Hot New Neighbor (Alphalicious Billionaires Book 11) Read online

  Hot New Neighbor

  Alphalicious Billionaires

  Lindsey Hart

  CONTENTS

  COPYRIGHT

  BOOK DESCRIPTION

  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

  EPILOGUE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  COPYRIGHT

  All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known to the author, and all the incidents are pure invention. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical or electronic, including photocopying or recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, or transmitted by email without permission in writing from the publisher. While all attempts and efforts have been made to verify the information held within this publication, neither the author nor the publisher assumes any responsibility for errors, omissions, or opposing interpretations of the content herein. The book is for entertainment purposes only. The views expressed are those of the author alone and should not be taken as expert instruction or commands.

  Copyright © Passion House Publishing Ltd 2020

  All rights reserved.

  Graphics used inside the book are from pngtree and pixabay.

  Cover designed by Cosmic Letterz.

  You can contact the team at [email protected].

  BOOK DESCRIPTION

  I caught my hot new neighbor in his birthday suit…while trying to break into his house.

  Before you judge me hard, let me tell you, I had no other choice.

  So, hear my reasons out and you’ll see.

  Reason #1 - He always dresses up in black from head to toe… definitely to avoid unwanted attention.

  Reason #2 - He has all these tattoos… Probably from his initiation into the mafia.

  Reason #3 - He is mostly active at night... Most likely getting rid of dead bodies in his backyard after his hit job.

  Reason #4 - He got a highly suspicious package… Probably instructions for his next target.

  Reason#5 - He never talks to me... who the hell avoids their neighbor like plague unless they are hiding something, right?

  So, you see why I had no other options but to find out what he was hiding,

  By breaking and entering his house.

  And mind you, I was definitely not planning on getting caught,

  I mean I was so sure he went out for the night.

  I also never expected to lay eyes on his junk.

  And what a nice one too.

  Except now, I cannot get it out of my mind.

  Is it normal to lust after your hitman of a neighbor even though he’s probably planning your demise right now for finding out about his identity?

  THERE IS A HOT NEW BILLIONAIRE ON THE BLOCK IN HIDING FROM THE PAPARAZZI. GRAB THIS DELICIOUSLY SEXY ROMCOM WITH A SEVERE CASE OF MISTAKEN IDENTITY BY THE NOSY YOUNG LADY NEXT DOOR.

  CHAPTER 1

  Lu-Anne

  I know two things about my neighbor, and neither one is good.

  One, he’s ridiculously hot. Think of all the usual cheesy romance references: granite mountain, Greek god, carved statue, steel rear end, chiseled features, eight pack, gorgeous male references. Yes. They’re seriously all true.

  Second, he’s into some shady shit. How do I know this? Well, for starters, he always dresses in black. Black hoodies, black jeans, big black boots, black aviator sunglasses, and a black ball cap. That’s weird, right? No one goes out in the heat of a Chicago summer day dressed like that unless they want to melt into a puddle of hot goo within a few minutes tops. So yeah, it’s strange. And this is Chicago. Hello… setting for like every Mafia, bootlegging, adventure true crime story and movie there ever was. I’m pretty sure that even out here in the suburbs, dressing like that and only leaving the house at odd hours of the night isn’t normal.

  And yes. I have seen him without his hat and hoodie, at approximately two in the morning, pushing out his recycling bin sans shirt, in his black jeans, so I know the first point is applicable. I guess I could add a third. I also know he’s environmentally conscious.

  You might think I’m a creep. I swear I don’t make a habit out of spying on my neighbor. I work from home, so I’m here all the time. I keep strange hours because I’ve always had trouble sleeping, so I’m often awake, even in the middle of the night. Some of my best ideas come to me then.

  Also, the guy just moved in a few weeks ago. It’s kind of big news when someone new moves to the suburbs. At least for guys who aren’t married and don’t have kids. This place is not exactly a mecca for the single and ready to mingle, nightlife loving types. Or rather, our neighborhood isn’t.

  The sound of my front door opening has me spinning away from the spot on the back of the couch where I’ve been crouching, staring guiltily through the blinds at the house next door.

  “What the heck are you doing?”

  My best friend, Leanne, sees right through me. I did not get out of my creepy crouch position fast enough, and my face is probably guilty as hell.

  “Nothing.” I give her my best not-guilty look, but she’s not buying it.

  We became friends after she moved to our neighborhood. We were both in third grade. I thought it was neat that her name was kind of the same as mine. Lu-Anne and Leanne are pretty similar. But back then, being an insecure young girl, I didn’t think it was so neat that she was prettier than me. I still talked to her anyway because I wanted to be nice. My brother always said the only thing worse than having me as a little sister would be if I turned out a catty brat. He was four years older. I didn’t understand what catty meant back then, but I did know what a brat was, and I felt that not liking a girl because she had blonde hair, expensive clothes, the sweetest cat shoes complete with little ears, eyes, and whiskers, and a cute as hell button face, could be filed under that category.

