Catching Carly - Emma Hart(ang.)

Table of Contents Cover Title Page Copyright Page PROLOGUE CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN CHAPTER TWELVE CHAPTER THIRTEEN CHAPTER FOURTEEN CHAPTER FIFTEEN CHAPTER SIXTEEN CHAPTER SEVENTEEN CHAPTER EIGHTEEN CHAPTER NINETEEN CHAPTER TWENTY CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO The End About the Author More by Emma Hart

CATCHING CARLY Emma Hart

Copyright © by Emma Hart 2017 First Edition Smashwords Edition All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. Cover Design and Formatting by Emma Hart

PROLOGUE “This never happened.”

Zeke raises an eyebrow. “Nothing has happened.” I put my hands on my hips and glare at him. “Don’t be a dick. You know what I mean. This is only going to happen because I’m a little drunk.” “I thought you said it never happened.” “You’re being a dick.” His grin is wide and a little cocky. “So right now it’s happening because you’re a little drunk, but tomorrow it won’t have happened.” I nod. “That’s right. You and I will forget it ever happened.” His blue-green eyes sweep the length of my body before he meets my gaze, his lips dropping into a self-sure smirk. “Trust me, Carly, you won’t be forgetting this when I’m through with you.” “Through with me? What am I? A naughty child awaiting punishment?” “Look, if you want me to spank you, I’m good with that.” He raises his hands in front of his body.

“In fact, I’m more than good with that.” I blink at him. It really doesn’t help that he has his hands up like that. He has big, rough hands that would feel pretty good across my ass… Good lord, Carly. Focus. Wait. Does that count as focusing? I think it might. Hmm… “We’ll see,” I finally say, clearing my head of that momentary fog. “The point is, whether your ego insists I’ll remember this tomorrow—” “You will.” “—Or not,” I continue, ignoring him. “As far as everyone else is concerned, it never has and never will happen. Are we clear?” “Crystal. Now, are you going to shut the hell up?” “No. As a rule, I don’t shut up. Ever.” Zeke steps forward, shutting the distance between us in less than three seconds. He lifts his hand to my chin and cups it, dipping his handsome face down close to mine. “That’s fine. I think I’ll

prefer it when you’re screaming for more and calling me God.” I raise both of my eyebrows. “I’m not going to call you God.” “I guarantee you’ll feel differently when you’re having the best orgasm of your life.” “That’s ambitious.” I’ve had some pretty good orgasms. Mostly battery-operated ones, because they can’t cum, so they don’t have to stop. Zeke circles his strong arm around my waist and yanks me right against him. The force with which my body hits his makes me gasp, something that only makes his smirk a little stronger. “That’s exactly what’s going to happen.” “Again,” I say, swallowing. “Ambitious.” “Carly?” “What?” He lowers his face so the tip of his nose brushes mine and locks onto me with his gaze. “The next time you talk, you’ll be screaming my name.” I open my mouth to rebuke that ridiculous—yet

hot—statement, but he’s quicker. He drops his mouth to mine and takes my bottom lip between his. His teeth graze over the soft skin, and an uncontrollable shiver rockets down my spine. Dear god, he’s barely touched me and I want to whimper like a puppy wanting a belly rub. Except, of course, I want him to rub a whole lot more than my belly. And do a whole lot more than rubbing while he’s at it too. This is dumb. I know this. It’s dumber than dumb. It’s the most stupid idea in the history of stupid ideas. Hell on a Harley Davidson, I’ve lost my goddamn mind.

CHAPTER ONE Life Goal #1: Forget about my best friend’s brother. Because Zeke Elliott is a colossal cockwomble. Do you have any idea what it’s like to be the third wheel in your friendship? No? Allow me to enlighten you. It’s like Tweedledee and Tweedledum have hold of my arms and are fighting over me while Rottweilers are using my pigtails for a game of tug of war…All while Michael Myers is spanking me enthusiastically with a switched-on chainsaw. Not to mention the fact I’m in the center of what feels like a fucking snow globe while fruitlessly screaming “Can we please keep our tongues in our own mouths?” Yeah. All of that. Now, don’t think I’m not happy for my best friends. I am. Crap, I’m so excited that they’ve finally gotten their shit together and that Brooke hasn’t yet blown herself up on a daily basis. But

