The Boy Next Door

By Sierra Hill

Sometimes love takes the long road…an opposites attract/childhood crush/hate to love small town romance.

 

Jordan Rhoades was not my high school sweetheart.

In fact, he was anything but sweet to me.

 

Jordan was my nemesis.

My tormentor.

The bully who lived next door who tried beating me at everything.

We were complete opposites. And while there were moments when I hated Jordan down to the marrow of my bones, hidden deep within the surface I harbored a secret…

I had a crush on him. A BIG one.

And sadly, it was my downfall.

 

Now this retired baseball player and hometown hero is back in town and the newest winery owner in Merlot with a job offer I can't refuse.

It's mine for the taking, on one condition.

Jordan wants to let the past remain where it belongs.

I'm just too stubborn and not sure I can ever forgive him for what he did to my heart on prom night ten years ago.

 

Even if it means giving up on the job of my dreams.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ten28 Publishing
• Release date: Jul 18, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201925109

Sierra Hill

Sierra Hill is the author of 12 contemporary, new adult romances. Since publishing her first book in 2014, she has found her creative passion in the characters represented in the pages of her books. She lives in the Pacific Northwest with her husband of over 20 years and a crazy rescue Shepherd.

Book preview

Amelia

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Jordan Rhoades was not my high school sweetheart.

Oh no. Far from it. He was anything but a sweetheart to me.

He may have been my next door neighbor and my mother’s best friend’s only son throughout childhood, but that did not make us friends.

Jordan was my nemesis. My tormentor. The bully who competitively tried to beat me at everything. And he did most of the time because he was my complete opposite in every way possible.

There were moments when I hated Jordan Rhoades. And I don’t use that word lightly.

He was like the worst case of poison ivy. The irritant who caused me itchy twitches of anxiety pretty much all throughout high school. Living in a small town and right next door, there was no escaping his constant ridicule and incessant teasing back then.

But I wasn’t a snitch. I didn’t go running to my mother to complain.

Whenever Jordan got it in his craw to tease me - whether it was about my weight, my braces, glasses, or my geeky nerdiness – I held my head high and usually dished it back.

Because deep down, hidden so far below the surface that no one, not even my best friend Ava would have ever guessed, I had a crush on Jordan Rhoades.

And sadly, it was my downfall.

Yet here I sit, ten years after he left town to make his big name in professional baseball, waiting for the boy I once knew and secretly longed for.

And it pisses me off because he’s late. Once again, making me feel like a complete and utter fool.

Jordan’s the one who scheduled this meeting at The Wine Cellar, the bar and bistro in our small town of Merlot. And of course, he’s late, making me wait for his sorry ass even though he was the one who scheduled this in the first place.

The time on my phone ticks a quarter past the hour, and I’m just about ready to up and leave. I’m done with waiting on Mr. Pro Baseball Player Jordan Rhoades to show up and grace me with his presence.

I’m only here because my mother asked me to call him and speak to him about a job.

The job I’ve been dreaming about since I graduated from college with a degree in chemistry.

But that dream might just end up a nightmare job because it just so happens to be working for Jordan. The now retired professional baseball pitcher just bought a winery in Sonoma wine country where we live. And he needs someone with experience, like me.

I glance down at my empty wine glass and scowl. I don’t know why I don’t just get up and leave. Why should I waste my precious time when he obviously doesn’t have good manners and thinks the sun rises and sets on his gorgeous ass?

Goddamn him for being hot and entitled.

I don’t know why I’m subjecting myself to this treatment once again, sticking around like an idiot just so he can stand me up again, just like he did ten years ago.

I’m ten years older, wiser, and with a hell of a lot more experience than I was back then, and he shouldn’t be able to hurt me again.

Hey, Amelia. Would you like another glass of cab while you wait?

I lift my head and plant a smile on my face to find the waitress, Briar Clarke standing at the table next to me. She’s younger than me by several years, and I think she might have a young daughter that I see in town every now and again. Nice girl.

Glancing down at my phone for the fifth time in less than ten minutes, my blood boils, and indecision roils within my belly. Should I stay, or should I go?

Great, now that tune will be playing on repeat inside my head the rest of the day. Damn you, Jordan Rhoades.

My anger seethes through me like a hive of wasps as I inhale and exhale, breathing out a deep sigh of decision.

No, thanks, Briar. Just the check is fine. It appears my meeting got canceled.

She tilts her head and gives me a sweet smile of sympathy. Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that. I’ve been there myself. Well, it’s their loss, then. I’ll be right back with your check.

Briar walks away toward the back, and I pull out my credit card while I wait. While I didn’t mention who I was meeting or why I was here, I’m sure she’s heard the rumor swirling around town about the newest vineyard owner scouting to hire a viticulturist for his recently purchased vineyard.

And yes, that new owner would be Jordan. And I am that winemaker.

