Hot New Neighbor Read online Lindsey Hart (Alphalicious Billionaires #11)

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Romance Tags Authors: Series: Alphalicious Billionaires Series by Lindsey Hart

Total pages in book: 49
Estimated words: 46260 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 231(@200wpm)___ 185(@250wpm)___ 154(@300wpm)

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Hot New Neighbor (Alphalicious Billionaires #11)

Author/Writer of Book/Novel:

Lindsey Hart

Book Information:

I caught my hot new neighbor in his birthday suit…while trying to break into his house.
Before you judge me hard, let me tell you, I had no other choice. So, hear out my reasons and you’ll see.
Reason #1: He always dresses up in black from head to toe… definitely to avoid unwanted attention.
Reason #2: He has all those tattoos everywhere… Probably from his initiation into the mafia.
Reason #3: He is mostly active at night... Most likely getting rid of dead bodies in his backyard after his hit job.
Reason #4: He got a highly suspicious package… Probably instructions for his next target.
Reason #5: He never talks to me... who the hell avoids their neighbor like plague unless they are hiding something, right?
So, you see why I had no other option but to find out what he was hiding, By breaking and entering into his house. And mind you, I was definitely not planning on getting caught, I mean I was so sure he went out for the night.
I also never expected to lay eyes on his junk. And what a nice one too. Except now, I cannot get it out of my mind.
Is it normal to lust after your hitman of a neighbor even though he’s probably planning your demise right now for finding out about his identity?
WARNING: Each book in the Alphalicious Billionaire Series is a STANDALONE with nothing but swoony heartwarming HEAs allowed
Books in Series:

Alphalicious Billionaires Series by Lindsey Hart

Books by Author:

Lindsey Hart



I know two things about my neighbor, and neither one is good.

One, he’s ridiculously hot. Think of all the usual cheesy romance references: granite mountain, Greek god, carved statue, steel rear end, chiseled features, eight pack, gorgeous male references. Yes. They’re seriously all true.

Second, he’s into some shady shit. How do I know this? Well, for starters, he always dresses in black. Black hoodies, black jeans, big black boots, black aviator sunglasses, and a black ball cap. That’s weird, right? No one goes out in the heat of a Chicago summer day dressed like that unless they want to melt into a puddle of hot goo within a few minutes tops. So yeah, it’s strange. And this is Chicago. Hello… setting for like every Mafia, bootlegging, adventure true crime story and movie there ever was. I’m pretty sure that even out here in the suburbs, dressing like that and only leaving the house at odd hours of the night isn’t normal.

And yes. I have seen him without his hat and hoodie, at approximately two in the morning, pushing out his recycling bin sans shirt, in his black jeans, so I know the first point is applicable. I guess I could add a third. I also know he’s environmentally conscious.

You might think I’m a creep. I swear I don’t make a habit out of spying on my neighbor. I work from home, so I’m here all the time. I keep strange hours because I’ve always had trouble sleeping, so I’m often awake, even in the middle of the night. Some of my best ideas come to me then.

Also, the guy just moved in a few weeks ago. It’s kind of big news when someone new moves to the suburbs. At least for guys who aren’t married and don’t have kids. This place is not exactly a mecca for the single and ready to mingle, nightlife loving types. Or rather, our neighborhood isn’t.

The sound of my front door opening has me spinning away from the spot on the back of the couch where I’ve been crouching, staring guiltily through the blinds at the house next door.

“What the heck are you doing?”

My best friend, Leanne, sees right through me. I did not get out of my creepy crouch position fast enough, and my face is probably guilty as hell.

“Nothing.” I give her my best not-guilty look, but she’s not buying it.

We became friends after she moved to our neighborhood. We were both in third grade. I thought it was neat that her name was kind of the same as mine. Lu-Anne and Leanne are pretty similar. But back then, being an insecure young girl, I didn’t think it was so neat that she was prettier than me. I still talked to her anyway because I wanted to be nice. My brother always said the only thing worse than having me as a little sister would be if I turned out a catty brat. He was four years older. I didn’t understand what catty meant back then, but I did know what a brat was, and I felt that not liking a girl because she had blonde hair, expensive clothes, the sweetest cat shoes complete with little ears, eyes, and whiskers, and a cute as hell button face, could be filed under that category.

I’m glad my brother gave me that warning, because, as it turned out, Leanne was awesome. She was awesome at nine, and now at twenty-five, she’s just as great. Maybe even more because instead of giving me a lecture about being weird and needing to get out more often, she just rolls her eyes and strolls through my living room into the kitchen.

She stops at the fridge, pulls it open, and produces a chilled bottle of white wine.

“That’s the stuff,” she says with a dramatic flair. She rushes off to the cupboards and pulls down two wine glasses.

It’s just after seven, and we’re set to have our scheduled Friday girl’s night. It doesn’t matter how many other friends we’ve had, what jobs we’ve worked, or what guys we’ve dated. We always make time for our girl’s nights. I think the world could literally be ending, and Leanne would still give that meteor streaming towards earth, a crazed monster set to destroy the city, or a horde of brain-eating raging zombies her pretty middle finger if they were trying to come between her and our Friday night wine and gossip time.

Speaking of gossip, Leanne is definitely not going to let my creeping go.

“Spying on your hot neighbor again, are you?” She uncorks the wine neatly—something I have never managed to do—and pours some into each glass. She swirls hers like a real connoisseur before inhaling and closing her eyes like the wine is died and gone to heaven good. “Okay, I know you were spying. I saw you. I know you. You’re acting all crazy because some hot, thirty-something-year-old single dude moved into the house right beside yours, but why don’t you just bake a freaking casserole and go over there and welcome him to the neighborhood like a normal person?”