Author Next Door: A Single Dad Romance Read online

  Author Next Door

  A Single Dad Romance

  Nicole Casey

  Copyright © 2019 by Nicole Casey. All Rights Reserved.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronically, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the proper written permission of the copyright owner, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

  Contents

  1. Lara

  2. Chuck

  3. Lara

  4. Chuck

  5. Lara

  6. Chuck

  7. Lara

  8. Chuck

  9. Lara

  10. Chuck

  11. Lara

  12. Chuck

  13. Lara

  14. Chuck

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Also By Nicole Casey

  About the Author

  Book Description

  Lara

  “Is that him? The Charles Hill?”

  Yes, you guys. That’s exactly The Charles Hill.

  Single Dad. Best-Selling Author. Hot-as-Sin. And probably twice my age.

  He couldn’t possibly be interested in me – an ordinary small town girl.

  But he makes my toes curl whenever he glances my way.

  We're at work, and I know it's wrong.

  But my body is telling me yes. Ok. Just one kiss. I told myself.

  And one forbidden kiss led to so much more…

  Charles

  I shouldn't be looking at her like this.

  She's only twenty-four, and I'm way too old for her.

  Everything about this is inappropriate.

  The looks.

  The little touches.

  The way she stares at my lips when I talk.

  I’m only here to hold my creative writing workshops.

  But I can’t help but think about something…filthier.

  I shouldn't even think about going there.

  Yet inside, I'm begging for a taste of her forbidden fruit.

  I tried to fight it, but my five-year old daughter brought her right into my place.

  And I can’t resist the temptation any longer.

  I have to claim her, no matter what they say.

  1

  Lara

  I genuinely thought that my college experience was going to be glamorous. I’d been naïve in thinking it was going to be stylish outfits, fun sorority parties on the weekends, exceptional lecture attendance and perfect grades. But now that I was in my fourth and final year in the English literature program, I knew the truth. College was nothing like the movies. Elle Woods made it all look so damn easy. In reality, my outfits normally consisted of dark grey sweatpants worn two days in a row, a baggy college sweatshirt with the logo splashed across the chest, countless weekends up until two in the morning cramming for tests on Monday, a spotty morning lecture attendance at best, and a transcript that averaged a B+ in most courses. To top it all off, I had to work part-time at the local bookstore to get a head start on paying back my massive student loans.

  For the most part, Ramen Books was a pretty great place to work. My boss, Alistair, was this adorable old man with incredibly bushy eyebrows and a hunched back. He was a sweet little thing, the kind of guy I would have loved to have as my own grandfather. On more than one occasion, he’d bring in freshly baked brownies for me to enjoy while I worked the cash register. From what I understood, his two sons had long since grown up and moved away, living the bookstore in his elderly care. When I saw the ‘help wanted’ sign taped on a crooked angle in the window, I jumped at the chance and applied. What English lit student didn’t want to work in a place surrounded by works of Bradbury, Shakespeare, Yeats, and more?

  I was busy setting up a display case full of copies of The Last Remembering series by Charles Hill. It was a science-fiction series that I’d grown up with all through middle school and high school. The books were full of action, political intrigue, tempting romantic subplots, and twists and turns I never saw coming, all the while dealing with otherworldly creatures and extremely advanced technology. As I placed the books neatly on the shelves, I couldn’t help but smile as I ran my fingers over the beautiful covers. A bubbly excitement filled my chest as I traced Charles Hill’s name, which had been printed in a raised font of gold at the bottom of the cover. The whole reason I was setting up this display was because the author himself was hosting a writing workshop here at Ramen Books. The workshop was supposed to run a total of six weeks, and because I was an employee, I had the lucky fortune of being able to attend for free.

  I didn’t exactly have any plans to pursue writing after college, but I wasn’t about to say no to a chance at meeting and working alongside one of my literary heroes. I’d written a number of pieces for my classes, but academic creative writing and real-world creative writing were two very different things. Over the last three years, I’d been given a strict list of criteria to meet for every assignment. It was too rigid, too restrictive on my creative process. I was admittedly very hopeful that this writing workshop would be a breath of fresh air.

  Surrounding myself with books was the real goal. I used to dream about curating my own private library full of rare first editions. Some girls wanted big mansions and fancy cars and a little chihuahua they could fit in their purse. But what I wanted was the smell of old paper and book bindings, and maybe a quiet little balcony where I could surround myself with natural lighting and thriving green plants as I cracked open another fantastical tale. Once I was finished earning my degree, maybe I’d go on to work for a publishing company for a little while. In my head, it was the perfect way to save up what I needed to get started on my grand collection.

  I loved the smell of Ramen Books. I understood most people found page sniffers a little weird and creepy, but I swore by the scent. There was just something incredibly calming about surrounding myself with old novels. Some of them smelled a little musty, but in a good way. Walking into Ramen Books most days after class was like walking into my great grandmother’s living room. Things were a little dusty, sure, but everything smelled familiar. I adored flipping through old books with yellowing pages and fading covers, a feat only achievable after years of sun exposure. Each page was full of history, had likely been passed around and handled by a different people. One of the great things about books was that they could be shared, treasured by any and all who went out of their way to pick up a brand new story.

