Page 33 of The Heartbreaker Next Door

The pancakes were, predictably, perfect. Dean stacked them high on Maverick’s plate, all shaped in crude but recognizable dinosaur silhouettes. Maverick declared them “awesome” and immediately drowned them in syrup.

I rolled my eyes, catching Dean’s eye as I did. “You’ve set the bar unreasonably high.”

He just shrugged, but there was the smallest flicker of pride in his eyes.

I watched the two of them at the table, Dean hunched to fit his long body into our cramped kitchen chairs, Maverick firing off questions between bites, and felt something in my chest ache and then expand. I’d never seen a man like Dean before, someone who could be so hard-edged but so gentle, who could fix a roof and also remember a four-year-old’s favorite flavor of juice, which he had and even started stocking in the office kitchen.

The whole scene would have been domestic bliss, if not for the part where I was supposed to be immunized against this sort of thing. I’d sworn off men. I’d sworn off hope.

But here was Dean, breaking all my rules.

11

ROMANCE RISK MANAGEMENT

Dean

My Monday morning began like most others, except for the fact that I spent the first fifteen minutes staring at the coffee percolator as though it could explain the events of Saturday. I’d told myself, and Maverick, that I’d go back to his house on Sunday. Truth was, after leaving the Foster farm Saturday evening, I’d driven home and sat in my truck in front of my house for a full ten minutes, staring at the dashboard and wondering what the hell was happening. It was only when my mom texted asking if I could help her bathe Rex, one of our German Shepards, because he tried to make friends with a skunk that I remembered I had responsibilities that didn’t involve single mothers and their precocious children.

Yesterday, instead of heading back to the Foster farm, as I’d promised, I’d come into work. I tried my best not to think about Felicity or Maverick. I’d buried myself in reports reviewing cost control and activity revenue, two things that typically engrossed me, but nothing worked. I couldn’t stop thinking about them.

In all my other relationships, I never felt truly comfortable in the other person’s space. When I was at their homes, I felt like a guest, because I was. I would only stay for as long as was socially expected, usually counting down the minutes until I could leave and go back to my home, my environment.

That wasn’t the case with Felicity. I wanted to be there, I’d come up with excuses of things that needed fixing to prolong my time. I didn’t know if it was because Felicity had moved into a home I was already familiar with, or what, but being at the farmhouse, I not only felt comfortable, I felt like I was home, which is crazy.

So, I’d bailed on going back over there, texted her and let her know something came up. I didn’t tell her the thing that came up was my fear that if I went there, I wouldn’t ever want to leave.

A few hours ago, when arrived at work, I caught sight of Felicity’s car and I parked as far away from it as I possibly could and used the side entrance into the building, instead of the main, which meant there was less chance of me running into her.

Instead of going directly into the office, I walked the perimeter of the barn, checking fence lines and jotting down mental notes about repairs. The morning air was sharp with the smell of wet grass and the faint reek of manure, which usually cleared my head but today did nothing to chase away the image of Maverick’s gap-toothed pancake smile or the way Felicity laughed at my attempt to make a horse pun during dinner. She’d made fun of me, and I did not hate it.

I was in trouble.

By the time I finally made it to my desk, I’d constructed an elaborate internal defense—a legal brief—on why Felicity Foster should be entirely off limits.

Exhibit A: She was an employee

Exhibit B: She was a single parent

Exhibit C: She was rebuilding her life

I spent the better part of the morning shuffling through financial projections for the new guest ranch expansion and updating payroll for the seasonal workers. Still, every spreadsheet and bar graph was haunted by the memory of Felicity’s eyes sparkling with playfulness, the light pink of her nails when she tapped her fingers against my desk, the smudge of flour she’d left on her cheek after breakfast.

In a move that would have made my Grandad roll in his grave, I nearly mixed up the digits on the quarterly report, a mistake I hadn’t made since I was twelve and he was showing me the ropes. I double-checked everything, then checked it again, but it didn’t stop the distraction.

At eleven, with exhibits a, b, and c not having their desired effect, I decided to expand on those reasons. I composed a pro/con list that solely had cons titled Dean’s List of Bad Ideas. At the top, in bold, was Dating Felicity Foster. Underneath, I listed seven reasons

Reason One: I’m her boss.

That should be reason enough. Full stop. I sign off on her assignments, her performance reviews, her raises. Sleeping with her would blur every line I’ve spent my career keeping firmly in place. And if anyone ever suggested she earned something because she was sleeping with me, I’d never forgive myself. Despite there not being a policy against it, fraternizing would be unethical.

Reason two: I have a six-month expiration date.

Six months. That was my personal best. Usually, I didn’t even make it that long. Things would be going great until feelings and expectations got involved, and then I’d start looking for the nearest exit. I found myself feeling trapped, like an animal in a cage. Once my brain framed the relationship in those terms, it was over. She deserved better than becoming another woman who thought she could change me and failed.

I’d already proven, multiple times, that I was not cut out for a relationship with one person, let alone a family. As a single parent, she needed stability.

Reason Three: I actually like her.