Mr. Right Next Door


 
 
 
 Praise for the novels of Naima Simone
 “Simone balances crackling, electric love scenes with exquisitely rendered characters.” 
 —Entertainment Weekly
 “Passion, heat and deep emotion—Naima Simone is a gem!” 
 —New York Times bestselling author Maisey Yates
 “Simone never falters in mining the complexity of two people who grow and heal and eventually love together.” 
 —New York Times bestselling author Sarah MacLean
 “Small-town charm, a colorful cast, and a hero to root for give this romance its legs as it moves toward a hard-earned happily ever after. [This] slow-burning romance is well worth the wait.” 
 —Publishers Weekly on The Road to Rose Bend
 “Simone masterfully balances heart and heat...building a convincing slow-burning romance.” 
 —Publishers Weekly on Christmas in Rose Bend
 “I am a huge Naima Simone fan. With her stories, she has the ability to transport you to places you can only dream of, with characters who have a realness to them.”
 —Read Your Writes
 “[Naima Simone] excels at creating drama and emotional scenes as well as strong heroines who are resilient survivors.”
 —Harlequin Junkie
 
 
 Also by Naima Simone
 The Road to Rose Bend
 Christmas in Rose Bend
 With Love from Rose Bend
 Look for Naima Simone’s next Rose Bend novel available soon from HQN.
 For additional books by Naima Simone, visit her website, www.naimasimone.com.
 
 
 Naima Simone
 Mr. Right Next Door
 
 
 
 Table of Contents
 Mr. Right Next Door
 Trouble for Hire
 
 
 Mr. Right Next Door
 
 
 To Gary. 143.
 To Connie Marie Butts. I’ll miss you forever and love you longer than that.
 
 
 Contents
 Chapter One
 Chapter Two
 Chapter Three
 Chapter Four
 Chapter Five
 Chapter Six
 Chapter Seven
 Chapter Eight
 Chapter Nine
 Chapter Ten
 Chapter Eleven
 Chapter Twelve
 Chapter Thirteen
 Chapter Fourteen
 Chapter Fifteen
 Chapter Sixteen
 Chapter Seventeen
 Chapter Eighteen
 Chapter Nineteen
 Chapter Twenty
 Chapter Twenty-One
 Chapter Twenty-Two
 Acknowledgements
 
 
 CHAPTER ONE
 WHAT IN THE actual hell?
 Cursing is for those with small vocabularies and even smaller minds, Jenna Elizabeth Landon.
 Jenna threw back the bedcovers, cringing as her mother’s cultured voice floated through her head at—she glanced at the digital clock on her bedside dresser—seven-twelve in the morning.
 Jesus probably hadn’t even risen from the grave on Easter morning by seven-twelve. Because it was such an ungodly hour!
 Horrible music—and she used the term loosely—currently blared through her windows at top volume.
 Stalking across her bedroom, she snatched her silk robe, shoved her arms into the sleeves, slid her feet into her slippers, and headed down the hall. She crossed the living room and charged outside.
 Damn. A hard shiver rippled through her as the cold wind copped a feel under her robe. September early mornings in the southern Berkshires didn’t play around. It’d warm to the low sixties later in the day, but for now? Jack Frost was getting friendly with places only Dream Jason Momoa had touched lately.
 The strings of guitars and fiddles, the bass of drums and the twang of a male voice complaining about not having to be lonely tonight were even louder as she marched down the front steps. She didn’t bother with the walkway but cut across her pristine lawn, and once more her mother’s voice snapped out a reprimand in her head.
 Ladies glide, Jenna. You’re not marching off to war, for goodness’ sake.
 That’s what you know, Mother. I’m definitely headed to battle.
 Awesome. Now she was arguing with her mother’s imaginary voice in her mind.
 Arms crossed in front of her waist, she stepped over the stone path that separated her driveway from the one that belonged to the empty house next door.
 Correction. The formerly empty house next door.
 Apparently she had a new neighbor.
 And though she hadn’t met him yet, she already knew three things about him.
 One. He was a he. And it wasn’t just the wide shoulders or the back muscles flexing under a red-and-blue flannel shirt in a dirty dance that clued her in. Or the tight ass and powerful, thick thighs in faded blue jeans. Nope, it was the combination of...everything. Even with the top half of his body stuck under the hood of his truck, he was most obviously a he.
 Two. Her new neighbor’s taste in vehicles left much to be desired. The dark blue monstrosity with a wide camel-colored stripe down the side panel landed somewhere between monster truck and I hear banjos in them there hills. Huh. Someone was overcompensating.
 And three. His choice in music was terrible. Oh the guy’s singing voice might be okay, but all that whining. For the love of all that was holy she wanted to make. It. Stop.
 “Excuse me,” she called out. When he didn’t budge, she tried again, louder. “Excuse me.”
 Nothing. Not even a twitch of those broad shoulders.
 Irritation spiked inside her. She hated being ignored. It was an effective weapon in her father’s arsenal, one he’d wielded during her childhood and even now as an adult. Nothing belittled a person more than making them feel beneath acknowledgment.
 She tightened her arms over her stomach.
 And glared at her neighbor’s wide back.
 Gritting her teeth, she marched forward and none too gently poked him in a shoulder that had absolutely no give. She might as well have jabbed a rock.
 “Shit!” Her neighbor jolted, and a baseball-hat-covered head smacked the hood with a resounding thwack.
 Ouch. That had to hurt.
 “Son of a bitch.” He straightened. And straightened. And straightened.
 And she tipped her head back and looked up. And up. And up.
 A fourth thing she now knew about her neighbor. He towered way over six feet.
 And owned a voice that probably rivaled the power and rumble of the engine in that heap of junk masquerading as a truck.
 Okay, technically, that was five things.
 “Excuse me,” she tried again, stepping closer but still leaving space between them. Yes, it was seven in the morning, but