The Boy Next Door: A Standalone Off-Limits Romance (Off-Limits Romance #2)

“Oh my gosh, you gave me all the water chestnuts!” I grin as she beams down at her bowl. “You remember.”


“Of course.” I try to smile as I sit down across from her, but I’m not sure I pull it off. I want to add, I remember everything about you, but of course, I can’t. Or—won’t. I’ve been on the fence about how to treat Am, and I realized it’s not possible to treat her with anything less than adoration, but she probably doesn’t need to know the real depth of my feelings. What’s the point? More so than that… If she knew, she’d be confused. She’d ask more questions.

“They’re so amazing. It’s a texture thing, but mmm.” She chews one, and this time, I have no trouble smiling at grown-up Amelia sitting, chomping water chestnuts at my table.

“You want something to drink? I’ve got some wine.”

I see her face shutter for a moment—I wonder if she’s remembering our drunken kisses at the work party—but then she nods. “Sure thing. Anything is fine. I like white and red and all the different shades.”

“A real drunk,” I tease.

“Oh yeah, that’s me. Total studio drunkard.”

“You are a sorority girl.”

She rolls her eyes. “It’s not like that.” I feel her eyes on my back as I get two glasses out and pour an off-dry Riesling. “Were you in a fraternity?” she asks.

“Not the kind you’re thinking of.”

“Oh, yeah, I guess I should have said a ‘social’ fraternity.”

I set her glass down.

“Thank you.”

“It’s a German Riesling. Mosel valley.”

She takes a sip. “That’s good.”

I watch her as she eats. I know it’s rude, but it’s not often I’m seated right across from her. At work, I’m usually trying not to stare too openly; all the other times, I’ve got my face between her legs. Amelia hasn’t spent a lot of time one-on-one with me, and I get it. But I’m going to enjoy this while it lasts, for the whole hour.

“So,” she says after another bite, “you have another place in California?”

“Yep.”

“Apartment?”

“House.”

“Ohhh. Fancy.”

I wink.

“What’s it like?”

I shrug. “Walls and roof. It’s got a garden.”

“Does it?”

I nod, chewing. “I’ve got a few raised beds.”

“Wow, so you grow food?”

“A few things, yeah.”

“That’s awesome.”

“It’s relaxing,” I confide.

“What’s it like, your job? Do you enjoy it?”

“We work together,” I tease. “You remember that, right?”

She sticks her tongue out. “Yes, you jerk. But I’ve never asked you if you like it.”

“I hate it. Makes me want to die.” Something hits me on the arm. “Hey…” I pick the small, white paper off the table and unfold it. “You threw a fortune at me?”

“Read it,” she says cryptically.

“Your luck will take a turn. Tread cautiously. Well, that’s kind of cryptic.”

“I know, right?”

I nod. “What about you, Am? You liking working under me?”

She rolls her eyes, and I snicker.

“It’s hard to stay on top of things sometimes,” she says, smirking. “I’m still learning all the ins and outs.”

“It can be hard to wrap your hands around the meat of this job.”

“Oh, totally. Luckily, you’re not too rigid or anal about things.”

“Hey, I’m rigid.” I flick the crumpled fortune back at her. Amelia bats it with her palm, and we both chuckle.

“So, what are you doing next week?”

I tell her about the commission from the Georgia woman. “She’s an author, actually.”

“Oh yeah?”

I tell her the woman’s name, and Ammy says she’s read her. “Very poetic. I liked her first book. That’s the only one I’ve read.”

“Do you ever read your mom’s books?”

I can see the shock on her face, and immediately I feel bad for asking. I watch as she composes herself; finally, when her face is scrubbed of emotion, she nods once. “I do. I’ve read them lots of times. And it’s okay that you asked. You look like you just found out you killed a kitten.”

“Shit.” I rub my forehead. “I should have thought before I spoke.”

“It’s okay. I won’t break.”

“I know.” There was a time when Ammy talked about these things with me. A time long ago. But it doesn’t feel like that long.

“It’s weird to read them,” she says, then pauses to drink. “There are themes that repeat in each book, you know? Little things she clearly liked enough to feature more than once. Like spiral staircases and bird baths. Certain numbers, like the number five. I think writers leave behind a lot of clues about themselves. Like artists, almost.”

“Of course.”

“I wish I’d known her longer.” Her eyes meet mine for one warm moment before falling to the table’s surface. “I feel like I still remember the gist of her...you know? She was generous and fun. She wanted me to feel loved and included. Special. I remember her enough to know that for sure. The way she was always buying me clothes and purses just like hers and listening to my long, ridiculous, made-up stories… And you know, I used to wonder if she would have left. But now I don’t. Now I like to think she would have gone back to my dad. From what I’ve gathered over the years, they weren’t really out of love, they were just having a rough spot. Anyway,” she shakes her head, “even if she had left him, I know she wouldn’t have left me.”

“I’m glad that doesn’t bother you the way it used to.”

Ammy picks up her bowl and stands, trying to seem casual—but I can tell she’s uncomfortable she just told me all that shit and wants to put the distance back between us. She sets her bowl in the sink and lingers for a moment beside the refrigerator. I can’t see her very well from the table, so I stand, and I realize what she must be looking at.

I come up behind her as her fingertips touch the scratched plastic frame of the little picture on the side of the refrigerator.

“I remember this.” She rubs her finger over our faces: Am, me, and Lexie. We’re in swim suits, sitting on the pool’s side on the Fourth of July, eating slices of watermelon. The girls were ten, and I was thirteen. “We had just been fighting with those pool noodle things,” she says softly. “Lex made this little magnet in sixth grade art class, didn’t she?”

I nod.

“I remember I made a magnet for my dad.”

I look at little Lexie, little Am, and younger me, and feel a coil of misery wrap around my stomach. Amelia’s eyes over the watermelon rind are wide and knowing: like she sees me in this very moment, and she knows exactly what I’ll do to her, and she is saying I can’t believe it.

My hand rises, reaching for Amelia’s shoulder…but I don’t allow myself to touch her. I lower it and watch her from slightly behind as she notices another magnet. Fucking art projects.

This one depicts a painting that I did in college.

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