates into thinking the object of my adoration lives in a super unique, fancy, high-tech home.
When I decided to move out here because it’s the epicenter of the tech world, I started emailing with him. He’s actually the one who told me the house next door to his was for sale. And I did something crazy - I let him check out the property for me, and with his assurance that it was nice and didn’t seem overtly haunted and didn’t make any weird noises, I put a down payment on the home mostly sight-unseen. I only saw pictures and a video walk-through but he thought it was a fabulous opportunity that wouldn’t last, so I decided to take the leap.
Xander even hired an inspector himself and covered the cost of it. I told him he was being way too generous, but he insisted he pay for it and said I should consider it a housewarming gift.
I was disappointed when I moved in only to learn that he would be in New York for a conference for a week, and then at another one in Los Angeles for another few days, but I was so looking forward to seeing him again soon that the renewed excitement swallowed the disappointment. If anything, not being able to see him as soon as I’d hoped made my excitement that much more intense.
I pull up his contact information on my phone and look at his picture, one that I’ve seen a million times because he has it as his icon next to his email address. Just looking at his authoritative, confident smile is instantly calming. I make the call. He’ll know what to do.
“Hello, Samantha?” he says, answering on the first ring.
“Hi Xander,” I reply. “I know you aren’t in town right now but I was hoping you had a few minutes to help me out with something.”
“Of course,” he says. His tone is so reassuring and calming, but gives me a little tickle of energy at the same time. It’s that authoritative thing he has going on. Like he’ll take total control of any situation and know what to do. Not in an asshole way, though. I’ve dealt with enough man-children, my ex included, who thought being tough and in-charge meant being bossy just to make themselves look like they knew what they were doing. Spoiler alert: it doesn’t work. It just makes people resentful and annoyed.
“I had a visitor of sorts,” I say, padding toward the front door. I take a peek through the frosted glass window and see the manilla envelope sitting there. “Some weirdo showed up on my front porch and dropped off this random envelope. I have no idea what it could be or who the guy is and I’m a little scared to open the door. I know it’s probably nothing, but I’ve had a few scares and…well, I guess I was just hoping you’d have some advice.”
“You did the right thing by calling me,” Xander says. “Stay there. Do not open the door. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“Oh…I thought you were away?”
“I’m in LA, but I’m going to hop on the next flight.”
I’m not used to a man - or anyone - doing anything involving lost-distance travel for me, let alone last-minute long-distance travel.
“Xander, no, that’s totally not necessary. I can call the cops. You don’t have to come all this way.”
“It’s not a problem, Samantha. Sit tight, okay? I’ll be there soon.”
“Thanks,” I sigh. Even though it’s totally overkill, Xander isn’t the kind of man to do something for no reason, or do something he doesn’t want to. Relief washes away a little pang of guilt. “I appreciate it.”
“See you soon.”
The perfect night just took an unexpected turn…
2
Xander
I’m at the ticket counter switching my ticket from a one-way to San Jose for two days from now to a flight that’s pushing off in fifteen minutes.
The middle-aged woman at the counter slides my ID and ticket to me tells me the gate number.
“You better hurry,” she adds. “I’ll call the gate to let them know you’re coming, but whether they let you on or not depends on how crabby the person manning the boarding desk is.”
“Thank you so much,” I reply, sliding my ID and ticket into my back pocket. I slap the counter and point to her as I start to back away. “I’ll call customer service and tell them you went the extra mile, Ms…”
“Mallory,” she shouts to me as I start to hustle away with my suitcase bobbing comically behind me.
“Mallory!” I shout over my shoulder. “Thank you again! You rock!”
I get to the end of the security line and have to ask every single person I want to cut in front of if it’s okay for me to go ahead of them, explaining over and over that I’m late for my flight. I’ve never been late for a flight before. People are more understanding than I would have expected.
Thank you, TSA PreCheck, for not making me take off my loafers.
I get to the gate just in time to slip through and make it onto the plane, and I’m lucky there was a seat available. The flight is very full. I pull my phone out of my back pocket once I’m settled into the last row and pull up my last text from Samantha to let her know I’ll be there soon.
She goes by Sammy nowadays. I always thought Samantha was such a lovely name for a lovely young woman, but I understand her desire to be perceived as gender-neutral, if only in the small ways available to her.
The last time I saw her she was nineteen and I was in New York for a conference like the one I just came from. I doubt she even remembers seeing me, but I remember seeing her. Do I ever remember seeing her. She had these incredible curves and her lips were thick, perpetually a little wet, and her eyes were wide-set, big, brown, and so damn expressive. It looked like there was a torrent of emotion inside those eyes of hers, and even though I only spoke to her for a few minutes before her dad and I were on our way, I can still remember the intensity of our connection. I can still feel it. We were drawn to each other like magnets. Her father even commented to me that she must really like me, because she never had many friends and was always an introvert.
When I tipped her off to the house next door to mine being available, I never thought she’d actually entertain the possibility of moving in, let alone ultimately go through with it.
But I’d hoped she would, as unlikely as it seemed. I thought it would be helpful for her to have a friend in a new city, someone to guide her and who she trusted. A man who would be able to look out for her best interests. I know she can take care of herself, but I also know what it’s like to be a young man, and young men don’t always think with their brains, so if I can be there for her - I’m satisfied.
I let out a deep sigh. Now that I’m on my way to her, I realize my reaction to her call may have been an over-reaction. But when I heard the anxiety in her voice, it was the only choice I could make.
It didn’t feel like a choice at all. It felt like something I had to do. I wanted to be there for her even if she didn’t need me to be. I’ve never had to take care of anyone before, not on a personal level.
And right now, even though I hate that Samantha is upset and afraid, it feels good to be there for her. It’s an odd feeling, this dueling, double-edged sword. I wish she weren’t in pain, but I’m happy to take some of it off her shoulders and put it on mine. I rest my elbow on the armrest and stroke my cheek absently as I peer out the window. As the plane starts to take off, a tug of affection pulls inside me. I care about her. Very deeply.
And she probably has nothing to worry about.
I’m just being a good neighbor.
3
Sammy
I’m in trouble.
And it’s not because some creep left me a mystery gift on my front porch.
It’s because Xander is stepping out of the cab, walking up to my house, and ringing my doorbell.
They say a picture is worth a thousand words. Some of the words that might describe Xander in a picture? Let’s see. Hot. Sexy. Confident. Eyes full of clarity and vision, lips that would tell you exactly what he needs you to do and the intangible command of authority to ensure you follow his every word to a T.
But the man ringing my doorbell, sliding one hand into the pocket of his slim-cut gray trousers and pushing another through his hair, making his thick, muscular forearm flex below the rolled-up sleeve of his white button-down shirt? The man pursing his lips as his jaw ticks into a little expression of impatience and who’s leaning to the side to peer through the frosted glass window with sparkling, deep green-blue eyes that you could get lost in from ten feet away? Eyes you could get so lost in that Uber won’t pick you up because those eyes are in a zip code so dizzying that maps and GPS fail to function?
That one?
He gives me a little wave as I hop up from the chair at my kitchen island to let him in. When I open the door, I see that his hair is disheveled, his tie is crooked, and he has a rolling suitcase behind him. He’s hot. I’ve almost forgotten the envelope on the ground next to him.
