Next To You: A Friends To Lovers Romance (The Next Series Book 2), page 1
Next To You
Hannah Bonam-Young
Copyright © 2022 by Hannah Bonam-Young
All rights reserved.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author.
EBOOK ISBN-13: 978-1-7780277-4-1
PAPERBACK ISBN-13: 978-1-7780277-3-4
This one is for all of us criers. For the ones who seem to feel nothing or everything all at once. For anyone who’s trying to build a life where constant distraction doesn’t feel so necessary.
And, for my grandmother, Lorraine, who taught me the best stories don’t require an audience.
Author's Note
“He who has felt the deepest grief is best able to experience supreme happiness.” -Count of Monte Cristo by Alexander Dumas
Next To You is, ultimately, about finding happiness after loss. Therefore, please be aware that grief is a constant theme throughout the book. I know that it can be difficult to read about losing a loved one when you’ve experienced it yourself but it’s my hope that you may find it healing, if you do choose to proceed.
Content Warnings:
-Sudden death of a parent
-Fatal car accident
-PTSD, anxiety symptoms and treatments, and descriptions of agoraphobia
-Multiple, descriptive sex scenes
Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGEMENT
About The Author
Also By
PROLOGUE
One hour until I can leave. Well, maybe one hour and three minutes, so as to not appear rude. Midnight is the minimum expectation at a New Year’s Eve party, after all. But the time beyond that is all mine.
Chloe’s apartment throbs with the bass from a stereo that should be called “neighbour’s nightmare.” That’s what I’d market it as. I can see the design I’d make for the ad if I shut my eyes.
The music playing is unfamiliar, but the playlist I threw together this morning was hoisted off the auxiliary cord around ten. The TV and speakers have been playing Rockin’ New Year’s something-or-other live from New York ever since—and right now, it’s a DJ who’s pumping up the crowd, saying we’re about to have the best year ever.
Yeah, right.
I steal two bobby pins from Chloe and Warren’s bathroom cabinet and pin my bangs out of my face. The purple hue of my hair is beginning to fade at the roots, revealing a pale brown. I cancelled my hair appointment a few weeks back for the third time in a row. It always seemed too big a chore. Too far from home. The only place I want to be these days.
I’d hide out in the bathroom forever, but there’s only one in the apartment, and I’m sure by now there’s a line forming at the door. All the other guests are probably wondering if I’m taking a massive shit. Nope. That smell, dear friends, is the scent of fear.
My piles of self-help books would suggest I ought to evaluate. Get to the root of the issue, they’d say. But I can’t be bothered. Let the fear live, I proclaim! It’s what’s kept the human species alive. Survival of the fittest, baby! Perhaps I’m a little drunk.
I step—and almost fall—out of the bathroom into an unexpectedly empty hallway. Chloe and Warren’s friends have impressive bladders. Speaking of, when did they even acquire this many friends? There has to be twenty people crammed into the apartment Chloe, our other best friend Emily, and I used to share while in university.
Life was simpler then. When all I had to do was complete homework and assignments from the safety of my room, occasionally coming out for air and food. It’s expected of university students to be shut-ins. Hermits. Recluses. Homebodies. All words that are affectionately used until you reach a certain age. Or meet a certain doctor. Then it’s “agoraphobia.”
Agoraphobia… I always thought it sounded like a fake country from a Disney movie, like Genovia.
“Princess of Genovia,” I say to no one in particular as I reach into the fridge for another vodka cooler. My fifth, if you’re counting. Which, I am not.
“Pardon?” a soft, deep voice asks as I shut the door.
I turn to walk toward the loft’s spiral staircase, hoping to find a private perch away from the other guests. Like a nosey owl.
“Guess not,” the same low voice says from behind me, hitting me in the gut. I turn to find the source.
Familiar dude. Handsome. And we’ve definitely met before. I think he’s Warren’s friend or co-worker. Basic name… Steve. No. John. Nope. Kevin?
“Matt.” He points to his chest, wearing a quizzical expression with one raised brow. He’s got a warm, welcoming smile, like he’s hearing one long joke—but not at your expense. His light brown eyes have a certain kindness to them that puts me instantly at ease. His dark beard isn’t particularly tidy, but it’s full and fluffy-looking. His nose is ragged, like it’s been carved out of rock, and his hair is longer than mine, thrown haphazardly into a bun on top of his head.
And, goodness me, his lips. I could curl up on them with a good book.
“I’m Lane.” I raise my bottle to him before turning to take three steps up. I fumble back onto the stairs, my palm finding the step just before my butt does. The cool metal touches bare skin a fraction below my underwear, eliciting panic that I’ve flashed my backside to everyone below the stairs. I reach under my bum to tuck the black fleece skirt under me and tug it farther down my thighs, keeping my knees tightly pressed together. My black turtleneck shirt is new and itchy around my throat. I have to actively fight to stop myself from adjusting it every few seconds. This outfit is cute but not conducive to settling nerves.