  Once the display case was set up, I clapped the dust off my hands and turned just in time to hear the little brass bell above the bookstore’s front door chime. In walked a middle-aged man, probably no older than forty, with a large cardboard box in his arms. He was tall and slim, though I could see faint traces of muscular arms beneath his blue button-down’s sleeves. His dark brown hair was cropped short to match his trimmed beard. The man had tucked his shirt into his dark navy jeans, accentuating just how lean his waist was in contrast to his strong, broad shoulders. He looked at me with his dashing dark brown eyes and offered me a small smile.

  “You’re not Alistair,” he chuckled, voice deeper than I thought it would have been.

  “He’s just taking a quick lunch break,” I explained. “Can I help you with anything?”

  “Would you mind taking this? It’s for my workshop.”


  My mouth fell open slightly. I sincerely hoped I didn’t look as stupid as I felt. “Are you…” I breathed. “You’re Charles Hill?”

  The man nodded, the corner of his lip twisting into an amused grin. “Please, just call me Chuck.”

  A little giggle bubbled past my lips, full of nervous energy, “No way. There’s no way.”

  “I can show you my ID, if you’d like,” he quipped.

  “No, that’s not–” I felt my cheeks flush with heat as my tongue suddenly weighed itself down in my mouth. “Sorry. I’m just a huge fan. I’ve never seen promotional images of yourself in the back of your books, so I’d no idea you looked like– I mean–”

  Chuck raised a curious eyebrow. “Looked like what?”

  I cleared my throat, anxiously plucking at the ends of my pink knit sweater’s sleeves. “That you looked so handsome.”

  He smiled wide at that, unabashed. “Flattery will get you everywhere, miss.”

  “Lara,” I blurted out, sticking out my hand to shake before realizing his hands were full. I took my hand back just as quickly. “Lara Lance.”

  “Your parents were fans of alliteration, I see.”

  “It was entirely unintentional, I assure you.”

  Chuck readjusted his grip on the box. “Can I put this down somewhere?”

  “Oh, shit, yeah. Here,” I bumbled like an idiot as I pointed to a fold out table just to our left. I’d spent earlier that day dragging up collapsible chairs and plastic worktables from the storage room downstairs to prepare for the workshop. He placed the box down with an unceremonious thud. “What’s in there?” I inquired.

  “Rejection letters.”

  I shot him a quizzical look. “Are you hoping to start your workshop off with a positive note? Or is this some sort of reverse psychology thing.”

  Chuck laughed, the sound of his voice absolutely hypnotic. His cheery manner was seriously contagious, because I was smiling with him in a matter of seconds. “It is a positive note,” he said. “These were all of the rejection letters I received when I first tried to publish The Last Remembering.”

  “Seriously? But it’s an international bestseller.”

  “It is now. But when I first got started, nobody wanted to take a risk on my work. I didn’t give up, though, and that’s the lesson I’m hoping to get across today.”

  “I bet all the publishers who rejected you kicked themselves pretty hard.”

  “I like to think so.” He tossed me a casual wink and I felt my stomach do a triple-flip. I thought science-fiction authors were supposed to be giant nerds. It must have been my luck of the draw that I wound up getting to meet the one hunk author who I’d been a fan of for years. “I take it you’ve read my books.”

  I nodded. “Of course. I’ve been waiting for a sequel for years.”

  Chuck scratched behind his ear, appearing the slightest bit dejected. “Yeah, well, the point of a trilogy is to stop after three.”

  “Are you working on anything currently?”

  “Yes, but it’s slow going. Writer’s block and all. I’m afraid my agent–” Chuck cut himself off, something akin to realization flashing across his eyes. “My old agent would never let me talk about works in progress. The fear of plagiarism is a very real thing in my line of work.”

  “Oh, of course,” I laughed. “You don’t have to tell me. I was just curious.”

  “I can say I’m trying my hand at a different genre, though. It’ll be a grand departure from speculative fiction.”

  My eyes widened in excitement. “Really? I’m sure it’s going to be great, whatever it is. I actually did a report on one of your earlier books for my English lit class.”

  Chuck tilted his head at me, the warmth of his smile spreading to his eyes. “Seriously? Which one?”

  “Angels in Hell. We were talking about religious symbolism in class and were asked to write a paper on how to properly use it without going overboard.”

  “You’re a student?” he asked.

  “I am. I study at Hillard. I’m in my last year.”

  “No kidding,” he chuckled. “That’s my alma matter. Is old Professor Oakes still there?”

  I shook my head. “He retired early last year for his health. I was really looking forward to taking his introductory course to Old English.”

  Chuck clicked his tongue and hummed, “It was a good class. You’d think rereading Beowulf would be boring, but he always used to do the voices to keep his students entertained.”