The irony of this whole scenario is that I’ve been chomping at the bit for the past five years, since graduating from USC with my chemistry degree, returning to the Sonoma Valley wine country where I was raised. I could have gone anywhere and done anything in the field of science, but at the time, I came home to take care of my mother, who had cancer. And a job in the wine business was the only thing available.

Since then, I’ve been working as the low woman on the food chain, spending almost every weekend as the tasting room manager at the local Ellington Estates Winery, hoping that one day the owner, Brad Ellington Sr., would see my potential and worth and promote me to his assistant winemaker.

No such luck. He’s been grooming his idiot son, Billy, for that role, leaving me at the front of the shop instead of behind the curtain where all the wine making magic happens.

Which means that Jordan’s opportunity in his new winery would fit nicely in my career goals. If only it wasn’t a job where I had to work with him.

Briar returns to my table, about to present me with the check, when a deep, raspy voice abruptly stops her. Our heads whip to the side to see a tall figure at the table who grabs the black leather receipt holder from her hands.

I’ve got this. Thanks, Jordan interjects matter-of-factly. Just keep the tab open for now.

Briar’s eyes grow wide as she stares up in surprise at the six-foot-three hometown hero and now-retired pro-baseball pitcher standing in her presence.

I roll my eyes at the star-struck behavior. Not that I blame her for being starry-eyed in his presence because Jordan does possess those very appealing attributes that many women swoon over.

He’s tall and lean yet with a muscular build. Broad shoulders that lead into tan, cut biceps that bulge under the cotton of his T-shirt. And he smells good, too. Like a crisp fall night with the scent of cedar in the air.

If he were any other guy, I’d probably go weak in the knees, too.

With Jordan’s dreamy blue eyes, the color of a bright summer sky, and his wavy, Tuscan sun kissed blond hair, which at the moment is a tad too long at the nape of his neck, he looks like the classic All-American Boy. A cross between a surfer, model, and athlete.

But the problem is that he isn’t just any other guy. He’s Jordan Rhoades. And he has the propensity over my lifetime to find ways of getting me madder than a wet hen. Today being no exception since he’s close to thirty minutes tardy.

You’re late, I growl, giving him a snarl of attitude, Briar taking a visible step back to avoid my ire. I was just about to leave and forget your ass.

His smirk is smug and confident because he knows the truth. I wouldn’t have. I’ve always waited for him.

Shrugging, he pulls out the chair and takes a seat across the table from me. And yet, here you are.

Briar hands him the wine list. Would you like to order some wine, Mr. Rhoades?

I snicker at the formality. The only time I’ve ever heard anyone call him that is our teachers back in high school when he was being the class clown and disrupting their classroom.

He glances up at Briar and smiles his million-dollar practiced grin. A house red is fine. Thank you.

Cheapskate, I grumble under my breath, gritting my teeth so hard I think they might break. Jordan just laughs and hands back the menu as Briar walks away to place his order.

I just bought a fucking vineyard. I need to save all my pennies where I can.

I harrumph. Right, because you’re not a frigging millionaire. Whatever.

I lean over the table, elbow pressed to the wood, and point an accusatory finger at him.

Listen here, Mister. Just because we know each other doesn’t mean you can get away with hiring me on the cheap. I’m the best there is, and I’m worth every cent.

He assesses me with a mischievous gleam in his eye, the sunlight from the windows catching it so they sparkle brightly.

Lia, I’ve always known you were the best. At everything. I wouldn’t dare discount your worth.

His comment catches me off guard and has me sniffing at the air as if I smell bullshit.

Not only does he revert back to using the nickname he’s always called me, but he just gave me what seems like a genuine compliment. Skepticism quickly replaces my confusion.

I’m sure this is just some sort of diversion tactic. The same thing he did on the baseball mound when he tried to psyche out the batters. Throwing the changeup instead of a slider or fastball.

I’m onto him. I’m not as stupid as I was when I was seventeen.

I’m no longer that innocent girl who believed anything that Jordan said or promised.

Because those promises were always broken.

Jordan

Goddamn.

Amelia Redding turned into real a stunner.

She’s a woman we’d refer to in baseball terms as a changeup because she morphed and matured at a deceptively slow rate.

The last time I saw her was over ten years ago. She was gawky, skinny, and wore big-framed glasses that took up half her face. But underneath that, she had nice breasts and legs that I fantasized about in my teenage bed every night. And her intelligence and smart-ass wit always turned me on.

But I never let her know that. I couldn’t for many reasons.

Which is why the last time I saw her was at our high school graduation when she slapped me silly.

Before you feel sorry for me, believe me. I deserved it. I’d been a dick to her and done the unthinkable. However, the girl from back then is nothing like the sassy, fiery woman in front of me now.

Amelia has certainly changed – not only in appearance but also in her confidence level. And damn if that isn’t impressive.

A role reversal seems to have occurred between us. Where Lia has become more confident with experience, I’ve become more withdrawn after having fallen from the pedestal I’d once been on. Now I’m a has-been retired pro pitcher who left the league with his tail between his legs.

My honesty in my compliment to her seems to have