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  Marrying My Neighbor

  An Accidental Billionaire Marriage Romance

  Roxy Reid

  Copyright © 2020 Roxy Reid

  All rights reserved. It is not legal to reproduce, duplicate, or transmit any part of this document in either electronic means or in printed format. Recording of this publication is strictly prohibited and any storage of this document is not allowed unless with written permission from the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locations is purely coincidental.

  For my incredible Friends and Family who have encouraged and supported me on my journey to becoming a writer.

  Let me not to the marriage of true minds

  Admit impediments.

  William Shakespeare

  Contents

  About the Author

  1. Grace

  2. Sean

  3. Grace

  4. Sean

  5. Grace

  6. Sean

  7. Grace

  8. Sean

  9. Sean

  10. Grace

  11. Sean

  12. Grace

  13. Sean

  14. Grace

  15. Sean

  16. Grace

  17. Grace

  18. Sean

  19. Sean

  20. Grace

  21. Grace

  22. Sean

  23. Grace

  24. Sean

  25. Grace

  Epilogue

  Also by Roxy Reid

  More from Roxy Reid

  About the Author

  Roxy Reid writes sizzling hot romance about kick-ass women and deliciously hot guys that are guaranteed to leave you with a smile on your face and a warm fuzzy feeling inside.

  Roxy’s first love is writing and a very close second is tea, oh and cake, don’t forget the cake. Most days you’ll find her in a cafe scribbling away in a notebook, dreaming up romantic stories to share with her readers.

  Follow Roxy on Facebook

  facebook.com/RoxyReidAuthor

  Send an email

  [email protected]

  1

  Grace

  The neighborhood association quiet hours start at 10:00 p.m. Your party last night lasted until 3:39 a.m. Some of us have to work in the morning. I think we can have a respectful, neighborly relationship if you just follow the rules.

  —Grace Blackwood, letter left on Sean Bronson’s doorstep, one month after he moved in

  “I’m telling you, this could change your life,” my agent Nora says as I pull up in front of my home. It’s an old Victorian I inherited from my great-grandma, and it’s in an old, sophisticated, wealthy Boston suburb.

  “It’s just one book, Nora,” I say.

  I’m trying to be practical, but inside I’m glowing. I’m not new to professional success. I’m one of the best couples’ therapists in Boston, but the nature of being a therapist is that pretty much no one knows you exist until they’re looking for a therapist. The self-help book I wrote is going to change that, at least according to Nora. She’s sent out early copies of the book to reviewers, and the word is that they love it. A contact of her’s at Netflix is talking about giving me a special, depending on how the book sells.

  I turn off the car, but I don’t get out. I can hear the dull roar of my neighbor, Sean, doing yard work again. If he’s doing yard work, it means he’s probably shirtless. If I’m going to listen to a lecture from Nora about the importance of my upcoming book tour, I might as well enjoy some eye candy while I’m doing it.

  “Pssh. One book. Brené Brown’s life changed with just one speech. All we need to do is make sure your book becomes the bestseller I know it can be,” she says.

  Nora launches into a list of all of the places I’ll be promoting my book over the next month. I make supportive noises without listening all that closely because I know she’ll email me the schedule in a few days once it’s finalized. Nora’s a few years younger than me and great at her job. In ten years, someone important will probably recognize her talents, and then I won’t be able to afford her. Until then, I’m happy to do whatever she says.

  I look over at my book, which is sitting on the passenger seat. It just arrived at my office, and it’s the first copy I’ve held in my hands. Beautiful. Hardback. I reach over and run my hand over the title. We Can Fix This: Why Your Relationship Can Be Saved and How to Do It—below that—By Dr. Grace Blackwood.

  My heart beats a little faster, just holding it. Yes, some of it is all Nora’s talk of my upcoming fame, but mostly it’s the sheer wonder of thinking I could change people’s lives on a scale I never thought possible. I think of all those cold, tense years growing up in a house with parents who didn’t like each other anymore and didn’t know what to do about it. I didn’t know how to fix our family, but now, if Nora’s right and people actually read my book, I could fix hundreds of families. Thousands.

  I know all the advice in this book works. I’ve seen it work over and over again in my own practice and in my colleague’s practice, but these tactics shouldn’t be limited to people who are already at the point where they need therapy. Especially given how expensive therapy is and how much cultural baggage there is about going to therapy.

  My book could help people before their relationship ever gets to that stage.

  The sound of yard work gets louder, and I glance up to see Sean coming around from the side yard with his lawnmower, shirtless as predicted. You wouldn’t think millionaires would do their own yard work, but you’d be wrong. You wouldn’t think a lot of things about Sean, but you’d be wrong.

