by: Naima Simone
Series: Rose Bend
Genre: Contemporary Romance
Release Date: January 10, 2023
Publisher: HQN Books
As the ex-mayor’s daughter, Jenna Landon has spent her life aiming for perfection—and missing. The pressure and disappointment turned her into a bit of a mean girl, but now she’s tired of protecting her soft heart, of hiding her losses—she’s ready to leave Rose Bend and start over. But before she can leave, she has to endure the town’s carnival fundraiser, her father’s reelection campaign…and the pain-in-the-tail giant who just moved in next door.
Wrestling coach Isaac Hunter didn’t mean to disturb his neighbor with his music while fixing his car. But if anyone could use “messing with,” it’s prissy, perfect, sexy Jenna Landon. Soon their clashes turn into something hotter. Recently divorced, his focus should be rebuilding his life, not an… entanglement with a woman who spells nothing but trouble. Because Jenna is leaving Rose Bend. And they both know he can’t go with her, and he can’t ask her to stay...
Bonus novella, Trouble for Hire!
Tattoo artist Erik Mann never should’ve agreed to hire his best friend’s sister. Against the odds, he’s built a successful business in Rose Bend and has everything exactly as he likes it. The last thing he needs is her sweeping in, changing things. He doesn’t know whether to throw her out…or kiss her. Not that either is an option. Her brother made it clear that she’s strictly off-limits.
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 she hadn’t lost all her senses. She was a single woman with crime shows on her TV, after all.
He whipped around, his heavily muscled arm lifted as he rubbed the back of his head. Thick eyebrows arrowed down over indigo eyes that must be a trick of light. Short tufts of black hair stuck out from under the cap, grazing bold cheekbones and drawing attention to his mouth. Equally dark scruff covered his jaw and chin, yet Jenna could still glimpse a faint cleft.
“Yeah?” her neighbor muttered, still massaging the back of his head. “And why the hell were you sneaking up on me like that? You damn near gave me a heart attack.”
She gaped at him. Was he for real?
“Sneaking up on you?” she repeated. “Excuse you, but I don’t sneak. And if you hadn’t had that noise blasting, then you’d know I’ve tried to get your attention several times and you didn’t hear me.”
“So your next option was giving me a concussion?”
She sniffed, hiking up her chin. “So now I’m responsible for your dramatics and lack of coordination?”
“Dramatics and…” His scowl deepened and his eyes darkened from indigo to a dark denim. “What do you want besides busting my ass and giving the neighborhood a peep show first thing in the morning?”
Irritation gave way to outrage. Narrowing her eyes on him, she fisted the lapels of her robe and yanked them tight around her neck—even though they were already closed. Peep show? His rude manners and wah-wah-wah music were the only reasons she stood out here in her pajamas in the first place.
She offered him one of her patented sharp-as-a-blade smiles. And the words to match.
“What I want is for you to show common courtesy to your new neighbors and not blast your music first thing in the morning while other people are trying to sleep. Or do they not teach manners along with how to boil peanuts, hunt critters and brew moonshine wherever it is you just trucked in from?”
His wide shoulders drew back. His thin nostrils flared and those lips pulled tight at the corners.
One second guitars wailed and in the next, silence boomed.
Then a wide grin spread over his face, rivaling the steadily rising sun.
She blinked.
Wow.
No “wow,” she scolded herself. You will not be awed by him. Get yourself in check.
“Well, I profusely apologize, lil’ darlin’,” he drawled, cocking his head. And that drawl dripped like sun-warmed honey. “When the real estate agent sold me the house, she told me the one to the left was vacant and a hard-of-hearing granny lived on my right. Which, in hindsight, still isn’t that good of an excuse. Because I didn’t think about anyone other than my immediate neighbors, right? Doh!” He smacked his hand against his forehead. “So sorry again, lil’ darlin’.”
Hard-of-hearing granny. Jenna ground her teeth as annoyance flashed through her. Gwendolyn Dansen had been the agent for his house. And true, no one lived in the house on his left. And Mrs. George’s hearing had been failing when Jenna had bought the house on the right, with its white shutters and wide porch. But that had been two years ago. And Gwendolyn damn well knew it. Just wait until she saw the wench…
You’re weaning off of terrorizing Rose Bend’s citizens with bitchiness, remember?
Sorry. Old habits die hard.
And yes. She was standing in her pajamas, in front of her new neighbor having a full-fledged conversation with herself.
Well, she might be trying to tilt a new leaf—turning it completely over was a little late at this point—but she’d make an exception for this guy.
“Was that really necessary?”