  I had to tear my eyes away from Chuck when I heard the front door’s bell chime again. A group of four or five people entered, eagerly whispering amongst themselves as they shuffled into the space. There was only one older woman with the group, while the rest of them looked to be teenaged boys. They all wore shirts with The Last Remembering logos on them, obvious fans of Chuck’s work. Some of them wore thick rimmed glasses, others had full sets of braces on, but they all had greasy hair and pimply cheeks in common.

  “Is that him?” whispered one of them. “The Charles Hill.”

  “I’m breathing the same air as the Charles Hill,” gasped another.

  “Hello,” greeted Chuck charmingly. “Are you all here for the workshop?”

  “Yes, sir,” said another. “But before we start, I wanted to ask you about the Terranean Revolt in chapter seventeen of book three. Did Pangstar really shoot first? Or was that because the protagonist isn’t a reliable narrator?”

  “Oh my God, Steven,” sighed one of the other boys. “This again? We all know David was drunk leading into the shootout. Of course, he wasn’t a reliable narrator.”

  The weary middle-aged woman raised her hand. “I’m just here because I’m their ride. Do you have a restroom I can use?”

  I pointed to the other end of the store and said, “Right over there, ma’am.”

  The boys formed a circle around Chuck, looking up at him eagerly. They pelted him with questions, talking over each other in an enthusiastic clamor.

  “What happened to Bildur after the space war?” asked one.

  “I get that black crows were supposed to be symbolic, but wouldn’t a dark hound have been more fitting?” inquired another.

  “Are you going to teach us about character building today?”

  “Pangstar totally shot first, right?”

  Chuck glanced to me and whispered, “Please save me.”

  “I’ll keep setting up,” I giggled. “Wouldn’t want to keep your admiring fans waiting.”

  2

  Chuck

  I had to admit that Lara took me by complete surprise. She was delightfully sweet, brainy, and beautiful. While I did my best to answer the group’s seemingly endless barrage of questions about my books, I allowed my eyes to wander about the bookstore. It was a quaint little thing, a little rundown in places, but charming, nonetheless. But I wasn’t interested in the store’s wide selection of fiction and nonfiction. What I was most interested in was one particular bookstore employee with beautiful chocolate locks and hazel eyes. She was significantly younger than Sandy, which admittedly did make me feel a little at odds with myself. I wasn’t normally into younger women. Up until a few months ago, I’d been so sure that Sandy was the only one for me. Since the divorce, nobody had really piqued my interest.

  Not until Lara.

  There was something different about her. There was a sharpness in her eyes, a level of attentive alertness that only the youthful seemed to have. She’d mentioned that she was in her last year of college, so I assumed she was about twenty-three or twenty-four. Lara was certainly a lot perkier than Sandy, full breasts and round ass making it difficult not to notice the fine curve of her waist and length of her gorgeously thick thighs. She was stunning, that was for sure, but a tiny voice that nagged me in the back of my head told me to hold back.

  She was a palate cleanser for my eyes. After fifteen years of looking at the same woman, day in and day out, Lara was practically a breath of fresh air. She was soft-spoken, unli
ke Sandy who was always shrill and larger than life –especially in our later years of marriage. Lara was a lot shorter than Sandy, rounder in all the right places. My ex-wife was tall and sharp, practically a walking cactus with all her points. But most importantly, Lara didn’t frighten me. There was something welcoming about her, approachable. Sandy, on the other hand, made me question everything I ever did or said. In the years leading up to our divorce, she’d been distant with me. I had to double, sometimes triple check what I was about to say out of fear of setting her off. It was a relief to be away from her and near someone so different.

  Lara probably wasn’t interested in me. I was used to bumbling young fans approaching me, tripping over their words in an awestricken state. Lara was cuter than most, far more electric and wittier, but a part of me believed she was just being polite. There was no way someone like her would ever be interested in a guy like me. She was interested in my writing, in the stories I had to tell, not the actual man behind the keyboard typing away. And besides, after how everything between me and Sandy went down, I just didn’t believe I was ready to move on. I’d moved across the country with Clarissa for a fresh start, for a new life away from all the toxicity of my failed marriage. I’d just left a relationship. There was really no need to jump into another.

  When we moved to this city, I made a silent promise to myself that the only two things I would concentrate on were raising my daughter and focusing on my next big project. Financially speaking, I was all set. Thanks to the infidelity clause in our prenup, Sandy wouldn’t see a single cent from the royalty cheques. I actually did the math late one evening –possibly half drunk in a sad post-divorce stupor– and discovered that Clarissa and I could live comfortably for almost a decade before I even had to worry about writing another bestseller. But my mind was a restless thing, hands always eager to put words to empty pages. Even though it was an option, I would much rather work on writing another book than sit around and feel sorry for myself. If I didn’t keep myself distracted, my memories of walking in on Sandy and Carl, my ex-literary agent, would surely haunt me.