Guys like Tucker Moore don't date girls like me.

His boring ol' washboard abs look like they were sculpted by the gods, and I have more curves than a backroad in a country song.

He can charm the panties off anyone, but I am better off hiding behind my camera lens.

He's my next-door neighbor and the definition of a bad idea.

I have no business thinking about him, and I should have pushed him out of my dreams the moment he showed up. I'd have been better off not tempting him into anything more when I should have been walking straight into the friend-zone.

Which I do, faster than he can say "Just friends."

It doesn't matter that he spends more time in my apartment than his or that he smiles at me in a way that makes my stomach flip. That's just Tucker.

Before I know it, he's my best friend. And completely off-limits. A weekend away is our downfall, and I pack my bag so full, I can't fit my logic.

Because Tucker would be fine. But I'd end up in Trouble with the Guy Next Door.