  I’m glad my brother gave me that warning, because, as it turned out, Leanne was awesome. She was awesome at nine, and now at twenty-five, she’s just as great. Maybe even more because instead of giving me a lecture about being weird and needing to get out more often, she just rolls her eyes and strolls through my living room into the kitchen.

  She stops at the fridge, pulls it open, and produces a chilled bottle of white wine.

  “That’s the stuff,” she says with a dramatic flair. She rushes off to the cupboards and pulls down two wine glasses.

  It’s just after seven, and we’re set to have our scheduled Friday girl’s night. It doesn’t matter how many other friends we’ve had, what jobs we’ve worked, or what guys we’ve dated. We always make time for our girl’s nights. I think the world could literally be ending, and Leanne would still give that meteor streaming towards earth, a crazed monster set to destroy the city, or a horde of brain-eating raging zombies her pretty middle finger if they were trying to come between her and our Friday night wine and gossip time.

  Speaking of gossip, Leanne is definitely not going to let my creeping go.

  “Spying on your hot neighbor again, are you?” She uncorks the wine neatly—something I have never managed to do—a
nd pours some into each glass. She swirls hers like a real connoisseur before inhaling and closing her eyes like the wine is died and gone to heaven good. “Okay, I know you were spying. I saw you. I know you. You’re acting all crazy because some hot, thirty-something-year-old single dude moved into the house right beside yours, but why don’t you just bake a freaking casserole and go over there and welcome him to the neighborhood like a normal person?”

  “I think he’d see past that now. He’s been here for almost a month.”

  “You missed your chance. You’ll have to think of some other excuse.”

  “I don’t need an excuse. I’m not going over there. I’m not spying on him because I’m trying to think of some lame way to introduce myself. I’m happy being single.”

  “Right.” Leanne rolls her beautiful baby blues. They’re the kind of blue that seriously puts the sky to shame. Her waist-length blonde hair and her tall and slim frame kind of make her look like a fairy.

  “I am!” I insist. “Anyway, even if I wasn’t and I was trying to catch a glimpse of the hottie next door to try and indulge in some dirty fantasies, it would still be better than dreaming about Professor Old Balls all day.”

  “Stop!” Leanne nearly chokes on her wine. She sets her glass down on the island where she uncorked the bottle.

  “Sorry.” I decide that what I said was unkind. I pick up my glass from beside hers and do my best to look contrite. I take a small sip of the wine. “This is good. I’m glad I decided to try this one. They had it on sale, and the label was kind of exciting too.” I attempt to change the subject, but Leanne isn’t having any of it.

  “He’s not old balls! He’s fifty. That’s not that bad. Anyway, it wouldn’t be like a permanent thing.”

  “Gag me with a spoon.”

  “No, it wouldn’t be kinky like that. He’s hot because of his mind. I’ve never met anyone who was so all-encompassing. He knows literally everything there is to know about history.”

  Leanne is currently doing her Masters in History. She’s crazy serious about her education. We went to the same community college. She took History. I took English. I always wanted to be a writer. I know you don’t have to have an actual degree to do that, but my parents insisted I do something, and Leanne didn’t want to go and experience the joys and heartbreaks of college all by herself, so I gave in. My brother, on the other hand, studied freaking chemical engineering. My mom works at a hospital here in Chicago, doing blood testing, and my dad is a civil engineer, so I guess I’m a bit of a letdown as far as our family education goes. Whatevs. I’m happy keeping strange hours, working in my pajamas, spinning mysteries, and creating love matches to make up for my own lack of a love life to worry about how I barely make ends meet.

  “Yeah, but he’s still fifty. Isn’t that kind of old? Don’t you think he’d be too shriveled up? And would it be hot if he started talking to you about some ancient civilization or some war while you’re in the middle of doing it?”

  “Yes. Extremely,” Leanne sighs. She tops up her wine, filling her glass nearly to the top before she pads off towards the living room. I follow her, and she pats the seat next to her with her free hand. “Come on. Tell me all about the dirty crush you have on your neighbor.”

  “It’s not a dirty crush. In fact, I don’t have a crush at all. I just think he’s weird.”

  “You’ve mentioned the whole black clothes, always covered up, keeping weird hours thing. It’s not really that strange. People work all sorts of jobs now. Maybe he does the night shift or has a sun allergy.”

  “Or maybe he’s actually affiliated with an underground crime organization.”

  “You have been watching, reading, and writing waaaaay too much crazy shit lately. It’s like the trifecta with you.”

  “Don’t bang old balls until after you’re done with his class. It might seriously affect your grades if you bail out midway because he does indeed have a shriveled-up sack.”

  “You’re disgusting.”

  “He’s probably as creepy as the neighbor over there. How is he still single at fifty?”

