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.