Read The Boy Next Door for Free Online Page A

no way he’s home alone.
    “I’ve never met anyone named Tasha before,” Larry says as I stuff my phone back into my purse.
    “It’s short for Natasha,” I say.
    “Natasha Moran,” he muses. “That’s interesting.”
    “My mother is Russian and my father is Irish,” I explain. “I know, it’s a ridiculous name.”
    “It’s not ridiculous,” Larry says. “Natasha is very pretty.”
    “It sounds like I’m some Russian cartoon spy or something,” I say.
    Larry looks at me blankly.
    “You know,” I say. “Like Boris and Natasha.” Jason laughed his ass off the first time I made that joke. But he was about ten.
    Larry is still looking at me like he has no idea what I’m talking about, so I add, “From Rocky and Bullwinkle ?”
    “Oh, yes,” Larry says, although I’m not convinced he isn’t just pretending to know what I mean to end this painful exchange. He then adds, “I was named after my great-grandfather. He died when my mother was pregnant.”
    “Oh,” I say, because what the hell else do you say to that?
    Over the next hour or so, I discover that Larry doesn’t eat red meat, that he likes documentaries, except ones in English (“Americans just don’t know how to make proper documentaries”), he has an appointment with a podiatrist next week for a toenail clipping, he doesn’t like mushrooms (and thus had to remove about two dozen mushrooms from his dish. Tell me, why order a dish with mushrooms if you hate mushrooms?), and his apartment probably needs to be repainted in the next year or so. I also discover that I can drink three quarters of a bottle of wine in an hour. (Actually, I already knew that. I am a woman who can hold my alcohol.)
    It was a bad date. The old Tasha would have never considered going out with Larry Gold ever again. But the new Tasha (who is coincidentally the older Tasha) just blew a birthday wish saying she wanted to get married. And Larry has some redeeming qualities.
    For example, I’ve been out with plenty of hot guys who wanted to split the check when we went out to eat. But when the check arrives, I make a reach for it and Larry gives me a shocked look. “Tasha,” he says, “it’s my treat, of course.”
    “I could pay the tip,” I offer.
    “Absolutely not,” Larry says as he plunks down his credit card.
    And that bill—well, I know what our food cost and what the wine costs, and that bill was nothing to sneeze it. Larry paid it without a second thought. I guess, much like Jason, who pays bills the same way, money isn’t such a big deal to him.
    Larry also hails us a cab and takes us right to my building, then lets the cab go so he can walk me to my door. Even though I tell him it’s practically impossible to find cabs in my neighborhood at night.
    “I had a really good time tonight,” Larry says to me at my door. He hasn’t asked to come inside. Yet.
    “Me too,” I lie, but it feels like less of a lie than it would have fifteen minutes earlier.
    “Can I call you again?” he asks.
    “Um, yes, of course,” I hear myself saying.
    “Wonderful,” Larry says. He looks down, then back at the elevator, as if debating something. Finally, he says, “Would it be all right if I kissed you goodnight?”
    I don’t think any guy in my entire life has ever asked permission to kiss me. The kind of guys I tend to date don’t ask permission. They just stick their tongue down your throat. I’m oddly touched by Larry’s consideration.
    “All right,” I say.
    And then Larry kisses me. On the lips. There’s no tongue, but it’s not a peck either. It doesn’t make my knees go weak, but it’s not horrible either. It’s an entirely pleasant kiss.
    When our lips separate, he looks at me for a minute, then smiles and says, “It was a pleasure, Tasha.”
    “Likewise,” I say, feeling a bit like a tool.
    Then I go into my apartment and Larry goes home, presumably spending the better part of the next hour searching for a cab.
    ***
    “See,” Jason