Not to mention, no family wants a smut writer to become their neighbor. What kind of kinky mail deliveries will be dropped at her doorstep?
Lynsey had moved out here about three years ago, and I followed with Dryston a year later. When we settled in, the words flowed like manna from heaven. The quiet roads were blissful, and the views were feeding my soul as well as my little fingers. I had my best friend right next door, and the words were plentiful.
Then, the breakup happened, and my creativity dried up like the homemade granola our complex manager gives us every year for Christmas.
Since really only one other douchebag on the planet knows of my struggles with words and my recently found solution to that problem, that means he’s getting junk punched this fine Friday evening.
“Okay,” I whisper to Lynsey as we stand in front of Dean’s front door. His windows are pouring light down on us as the sun sets behind the hills. “Here’s the plan. I’m going to kneel here…you knock on the door, and when he opens it, his eyes will land on you, and I’ll give him a right hook to the ball sack.”
“Kate!” Lynsey chastises, her thick brows furrowing together. “That’s so extreme. What if he didn’t do it?”
“Surely, he has a junk punch coming for something. He’s a mountain manwhore. They always have it coming.”
I stare back at my friend, and she looks so young with those big, brown, innocent eyes. It’s no wonder Dean was drawn to her when they first met.
Shortly after I had moved here, Lynsey and I came across Dean during his daily run while we were out for a walk. I could tell instantly that there was a spark between them. They went on a couple of dates but ultimately decided just to stay friends. However, I think Lynsey still has a soft spot for the little prick.
Rolling my eyes, I concede to her wishes and stand to knock on the door. “Why are you so mature?”
A minute later, Dean whips his door open and props his arm on the frame in that impressive, masculine way he has about him. Dean is the picture image of a Boulder businessman—tall, dark, handsome, and bearded. Plus, he wears these dark-rimmed glasses that make him look really fucking smart, which he is.
But as a whole, he’s part nerd, part mountain man, and part hipster rich guy. He wears these plaid slacks and slim button-downs with peach colored jackets and manages to look masculine and stylish while doing it. He’s the only guy I know that could pull off a look like that and not have other people convinced he bats for the other team. Sometimes he wears no socks with his loafers, and I don’t know why it looks good, but it does. Dryston tried to mimic the style, but it was awful. Super trying too hard.
But Dean, he’s just got that undeniable swagger.
He’s also got the coolest backstory. Dean inherited a boatload of money from his grandparents when he was eighteen. Instead of going to college and getting a high-priced education like his parents begged him to do, he decided to educate himself on the stock market.
Apparently, he had the Midas touch. Lynsey told me he doubled his inheritance in the first year. Now he’s some kind of stockbroker during the day. I don’t know much about what he does, but he has an office downtown that he goes to every day in his fancy, hipster suits.
Without warning, I thrust my fist into his meaty stomach. Okay, hard, chiseled stomach, but whatever. I don’t think of Dean that way. All the air expels from his mouth as he hunches over, clutching his stomach.
“You’re a dick, and I know that fake invoice was from you.”
He growls in pain, but I know he’s just being dramatic so I won’t wallop him again. “Nice to see you too, Kate,” he croaks.
“Just be grateful she didn’t junk punch you,” Lynsey chirps from behind me. “I saved you from that.”
“Thanks, Lyns,” he groans and steps back, silently welcoming us inside.
Dean’s townhouse is identical in design to mine and Lynsey’s, but he’s got the minimalist bachelor pad thing going for him. Which is weird because he’s rich. Maybe he spends all his money on clothes because the only furniture here is bean bag chairs and uncomfortable barstools. There’s no dining room table in sight even though there’s a light fixture where one should be.
I stride past him, head straight to his fridge, and help myself to a beer. I grab one for each of them and say, “You’re so obvious.”
“How’d you know it was me?” Dean asks, rubbing his stomach and still wincing in pain as I hand him a beer that he passes to Lynsey.
I hand him another, and the idiot actually untucks his button-down to apply the cold glass to his chiseled abs. He looks up at me and waggles his brows suggestively.
I ignore his lame move and reply, “The letterhead was too perfect, and I know you know how to use Photoshop. You should try to suck more.”
He half-smiles and adjusts his black-rimmed glasses. “That’s the first time I’ve heard that.”
I roll my eyes and hoist myself up on the counter. “You’re such a pig.”
“You’re such a weirdo,” he retorts and twists the cap off his bottle. “I saw your Instagram story today. How do you think you can keep going back to Tire Depot if you post daily about it on social media?”
“Because my social media posts are my saving grace. It helps me feel less guilty about going there without being an actual customer.”
He leans against the nearby wall that leads into the spare bedroom and takes a sip of his beer before replying. “So you think if you get busted and they see all the Facebook posts, they’ll roll out the red carpet?”
“God, I can only dream!” I bellow dramatically and take a swig.
Lynsey giggles from her place on the barstool next to me. “You should have seen her, Dean. I thought she was going to start crying when she saw that bill.”
I nod seriously. “No shit! That thing almost sent me into a state of depression. I was considering moving to a different city that has a Tire Depot because I know it’s a franchise.”
“You are so basic.” He shakes his head and takes another swig. “I tried to get you to come check out my co-working space. We have great coffee there too without fear of being caught red-handed with stolen lattes.”
“That place is for wannabe business moguls. Those aren’t my people.”
He crosses his arms over his chest while still fisting his beer. “And the patrons in a tire shop waiting area are? How great can they really be?”
“You need to see it to believe it, man,” I state and look over at Lynsey. “But it might not have the same effect on you guys as it does on me. It’s all about the vibe and if it comforts your inner chi. Tell Dean about the hospital cafeteria the other day, Lynsey.”
Her face heats, and she shakes her head at me, her brown hair covering her face as she does. “That was a one-time thing.”
“A one-time thing you should be repeating if you want to get your damn thesis finished,” I state with a serious lift of the brows. “I’m telling you guys. The three of us have the best life. We can work from anywhere we want. All we need is a laptop, Wi-Fi, and an outlet, and we’re golden. But our productivity is closely linked to our state of mind. If you find the vibe somewhere, you gotta fight for it. A cool vibe is like a modern-day muse. Tire Depot is to me what Fanny Brawne was to John Keats! That’s poetry in motion that you cannot walk away from! They’ll probably write about this in history after I croak.”