The Hustler Next Door: a novel

The Hustler Next Door a novel Polson Falls K.A. Tucker Contents Also by K.A. Tucker The Hustler Next Door Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Epilogue The Player Next Door Acknowledgments About the Author Also by K.A. Tucker Ten Tiny Breaths One Tiny Lie Four Seconds to Lose Five Ways to Fall In Her Wake Burying Water Becoming Rain Chasing River Surviving Ice He Will Be My Ruin Until It Fades Keep Her Safe The Simple Wild Be the Girl Say You Still Love Me Wild at Heart The Player Next Door Forever Wild A Fate of Wrath & Flame Running Wild A Curse of Blood & Stone This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Copyright © 2023 by Kathleen Tucker All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For more information, visit www.katuckerbooks.com ISBN 978-1-990105-32-6 (paperback) ISBN 978-1-990105-13-5 (ebook) Edited by Jennifer Sommersby Cover design by Hang Le Published by K.A. Tucker Books Ltd. Manufactured in the United States of America To the readers who have waited two years for Justine’s escapades. I hope you’re ready for her. Chapter One “Half of Boston must be here.” My calf muscles strain as I stretch on my tiptoes, striving to see over the bulky winter jackets and capped heads. It’s pointless. There are too many people and, as usual, my diminutive stature works against me. Mom waves off my protests. “It’ll move fast. It always does.” She’s right, of course. Rain, snow, or sunny summer skies, mornings at Sam’s Pastry are always hectic as Bostonians flock to the iconic downtown bakery for their cannoli fix. Even now, only days after everyone has renewed their gym memberships and made New Year’s resolutions about pious lives of salads and spin classes, bodies are stuffed into this storefront like the rows of cream-filled pastries in the display cases ahead. Five separate lines wait impatiently for service while a crowd loiters outside in the frigid January air. Mom and I have always been Saturday regulars. Even after I moved out, I’d insist on coming here every visit home, just so I could taunt my brother Joe with unflattering pictures of myself shoveling pistachio—his favorite—into my gaping mouth. But it’s been ages since I’ve faced this crowd, and I’m not in the mood for it. “We picked the slow line.” “Stop fussing.” “I’m boiling.” I tug at the collar of my knit sweater for effect. “And you’ll be cold once we step outside.” Mom toys with a strand of my lengthy hair. I’d dyed it black for years but recently made the switch to a rich chestnut brown. “I’m so happy you’re here.” I meet my mother’s gaze, see her sincere smile, and I swallow the other complaints waiting to spill out. “So am I.” There’s something about walking into Sam’s and inhaling the sugary-sweet icing sugar and pastries … it transports me back to childhood every time, if only for a moment. She hesitates. “Especially since you missed Christmas.” Oh my God. “Please don’t start now.” I’m already irritated; a guilt trip will put me over the edge. “You know why I didn’t come home.” Why I did the unthinkable and skipped the holidays with my family for the first time in my thirty years of life. It’s not that I didn’t want to see them. It killed me not to see them. But holidays with my family include our longtime friends, the Wrights, and there was no way I was spending Christmas watching a certain six-foot-three Wright—the one I was supposed to marry—and his new woman suck back eggnog while canoodling in matching reindeer sweaters. “If you’d wanted me there badly enough, you should have banned them from visiting.” “That would have put a strain on the relationship. And punishing everyone for his mistake—” “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” “These things always happen for a reason. One day you’ll look back and—” “Cheating is cheating. Do not make excuses for Bastard Bill.” I stab the air with my finger in warning. “I’m not! The truth is, I don’t think I’ll ever look at him the same way again. But, for Molly and Craig’s sake, would you please stop calling their son that, or I’m liable to do it in front of them accidentally.” “Would that be so bad?” I know Mom’s in a difficult position. The Wrights have lived next door to us for almost three decades. Our families have a long, entwined history. When my father injured his back and couldn’t work construction any longer, Craig put his reputation on the line to get him a job at his company, even though my father didn’t have the first clue about insurance or office work. Mom and Molly must have burned a trillion calories together over the years on their daily walks while venting about their husbands and children. They travel to Mexico every winter together. I can’t expect my parents to cast away those friendships because of what Bill did. I can’t even blame my brother. When Bill and I first hooked up years ago, Joe was pissed. He