all their PDAs—Pukey Displays of Assholery— are doing is reminding me that the most regular thing I’m getting is my period. And all my period comes with is cramps, sugar cravings, and enough tears over bread commercials to fix a Californian drought. Not to mention that things have changed. I knew they would, but a stupid part of me assumed it wouldn’t change quite this much. Movie nights are no longer all three of us sprawled across the sofa—it’s them cuddled up and me curled in a chair by myself. Dinner dates have almost dried up, and the last time I went over to Brooke’s for a girl’s night she’d forgotten in her usual style and I… Nope. Not going there. I am most definitely not going to think about the fact I stumbled into a bar and, after going home, had sex with Zeke Elliott. Absolutely. Not. I’m not going to think about the way his rough hands stroked my skin, or his wicked little tongue, or his even wickeder, definitely not little cock.

That’s right. Zeke Elliott has a giant cock. No, for real. I’m not exaggerating. I’m a woman. I know the real length of an inch, thank you very much. All right. Maybe I’m exaggerating a teeny bit. I was slightly drunk, after all, and hey. Giant cock sounds so much better than considerably-sized vagina slammer. See? Giant cock. We’re going with the giant cock. No, we aren’t going with the giant cock. I’m not. No giant cocks. Wait. No, definitely giant cocks. Just not his giant cock. Phew. That was a close call right there. I almost set a stupid life goal that would be seriously upsetting. “So why did you quit your job?” Brooke looks at me over her shoulder. Her hair is pulled into a bun on the top of her head, and almost all the wispy bits are covered in flour. Actually, I think there’s some frosting in there

too. Three colors. “I didn’t quit my job,” I argue, gripping the edge of the counter. “I said I wanted to quit my job, but that was only because Nina came into the bank and complained to my manager about me.” “Oh. Why did she complain about you?” “I don’t know. Because you stole her boyfriend?” Brooke whirls on me and points her spatula in my direction. “I loved him first. And I didn’t steal him. It was a total accident.” “That you’d planned for, like, eight years.” “Irrelevant.” She turns back to the mixing bowl. “Did you do something to her?” “Apart from try to use the Force to rip out her hair extensions? No. I think she’s realized I’m the quiet one out of the two of us.” “It’s been nine months. Maybe we should ship her a vibrator.” That isn’t a bad idea. Nine months is a long time to go without some nookie. “Or we could throw it at her head.”

“No, that’s just dumb.” She pauses. “Wait,

when did I become the sensible one here?” “You’re working. You’re always sensible when you work.” I jump down off the counter and lean over her shoulder. “Can I have one of those daisy cupcakes?” “Hmmm?” She glances down at the cupcakes to her right. “Oh, sure. Billie said that if I didn’t make them soon, she was going to throw her children into the Atlantic.” I grab one from the plate. The tangy, lemon scent of the bright yellow frosting hits me, making me breathe it in before I’ve gripped it hard enough to rustle the paper case. “She’s dramatic. She wouldn’t throw them in the ocean.” “I don’t know.” Brooke spoons blueberry muffin mixture into a tray. “She tried to do it to Ben once when he destroyed her sandcastle.” I pause, my cupcake cake pinched between my fingers. “Did it work?” “No. Billie’s scrawny.” “So is your brother.”

“He’s fast. She’s not.” She shrugs and, with all

twelve cases filled with mixture, slides the tray into one of her ovens. “All right. I think I’m done now.” I bite into my cupcake and lean against the counter. “’Ow menny akes you bake?” Brooke raises her eyebrow. “Is that good, by any chance?” I cover my mouth with my hand and swallow, trying not to laugh. Damn it. “Sorry. My brain and stomach aren’t working cohesively today.” “Or ever.” “Shut your ass, Barker.” She flashes me a grin and opens the dishwasher. “Remember when you offered to help? I need some help.” I cast my gaze across her kitchen, biting into the cupcake again. So damn good. “I was offering to help you frost or something. Not clean,” I say when I’ve swallowed my mouthful of cake. “I’m still in my work clothes.” “You were just sitting on the counter.”