“I know, Lane. We’ve met…” He smirks into the top of his beer as he takes a sip. His lips look even better that way. “Here alone?” He asks this as if he is an adult who’s found a lost child. Your mommy around, sweetie? Let’s go find her.
“Alone,” I confirm. “And you, Matthew?” Surely a guy with silky black hair, full lips, and a strong dad bod is here with someone. Guys like him are everyone’s type.
He huffs out a quick laugh. “Yeah, me too.”
Ah, well, he must be deeply flawed then. Just your type, my inner-saboteur hums. Shut up, I quip back. So why is he talking to me and not someone else?
“Is it me, or does everyone at this party seem to know everyone else at this party?” I sigh, looking down at the large group of people strewn about the apartment below.
“I’d have thought you’d know most people here, being Chloe’s best friend.” Matt takes another sip of his beer.
“Mmm, but you see, Matthew, I do not venture out much.” Ever.
“Introvert?” he asks, standing at the bottom step, a firm grip on the metal railing.
I bite the skin around my thumb just once before I remember I’m no longer alone and that habit isn’t the slightest bit attractive. I breathe out a nervous laugh, placing both hands around my cup. “No, actually. I’m an anxious extrovert. We are a rare but not extinct breed.”
Matt nods, his eyes narrowing, causing happy, wavy crinkles on the outer corners. “I didn’t know there were others. I’ve been living underground.”
“Aw, well, we do like to hide.” I chug my drink and stand to fetch another.
“You know what’s great? Ice water,” Matt adds as I sidestep him and make my way toward the fridge. “Have you had some today?” His voice is cautious, like he’s approaching a street cat. “Can I get you some?”
I nod, grinning ear to ear as I look up at the curl resting on his remarkably tanned forehead that looks like an upside-down question mark. “D’you work outside, Matt?”
“I work with Warren.” He takes my glass and places it on the counter, turning his back to me.
“I do not understand the mechanics of mechanics.”
&nb
“I work inside the shop mostly.” He uses tongs to place a few cubes of ice in my glass before pouring water from the tap. Tap water? My mother is somewhere clutching her pearls.
“But you’re so tan…”
“Built-in skin tone.” He hands me a full glass of water, and I take it with two hands, trusting neither to do their job alone in my inebriated state. “My mom’s Samoan,” he adds.
You dumbass. Why’d you ask such a stupid—
“Got any straws back there, barkeep?” I ask, hoping to swiftly move past my blunder.
With a smile and a less-than-sincere eye roll, he turns and grabs a straw off the counter and drops it into my cup.
“Thank you, Matthew.” I bow slightly, trying to capture the straw with my tongue as it dodges me and spins around the rim.
“It’s Mattheus.” He chuckles under his breath, scratching where his cheek meets beard.
“Huh?” I turn and walk back to the stairs.
“You keep calling me Matthew… but Matt is short for Mattheus,” he says, following close behind.
“Oh, sorry.” I sit down, careful not to spill my water.
“Don’t be.” He gestures to the stair below mine, a question in his rich honey-coloured eyes.
“Have at it.” I signal to the step with a flourish.
“Is Lane your full name?” he asks, lowering in front of me. His body is so broad all over that he barely fits on the step, so he sort of hovers, balancing himself against the railing.
“Elaine,” I answer. “But I’ve never suited Elaine. Maybe I should try it. New year, new identity.” I push up an invisible set of glasses up my nose. “Hello,” I say in a hoity-toity accent. “I’m Elaine… the third. Charmed.” I hold out a limp wrist that he shakes lightly, his lips curled between his teeth.
Matt’s laugh seems to burst out of him. It’s deep and full and shocking. I focus on how his throat bobs while he does it and the way his lips part. Cute.
“Wow, uh… thanks,” he replies, looking down between us with a subtle, pleased grin.
I said “cute” out loud, apparently. He studies me and then looks off to the crowd, glancing side to side. Still trying to find my keeper, I think.
There’s an ease to him in total juxtaposition to the liquid energy that seems to be rushing through his veins. No part of his body appears to stay still for long—a knee bouncing or a foot tapping. But the smile that’s yet to fully fade has a calming effect. I wish I could bottle it like a perfume. I could use a few spritzes throughout my day when my brain won’t cooperate.
I’m still staring at him, with no words being said. I don’t even think I’m smiling, just blankly looking at him like art in a gallery. Yet he doesn’t look uncomfortable. He just looks about the room, his gaze landing nowhere in particular.