  Yes, he’s that Sean. Sean Bronson, hot Irish tech genius. Brash, rude, self-made millionaire. Messy dark hair, stubble that makes you think he just rolled out of bed, abs to swoon over. He was in the news recently for selling his newest app, which predicts when a tech stock is overvalued and investors should jump ship. On the one hand, it’s not exactly making him popular with other tech millionaires at the moment. On the other hand, it’s making him very popular with all the people who pulled their money out of WeWork right before everyone realized there’s only so much money to be made from renting office space.

  He has also, surprisingly, become one of my closest friends. What started as him inviting me to his parties so I wouldn’t file a noise complaint turned into a kind of legit, easy-going friendship I’ve never had before. All my other close friends are people like me—Ivy League-educated, driven, professional women whose families expect them to be huge successes.

  I love those friends. They got me through college. They helped me figure out how to carve out a life of my own, separate from what my parents want and expect from me. They’re also incredibly hard to schedule drinks with these days.

  Whereas with Sean, I just knock on the door of his huge, ugly, modern mansion when I feel like it. He’ll open the door and hand me a beer, and then we spend the next few hours unwinding and talking about my day. He’s casually blunt when he disagrees with me about something, but, unlike everyone else in my life, he never takes it personally when I ignore his advice. Despite his habit of calling people “fucking assholes,” “fucking idiots,” and “bloody fucking bastards,” on a regular basis, he’s actually a very laid back dude.

  I guess it helps that because he’s Irish, it sounds like “fooking eejits,” instead of “fucking idiots,” which somehow sounds less bad.

  Sean’s also got a commitment problem—both to the companies he founds and to the women he dates. Since I’m not trying to date him or go into business with him, though, I don’t particularly care.

  “It’s really important that you care ab
out this,” Nora says, and I stop ogling Sean and try to pay attention to the conversation at hand. “A lot of authors think the hard part is over once the book is published, but promotion is just as important. I need you to be in this. We need to win. There is a TV special at stake.”

  “I care about this,” I say, looking down at the book in my hands. I think of how much work I put into this book. How many people I can help. How many more people I can reach with a TV special. How many people I can help if they ask me to write another book.

  I think about finally getting my parents off my back if I’m such a huge success that even they can’t be disappointed in me.

  “We’re in the homestretch,” Nora says. “Take some time to relax over the next two weeks because once the book tour starts, I need you to be on. Brilliant, positive, empathetic, firm. Photogenic. You know, the works.”

  I glance at myself in the rearview mirror. I’m not so sure about the photogenic part. I’m cute enough in real life—big, dark eyes; short, dark, curly hair; a professional wardrobe made up almost exclusively of items from Limited—but I tend to look a little awkward in photos, which hasn’t been a problem up until now.

  I blink. “Photogenic. Got it.”

  “Have you ever thought about a spray tan?”

  “I’m hanging up now, Nora. Talk to you before the book tour. Thanks for all your work,” I hang up while she’s warning me not to get any life-changing haircuts or shack up with inappropriate men.

  I look down at my book and grin. It’s really happening. I kiss my book like a chef kissing his fingers before sending out his dish to the world.

  Someone wraps on my car window, and I jump a foot in the air. Sean’s grinning at me through the window, shirtless, hot, and laughing down at me with affection in his green eyes. A bead of sweat drips down his neck and continues down to places where I don’t let my eyes follow.

  I open the car door, mostly to force him to give me some space.

  Sean says, “I get that you’re going through a dry spell, but actually making out with a book might be taking it too far.”

  “You know what,” I say as I get out of the car and collect my purse, “you can make fun of me after you write a book.”

  “Wait. That’s your book? They finished printing it?” He grabs it from my hands before I can protest and flips through it, delighted. When he looks up at me, he’s beaming. “This is fucking brilliant, Grace.”

  He slings an arm around my shoulder and kisses me on the top of my head. It’s an oddly dissonant feeling to have one of the hottest men I’ve ever met press me into his naked chest while going for a totally brotherly, totally platonic top-of-head kiss.

  “My neighbor, the famous author,” he says proudly. “Don’t ever let anyone tell you that you can’t make a career out of getting too many degrees and sticking your nose into people’s private lives.”

  I try to roll my eyes like I normally would when he says stuff like that, but I’m so happy that I end up grinning instead.

  “Want to do something tomorrow night? I’ve got two weeks before I have to start the book tour, and I feel like celebrating,” I say.

  He winces and drops his arm from my shoulders. “I wish I could, but I’ve got to go to Vegas this weekend.”

  “Oh,” I say, trying to cover up my disappointment. “Right. I forgot that was tomorrow.”

  Maybe one of my girl friends will be free to celebrate. That will be fun. Different. But still fun. Or no one will be available, and I’ll end up staying home with my cat, Bradley, while Sean parties in Vegas.

  I sigh. “Well, have fun. Stay hydrated. Don’t marry a cocktail waitress.”

  I turn to head to my front door.

  “Wait,” Sean says.

  I turn back, one hand on my hip, waiting for him to make some joke at my expense.