“Away from the mess, yes.”

Brooke straightens up. Then she throws a handful of flower at me. “Mother—” I jump backward, but the shower of white shit hits me and envelopes the front of my white skirt in a dusty cloud. “I hate you so much, you utter whore.” She grins wide, her dark eyes sparkling. “Yeah, yeah. Here. Have another cupcake.” She shoves another daisy cupcake at me as the door opens. “Hey, did you—whoa,” Cain says, drawing my attention. “Did she let you bake?” “No,” I grumble. “She didn’t like that I was clean and she looks like she’s been churned through a KitchenAid.” Cain’s gaze darts between us. “That actually makes a ton more sense. There’s no way she’d let you bake.” “I’m not that bad!” “I beg to differ,” Zeke drawled, coming up behind his younger brother. His blue-green eyes

pierced straight into mine. “I think I still have food poisoning from your last attempt.” I put the cupcake down and reach for a cloth to wet and clean my skirt off with. “Oh, get over it. It was, like, two years ago. And obviously, I didn’t poison you enough since you’re still here pissing me off.” The grin that slowly stretches across his face is easy and annoyingly sexy. I simultaneously want to smack it and sit on it. Violence or sluttiness? Hmm. “Don’t blame me,” he says. “You’re easy to rile. You rise to the bait every time…Like a pretty little piranha.” “Did you just—” I spin, the wet cloth in my hand, and stare at him. He’s holding my cake. And he’s bitten into it. The frosting is on his nose. I respond the only possible way. I throw the cloth I’m holding at his face. It’s a damn good shot, because it opens up mid-air and covers half his face, leaving one of his eyes uncovered. Brooke coughs and looks away.

“Thanks.” Zeke wipes his face off with the

cloth and chucks it back to me. “I needed that. The damn frosting gets everywhere.” “My frosting,” I shoot at him, turning the tap back on. “My cupcake, my frosting, your karma.” “You two are exhausting.” Brooke sighs, joining me at the sink. “You either need to be separated on a permanent basis, like three-yearolds, or just have sex.” My stomach loop-the-loops. “Unless he comes with batteries, I’m not interested.” “I don’t need batteries,” Zeke offers, his sexy grin now an even sexier smirk. “It’s pretty easy to keep going when you’re being prayed to mid-fuck.” “Why? Because you’re god?” Brooke asks dryly. “How original of you. That’s never been used by a guy in the history of ever.” Well. In all fairness, I might have begged to a deity once or twice when we…Never mind. Not thinking about that. “Can we not talk about sex?” I look around the room.

“Why?” Cain grins. “Aren’t you getting any?”

I look him dead in the eye and say, “I don’t need any.” Zeke snorts. “People always need sex, Carly.” I turn my attention to him and raise my eyebrow. “No. People need oxygen and water and food. You don’t even need sex to make babies now. Your point is moot.” “She’s got a point,” Brooke mutters. “So, you’d rather have a baby created in a laboratory than have an orgasm and make one for free?” Zeke’s lips quirk. “Only if you’re the last person on Earth.” I offer him my sweetest smile. “You wound me.” “So go get a Band-Aid and shut up.” Cain blinks. “I’m going back to the house.” “Wait!” The wooden spoon Brooke was holding clatters to the stainless steel sink as she turns. “Don’t leave me here with them.” “With us?” My eyes bug. “Don’t leave me with him!” I point at Zeke.

Brooke slams the door to the little building behind her, doing exactly the thing I just begged her not to. Damn her. So much for best friend solidarity. “What’s wrong with being alone with me?” Zeke grins, folding his arms across his chest. Shadows highlight how toned his biceps are as his tanned skin stands out against his filthy, white tshirt that struggles a little too much to contain his arm muscles. I snap my eyes up to meet his gaze. The cocky glint in them irritates me. “Everything.” “Specifically because the last time we were alone, your dropped your panties like they were on fire.” “No.” I point at him and straighten. “We made a deal, so shut up. It shouldn’t have happened and it will never happen again.” His grin doesn’t falter. “If you say so.” “What do you mean, if I say so?” “Exactly that. If you say it’ll never happen again, it’ll never happen again.”