“The apology? Yes.” His grin widened, and though this one was more authentic, it also carried an edge. “And the rest of it? Oh most definitely. If you’re going to make assumptions about me, Malibu, then I’m going to do my damnedest to live up to them.”
“Malibu?” she snapped.
Yes. Because that was the most important detail in what he’d just said.
“Yeah.” The corner of his mouth quirked up in a smirk that shouldn’t be sexy considering it clearly mocked her. He flicked a hand in her direction, waving it up and down, from her long red hair to her shell-pink toes. “As in Malibu Barbie. You might wanna go back to your dream house before you catch a cold.”
Her lips popped open.
Son of a—
Then music blared again.
“Are you serious right now?” she yelled, jamming her fists on her hips. “Didn’t we just have this discussion?”
He turned back to the open hood of his truck but glanced at her over his shoulder, arching a dark eyebrow. “Yeah. Turn off my music because people are asleep. But you’re up now, Malibu.”
Then he gave Jenna his broad back, dismissing her.
Well, wasn’t that… Damn.
Glaring one last hole in his back, she spun on her heel and marched across her lawn. She refused to look back as she charged up the steps of her porch.
The house that had been a balm for her soul from the first moment she’d pulled up to the curb.
A sanctuary threatened by Mr. Monster Truck.
Here was her haven, with its fairy lights, porch swing and backyard brook. A place where no one rolled their eyes at her or cringed when they saw her approaching. A place where her last name didn’t inspire as much resentment as it did respect.
A place where she could close the door, lower the mask and simply…be.
Fear shimmered inside her. Only the iron decorum Helene Landon had drilled into her daughter from the time Jenna had been old enough to haul herself out of her toddler bed kept her shoulders from slumping and her head from bowing.
One never committed the ultimate sin of revealing weakness. Especially not in public.
Most especially if your last name was Landon.
Some habits really did die hard.
And some haunted a person. God. Usually, she left everything related to Jasper and Helene Landon at the curb; they didn’t even follow her onto her porch. But now, they encroached like skulking shadows.
This time, she did look over her shoulder to the man blasting his music again, and an irrational spurt of anger flared in her chest.
He had caused this disturbance.
He, with his ugly truck, loud noise, big presence and condescending grin.
Maybe they just needed distance. That’s what made great neighbors. He might live next door but that didn’t mean they needed to talk. This initial interaction could be their last.
If she was good at anything, it was alienating people. Shutting them out and walling herself in.
She was an old pro.
Ignoring Mr. Right Next Door wouldn’t be a problem at all.
Excerpted from Mr. Right Next Door by Naima Simone. Copyright © 2022 by Naima Simone. Published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
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 she hadn’t lost all her senses. She was a single woman with crime shows on her TV, after all.
He whipped around, his heavily muscled arm lifted as he rubbed the back of his head. Thick eyebrows arrowed down over indigo eyes that must be a trick of light. Short tufts of black hair stuck out from under the cap, grazing bold cheekbones and drawing attention to his mouth. Equally dark scruff covered his jaw and chin, yet Jenna could still glimpse a faint cleft.
“Yeah?” her neighbor muttered, still massaging the back of his head. “And why the hell were you sneaking up on me like that? You damn near gave me a heart attack.”
She gaped at him. Was he for real?
“Sneaking up on you?” she repeated. “Excuse you, but I don’t sneak. And if you hadn’t had that noise blasting, then you’d know I’ve tried to get your attention several times and you didn’t hear me.”
“So your next option was giving me a concussion?”
She sniffed, hiking up her chin. “So now I’m responsible for your dramatics and lack of coordination?”
“Dramatics and…” His scowl deepened and his eyes darkened from indigo to a dark denim. “What do you want besides busting my ass and giving the neighborhood a peep show first thing in the morning?”
Irritation gave way to outrage. Narrowing her eyes on him, she fisted the lapels of her robe and yanked them tight around her neck—even though they were already closed. Peep show? His rude manners and wah-wah-wah music were the only reasons she stood out here in her pajamas in the first place.
She offered him one of her patented sharp-as-a-blade smiles. And the words to match.
“What I want is for you to show common courtesy to your new neighbors and not blast your music first thing in the morning while other people are trying to sleep. Or do they not teach manners along with how to boil peanuts, hunt critters and brew moonshine wherever it is you just trucked in from?”
His wide shoulders drew back. His thin nostrils flared and those lips pulled tight at the corners.
One second guitars wailed and in the next, silence boomed.
Then a wide grin spread over his face, rivaling the steadily rising sun.
She blinked.
Wow.