  “Come with me,” he says.

  I blink. “What?”

  “It’s a joint bachelor and bachelorette party. Kara was going to come with me, but since that ended last week, I’ve got an extra plane ticket.”

  I gesture to my stylish skirt suit. “Do you really see me in Vegas?”

  He looks me up and down and winks. “I think you’d look great in sequins and feathers if that’s what you’re asking.”

  I laugh a little at the absurdity of it. “Thanks for asking, Sean. Really, it’s sweet of you. But that’s not my scene.”

  I turn to go.

  He catches my hand. “Come on, then. You said you had two weeks before your book tour. Live a little.”

  I look back at him. “Sean …"

  “You’d be doing me a favor, really. Think of all the bad decisions I’ll make without you there to guide me.”

  “You want me there to be your babysitter?” I ask, insulted.

  “No, I want you there to be my hot date, making fun of all the hopelessly mushy couples around us. I think playing on your overdeveloped sense of responsibility is the best way to get there. Come on, it’ll be fun. Drinks, gambling, a luxurious hotel. When was the last time you really cut loose, Grace?”

  I … can’t actually remember. I waver. “I’d get my own hotel room,” I say.

  He snorts. “Obviously. I can’t have you cramping my style with the cocktail waitress.”

  I punch Sean in the arm, and he mimes staggering back like he’s been hit with a knock-out punch. Then he peeks to see if I’m smiling. He’s always doing this, clowning around to try and get me to smile. To try and get me to do something fun with him.

  I know he and Kara weren’t particularly close. She was model-gorgeous, but she was also a self-taught naturopath who thought cell phone use caused brain tumors. So the signs were there that it wasn’t going to last. Still, it’s never fun to attend a wedding event single when everyone else is coupled up.

  Also, for once, Kara was the one to dump him. Apparently, she liked Sean, but she couldn’t, in good conscience, date someone who’s apps were contributing to the deaths of millions of Americans every week.

  I personally think it’s good for Sean to get his ass handed to him every now and then, but that doesn’t mean I think he should spend the weekend feeling awkward and uncomfortable at his friend’s party.

  Plus, he’s right. I do deserve some fun.

  A grin lights up Sean’s face. “You’ve decided you’re coming, haven’t you?”

  “Fine, I’ll come, but you are not leaving me alone in the corner at a party where I don’t know anyone while you flirt with a cocktail waitress.”

  He puts a hand over his heart. “I swear, I will only abandon you if we’ve already found you a hot cocktail waiter.”

  “You’re incorrigible,” I say, but I’m beginning to feel excited about the trip in spite of myself.

  I have a book published, a TV special on the horizon, and I’m going to party in Vegas on the arm of a hot man I don’t actually care about impressing.

  What could go wrong?

  2

  Sean

  Sweetheart, why didn’t you tell me you wanted to come to my party?

  —Sean Bronson, scrawled across the bottom of Grace’s noise complaint and taped to her door

  I knock on Grace’s hotel room door. “Are you ready?”

  We flew into Vegas earlier today. After checking into the hotel, we parted ways so that I could get a few laps in at the hotel pool while Grace went to go do whatever well-behaved nerds do on vacation.

  I hear movement on the other side of the door and the silence of someone turning off their music.

  “One moment!” she calls.

  I check my watch—five o’clock. I’ve dated enough women in my life to know that when one says, “one moment,” while getting ready for a night out, we’re talking five minutes, minimum.

  I’m so ready for this fucking night. I should feel great after selling my company, but instead, I’ve felt restless, then listless, then annoyed with everything, then apathetic about everything. Wash, rinse, repeat. I should be on top of the world li
ke Grace is about her book, but instead, I’m stuck in this rut.

  I figure a night of mindless partying with Grace is exactly what the doctor ordered. I’ve seen her tipsy, but I’ve never seen her drunk. I’m kind of curious what Grace’s version of partying all night is. I have a sudden vision of a giant purse with water, snacks, and a comfortable pair of flats tucked into its depths.

  Then her door opens, and for the first time in my life, I see Grace made up for a night out. Her lips are this deceptively sweet, innocent pink that’s utterly at odds with the black velvet minidress that fits her like a glove. She has on gold high-heels that make her legs go on forever. Diamonds drip from her ears and cuff her wrists.

  For once, Grace looks like a woman who knows she’s gorgeous.

  I mean, I know she’s gorgeous, but given the way she normally dresses, I didn’t know she knows. It’s kind of throwing me for a loop.

  It’s kind of hot. Scratch that, it’s really fucking hot.

  Grace gives me the once over, then steps in to straighten my collar. I realize this is the first time she’s seen me in a suit and wonder if she’s half as impressed with me as I am with her.

  “You’re not wearing a tie,” she says critically. “You said it was fancy-dress.”

  Okay, not impressed, then.

  “It’s a bachelor party, not a funeral,” I say.