I mirror his position, folding my arms across my chest too. “Listen to me, Ezekiel Elliott. It will never happen again.” “I know that, sugartits. You just said it.” “Did you seriously just call me sugartits?” “I did.” I blink at him. “Why?” “Because you’ve got a sweet rack.” “I have no idea what I can possibly respond to that except stop looking at my boobs.” “Then stop pushing them up like that.” I drop my arms. “You’re infuriating, do you know that?” He laughs quietly. “I do. I make a point to be extra annoying when you’re around.” “Really? I couldn’t tell.” My tone oozes sarcasm. I turn away from him and grab my purse from one of the chairs. “I have to go something that doesn’t involve you in a place where you aren’t, so…” “If you want help masturbating…” I sling my purse strap over my shoulder and

glare at him. “Never. Again.” He turn around, leaning over the counter, and flashes me a dirty smile. “If you say so, sugartits. If you say so.” I groan as I leave the little building Cain built for Brooke to run her business out of. I sure as hell hope that nickname isn’t going to stick, but knowing Zeke, he’ll make sure it does. I’m pretty sure he gets a sick kind of pleasure out of pissing me off whenever he sees me. I pause by the kitchen window of the halfcompleted house Cain is building, but it literally is a pause. He and Brooke are kissing, and a twinge of jealousy sparks in the pit of my stomach. It’s followed immediately by guilt, because I have no right to be jealous of them. I wanted nothing more than my best friends to love each other. Still, I think as I walk to my car. It’s amazing how something that’s made them so happy has made me…not so happy.

CHAPTER TWO Life Goal #2: Online date without unsolicited dick pics. Much like a new year’s resolution, this probably won’t last the week. I click on the new match from the dating website. Male. Always a good start. Twenty-eight. That works. Attorney. That could work. Likes: Skiing, football, reading, animals. Oh, this is promising. Dislikes: Women who take a long time to get ready, meat. Well. It was promising. Not so much right now. Honestly, he’s probably not going to get much luck with that first comment. Besides, what constitutes a long time? Half an hour? An hour? And what if for the first date I don’t need to wash my hair so it only takes me twenty minutes, but the second, I need to wash it so it takes me ninety minutes?

Ugh, no, I don’t need that kind of stress in my life. Long time, schmong time. When he has thick hair and lots of it, he can try again. I reject the match. Sorry, Veggie Judgie Attorney boy. Not today. Clearly Satan created that one. None of the other matches are any good. One guy lives too far away for my patience, the other works too much, and the other is looking for a second wife. No, thank you, sir. I’m just fine on that. I’m saved from further online dating torture by my Jack Russell, Delilah, rubbing her wet nose against my bare ankle. I squirm and scoot back on the wheelie laptop chair. There’s nothing worse than a random dog nose against your skin. Except online dating. At least there were no dick pics. For that, I suppose, I should be grateful. “What do you want, Delilah?” I look down at my slightly assholish roommate. She blinks up at me with her big brown eyes. She does nothing. Great. Why can’t dogs talk?

“Walkies?”

She yapped and ran toward the front door. Sure. That she understands. Figures. “Okay, okay, let me change.” I close down my laptop and head for my bedroom. This online dating thing is for the birds. Actually, no, not even the birds would take it. They’d take one look at this shit and fly away. Believe me, if I could fly away, I would. A desert island sounds fabulous right about now. Fully changed, I slip my feet into my sneakers. My hair tie snaps against my skin as I pull my hair back into a ponytail. Delilah’s already retrieved her leash from the shoe rack and is holding it in her mouth, her tiny tail wagging crazily behind her. I snap the leash onto her collar and with my phone and poop bags safely tucked into my bra, leave my apartment. If I didn’t live so close to the park, I doubt I could have a dog. I only run because there are strangely less people at the park than at the gym, and much like Brooke, I’d rather not be around people.