  “Because he is someone who dedicates his entire life to learning, writing about, preserving, and teaching history,” Leanne sighs dreamily. She takes a sip of wine like she’s trying to console herself. “It probably won’t happen. He’s oblivious, and I keep sending him signals. The class is over in a few weeks.”

  “Who takes summer classes? If you weren’t so crazy studious and took them during the fall and winter like everyone else, you wouldn’t have class every morning every single day, and you’d get a little bit more time to dream about wrinkles and white chest hairs.”

  Leanne screws up her nose. “What exactly is wrong with either of those things? Seriously? You’re a fine one to talk. I’ve read your books. You write about all manner of crazy shit. Mysteries, check. BDSM, check. Mob stuff, check. Biker clubs, check. Age gap, check, check, and check.”

  “I haven’t written about a student who jumps her professor’s bones, though, because it’s weird and gross. And what if he spoils your reputation with the other professors?”

  “He’s not unprofessional like that. Anyway, it’s never going to happen. Like I said, he’s oblivious.”

  “Maybe if you were a book or a war or some famous historical character come back to life, he’d pay attention to you.”

  Leanne sticks out her tongue. She looks so pretty doing it that even after all these years and how much I freaking love her, my envy meter does some lowkey dinging. “The guy has to be crazy not to notice you,” I console her. “Are you sure he’s not actually legally blind?”

  “No, he’s not. I’m sure there have been good looking people in his class before. He just doesn’t notice. He doesn’t look at people that way. He’d fall for a woman for her mind before anything else.”

  “Well, you’re smart too. You’re doing your freaking Masters.”

  “He’s not really impressed about how I’m writing about graveyards and their importance to society today. He would rather I wrote about something ancient.”

  “It will be ancient one day. Today’s present is tomorrow’s past.”

  “Very inspirational,” Leanne groans, but she can’t keep a small smile off her naturally pink lips. “Write that into your next book. Actually, you should write one about a History student getting the professor. Make it all spicy and saucy so I can live vicariously through it.”

  “Right. I’m sure it’ll be popular. Anyway, I’m mostly taken up right now writing travel and self-help articles for a couple of magazines. It’s all non-fiction and really boring. Not spicy or saucy at all.”

  “Travel articles? Don’t you have to actually travel to be able to write those?”

  “No,” I groan. “It’s all research. Totally not glamorous at all.”

  Leanne grins wickedly at me. She waves her wine glass in her hand rather regally. “Well then. How about writing a non-fiction self-help article for shy people who have secret crushes on their neighbors and spy on them at inappropriate hours while pining away and shoring up those secret sightings for when she does start writing spicy romances again?”

  “I have no idea who you’re talking about.”

  Leanne raises her glass in the air. “I’ll toast to that, bish. And to you. For being the best bish ever.”

  And so, our girl’s night truly begins. That’s my cue to start up a sappy chick flick, kick back, and enjoy the wine and the chips and dip I’m about to break out so we can both binge guiltily on them before we spend a few more hours rehashing all the highlights and dramas of our week.

  I can’t think of a better way to spend a Friday night.

  CHAPTER 2

  Wade

  Good lord, the suburbs are another version of a nightmare. It’s beyond me why anyone would want to live here in this boxy bullshit where no one can mind their own business for more than five minutes. Not that anyone here bothers me. In fact, people are actually unfriendly now that I’ve given the fuck
-off and leave me alone to die in peace vibe. All it took were a few well-timed scowls, and the fact that I don’t go out during the day, to send the message that I’m not here to chat about kids, dogs, or my day job. I haven’t received any invites to watch the big game, have a few beers, or do some backyard barbequing because I haven’t given anyone the chance to actually talk to me.

  All this because I inherited some money from a grandfather who I never actually knew.

  Okay, so I met him once when I was five. I barely remember it. My parents weren’t on good terms with the guy. He was well known in our household, at least by my father, as that old, stinking, pain in the ass geezer. My mom was a lot nicer about her father-in-law. The worst thing I ever heard her say about him was that visiting him over in Canada all those years ago was less fun than having hemorrhoids.

  Turns out the old, stinking, pain in my father’s ass, less fun than hemorrhoids geezer was actually really freaking rich. My parents had no idea. But they wouldn’t have sucked up to him even if they did. They aren’t like that. The guy invented some serious software, which none of us knew about, and sold it a few years ago for a fortune. He then successfully reinvested that money. Since he was indeed rather old, he kicked the bucket a few months ago and left me all of it.

  We were all surprised to find out that it amounted to three billion, six million, and eight hundred thousand odd dollars. Yeah. Seriously.

  Overnight, I became this freaking sensation that every single news outlet and media hound wanted a piece of. Not just the ones here either. International journalists from all over Europe tracked me down and literally surrounded my apartment building like an apocalypse of crazed, bloodthirsty zombie journalists, all demanding a piece of my flesh.

  It was my idea to purchase this house—under the radar of course, through an agent who worked with an agent who worked with another agent—so I could hide out for a few months and let all this craziness die down.