No “wow,” she scolded herself. You will not be awed by him. Get yourself in check.
“Well, I profusely apologize, lil’ darlin’,” he drawled, cocking his head. And that drawl dripped like sun-warmed honey. “When the real estate agent sold me the house, she told me the one to the left was vacant and a hard-of-hearing granny lived on my right. Which, in hindsight, still isn’t that good of an excuse. Because I didn’t think about anyone other than my immediate neighbors, right? Doh!” He smacked his hand against his forehead. “So sorry again, lil’ darlin’.”
Hard-of-hearing granny. Jenna ground her teeth as annoyance flashed through her. Gwendolyn Dansen had been the agent for his house. And true, no one lived in the house on his left. And Mrs. George’s hearing had been failing when Jenna had bought the house on the right, with its white shutters and wide porch. But that had been two years ago. And Gwendolyn damn well knew it. Just wait until she saw the wench…
You’re weaning off of terrorizing Rose Bend’s citizens with bitchiness, remember?
Sorry. Old habits die hard.
And yes. She was standing in her pajamas, in front of her new neighbor having a full-fledged conversation with herself.
Well, she might be trying to tilt a new leaf—turning it completely over was a little late at this point—but she’d make an exception for this guy.
“Was that really necessary?”
“The apology? Yes.” His grin widened, and though this one was more authentic, it also carried an edge. “And the rest of it? Oh most definitely. If you’re going to make assumptions about me, Malibu, then I’m going to do my damnedest to live up to them.”
“Malibu?” she snapped.
Yes. Because that was the most important detail in what he’d just said.
“Yeah.” The corner of his mouth quirked up in a smirk that shouldn’t be sexy considering it clearly mocked her. He flicked a hand in her direction, waving it up and down, from her long red hair to her shell-pink toes. “As in Malibu Barbie. You might wanna go back to your dream house before you catch a cold.”
Her lips popped open.
Son of a—
Then music blared again.
“Are you serious right now?” she yelled, jamming her fists on her hips. “Didn’t we just have this discussion?”
He turned back to the open hood of his truck but glanced at her over his shoulder, arching a dark eyebrow. “Yeah. Turn off my music because people are asleep. But you’re up now, Malibu.”
Then he gave Jenna his broad back, dismissing her.
Well, wasn’t that… Damn.
Glaring one last hole in his back, she spun on her heel and marched across her lawn. She refused to look back as she charged up the steps of her porch.
The house that had been a balm for her soul from the first moment she’d pulled up to the curb.
A sanctuary threatened by Mr. Monster Truck.
Here was her haven, with its fairy lights, porch swing and backyard brook. A place where no one rolled their eyes at her or cringed when they saw her approaching. A place where her last name didn’t inspire as much resentment as it did respect.
A place where she could close the door, lower the mask and simply…be.
Fear shimmered inside her. Only the iron decorum Helene Landon had drilled into her daughter from the time Jenna had been old enough to haul herself out of her toddler bed kept her shoulders from slumping and her head from bowing.
One never committed the ultimate sin of revealing weakness. Especially not in public.
Most especially if your last name was Landon.
Some habits really did die hard.
And some haunted a person. God. Usually, she left everything related to Jasper and Helene Landon at the curb; they didn’t even follow her onto her porch. But now, they encroached like skulking shadows.
This time, she did look over her shoulder to the man blasting his music again, and an irrational spurt of anger flared in her chest.
He had caused this disturbance.
He, with his ugly truck, loud noise, big presence and condescending grin.
Maybe they just needed distance. That’s what made great neighbors. He might live next door but that didn’t mean they needed to talk. This initial interaction could be their last.
If she was good at anything, it was alienating people. Shutting them out and walling herself in.
She was an old pro.
Ignoring Mr. Right Next Door wouldn’t be a problem at all.
Excerpted from Mr. Right Next Door by Naima Simone. Copyright © 2022 by Naima Simone. Published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
Purchase Mr. Right Next Door from:
The Rose Bend Series:
Slow Dance at Rose Bend ~ Review
The Road to Rose Bend ~ Review
A Kiss to Remember ~ Review
Christmas in Rose Bend ~ Review
She is wife to Superman, or his non-Kryptonian, less bullet proof equivalent, and mother to the most awesome kids ever. They all live in perfect, sometimes domestically-challenged bliss in the southern United States.
Places to find Naima Simone:
Website | Facebook | Twitter | Goodreads | Instagram | Amazon Author Page | Newsletter | Naima's Saints and Sinners Street Team
I love the excerpt. I will be adding this book to my reading list.
ReplyDeleteLove her books!
ReplyDelete