Attempting to look away from him feels like swimming against a current. I start up the conversation again so I don’t have to. “Any New Year’s resolutions?”
He turns back toward me slowly, his shoulders raising and tensing a little. His eyes shift from side to side for a moment, then he shrugs. “Not really. I’d like the shop to do well.”
Right! This is Warren’s friend who will be running the shop with him when their burly boss guy retires. That is soon, I think. “When do you and Warren take over?”
“My uncle Ram retires at the end of January, then it’s all ours.” His jaw tics as he throws back his beer. He blinks a few times too. He’s either nervous about this takeover, or I’m far more drunk than I thought and misreading him entirely.
“You worried?” I ask.
“Little bit,” he replies with a dim smile. “What about you?”
“Constantly.” I blow out a breath, trilling my lips.
“I meant, any New Year’s resolutions?” he asks, voice sincere.
“I—uh.” Where to begin? “This year hasn’t been my best. There’s… a lot to improve on.”
He pouts his lips but stills, waiting for me to go on.
“I’d like to start by being a better daughter,” I offer plainly, but I’m not sure—even if I was sober right now—that I could stop the emotion tensing my expression. “My mom has stopped asking me for things. I’d like her to ask again.”
“What sorts of things?” he asks.
“She’s on a board for this charity, and they have a gala every year. I used to do the designs for it—invitations, posters, stuff like that. Now? She hires out. She doesn’t want to ask me.”
This change only happened about eight months ago, directly after a phone call with my sister. I mentioned, in passing, that I was going to the pharmacy to pick up my anxiety meds. Since then, it’s been near silence from my mom. Fewer phone calls, texts, requests, and questions. Instead, I get care packages in the mail. Bath bombs with lavender, an oil diffuser, self-help books, a weighted blanket, sleepy-time tea… you get the idea. Like get-rich-quick schemes but for fixing mental illness.
Matt nods thoughtfully, slowly. It spurs me on.
“I’d also like to call my sister more. She isn’t much of a texter, but she gives in because I hate talking on the phone, but that’s not fair.” I rub the back of my neck. “I miss her,” I nearly whisper.
“That’s a good one. I’m stealing that,” Matt says.
“You have a sister?” I ask.
“I have five sisters.” He lowers his emptied bottle from his face and watches me with a knowing smile.
“Five?” My lips part into a wide O. “You have five sisters?”
“And three brothers,” he adds, grinning.
I slam my drink down beside me and bring two hands in front of my face, raising five fingers on one hand and three on the other, then adding one for Matt. “Nine of you?” My voice is quickly approaching a pitch only audible to dogs.
“Nine.”
“Your poor mother!” I laugh, and so does he. Thank god—I hoped I hadn’t sounded rude. “That’s a lot of phone calls,” I add.
“Well, I guess I’ll call my parents more, then,” Matt replies. “What else is on your list?”
“I’d like to take my job more seriously. I’m… not the best employee. I show up late, I call in sick when I’m not…” technically. “I do the bare minimum.”
“I’m sure that’s not true.”
“That’s sweet—but it is. I started over a year ago, and the person I trained last spring just got a promotion to be my supervisor. It’s a tech company, and people bounce around. There’s lots of room for upward growth—if you’re trying.” I mime climbing a ladder and falling to my death, and Matt watches me with a subtle smile. I should be embarrassed, but I’m not. The alcohol is working.
The television in the living room catches my attention as the presenter begins speaking over cheering crowds. “We are just ten minutes shy of midnight, and what an incredible night it has been…” My focus falls to the ice in my cup, and I stop listening, watching the ice cubes dance around each other until my brain goes quiet.
“You okay?” Matt asks, leaning into my view to catch my eyes.
“Hmm? Yeah.” I smile weakly.
He sits back and looks across the room to where Chloe and Warren stand near Emily and her boyfriend, Amos. They’re all laughing, except for Warren, who shakes his head and smiles into the top of his glass.
“They seem happy,” Matt says, petting his beard absently.
“They do,” I answer, my voice not hiding the jealousy that creates an ache in my throat.
It’s not that I’m not happy for Chloe, I am—she deserves the world. All I could want for any of my friends is a guy like Warren. He worships the ground she walks on and lets her shine, unafraid of being in the shadows. Emily deserves it too. She and Amos have only been together a few months, but they make a gorgeous couple. Stylish, tall, and equally striking, they get a lot of head-turns walking down the street. I know this because I’m usually trailing behind them, cementing my third-wheel status.
“Three things…” Matt says, dragging my attention away from our friends. “The shop, calling my parents, and finding someone who looks at me like that.” He points with the tip of his beer bottle toward the happy couples.
