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Trouble with the Guy Next Door
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34 b
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Guys like Tucker Moore didn't date girls like me.
His boring ol' washboard abs looked like they'd been sculpted by the gods, and I had more curves than a backroad in a country song.
He could charm the panties off anyone, but I was better off hiding behind my camera lens.
He was my next-door neighbor and the definition of a bad idea.
I had no business thinking about him, and I should've pushed him out of my dreams the moment he showed up. I should've taken a hard left into the friend zone instead of flirting with disaster.
Which I did, faster than he could say "just friends."
It didn't matter that he spent more time in my apartment than his or that he smiled at me in a way that made my stomach flip. That was just Tucker.
Before I knew it, he was my best friend. And completely off-limits.
A weekend away was our downfall, and I must've left my logic at home.
Tucker would be fine.
But I'd end up in Trouble with the Guy Next Door.
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