In fact, my tolerance for people talking to me is quite low. Non-existent, if I’m completely honest. How I survive working at the bank is still a mystery to me, mostly because it was only supposed to be a temporary job until I could move into accounting. That temporary job has been temporary for three years, and it’s definitely starting to feel a little more permanent than it should. Probably because it is. I don’t necessarily have the balls to go out on my own, and everyone around here who needs an accountant already has one. Small town problems. I unclip Delilah’s leash a few feet into the park. She waits until I jog before she runs alongside me. The hot afternoon sun beats down on me. My thoughts turn—unwanted—to yesterday at Cain’s house. His half-built house, Brooke’s successful business, their relationship…Maybe I am bitter. Our friendship has lasted so long and we’ve always been in pretty much the same positions, but now it feels as though their lives are moving

forward at lightspeed. As soon as the house is done, they’ll move in together, then there’ll be marriage and babies. And I’ll probably still be here, working at the bank, in my little apartment, avoiding unwanted dick pics and awkward matches on dating websites. I guess that’s why they say three’s a crowd. Someone always has to be left out. If only three-person friendships worked like threesomes in porn. Equal shares for everyone. Ugh. I need to do something radical. Whining to myself isn’t going to change anything. Maybe the problem isn’t me—maybe it’s this town. Maybe Barley Cross is too small for me. I didn’t get a degree for it to be used giving people change and cashing checks and disputing charges they approved. I could move. But where? I wouldn’t know anyone. I’d have to get a job first and make sure I could afford to live there…Wherever ‘there’ would be.

I don’t really want to move. I hate packing. I almost always lose half of the things I own. Seriously. They’re never left behind and never unpacked or found…Ever. Things lost when moving house probably go to the same place as socks and hair grips. Wherever that is, I hope they’re all very happy together. Lord fucking knows I’m not. There are only so many outfits a girl can wear odd socks with. Like pajamas, or underwear, or pajamas. So, it’s mostly pajamas. Whatever. Delilah stops and crouches in front of a tree, so I lean against it to catch a breath. I really need to find a running buddy, because then I wouldn’t go off on an inner-tangent every time I come out. Brooke running lasted all of a month before she forgot so many times I stopped asking her. “You should wear yoga pants more often,” a familiar and unwelcome voice says from behind me. “They make your ass look really good.” I turn around, batting my bangs from my eyes. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Zeke laughs. He’s dressed in running clothes too. Of course… I should really be careful what I wish for. “I didn’t realize you owned the rights to run in this park.” His eyes sparkle with his amusement, and his pink lips twist to the side. “Do I need permission?” “You can’t help but open your mouth and be a dick, can you?” “Your dog is shitting.” I look down. Delilah trots away from her business, and I sigh as I whip a bag out from my bra. “Impressive,” Zeke says, leaning against the tree where I just was. “What else can you fit in that thing?” “If I really wanted to,” I reply, collecting Delilah’s present, “A gun.” “Well played.” “Thank you.” I tie the bag and carry it to the trash can. Thank god for scented bags, that’s all

I’m saying. When I turn back, Zeke is on one knee and Delilah is all over him. Her little front paws are on his knee and arm, and she’s trying to lick his face. His head is right back, but he’s peering down at her as he scratches her under the chin. I raise my eyebrows. That dog likes nobody except me. And sometimes Cain—that depends whether or not he has treats. Zeke catches my eye and mouths, “Help.” I cover my mouth with my hand and look down before I laugh. No, wait, never mind. I’m laughing. I am totally laughing. Let’s be real here. The guy is at least six-three and has to be a solid one-hundred-and-seventy pounds of muscle and he expects me to believe he can’t fend off a barely five-pounds-after-twodinners Jack Russell? Dude, please. “This is real cute. You’re being bested by a dog you can step on.” I laugh, my hand against the tree trunk. “She’s enthusiastic,” he replies, somewhat

brokenly. “Delilah. Get—” Apparently him saying her name was the catalyst, because she pushes off her hind legs. She has to be taking him by surprise, because as her head hits his chest, Zeke falls sideways on the grass with her on top of him. She gets her wish, and she licks his face and neck to death. He sputters his way through the canine assault until he finally manages to push her onto the grass and get up before she can return to him. “I think you have a new friend.” I grin, barely able to hide my laugh. “Lucky you.” “Lucky. Easy to say when you aren’t covered in dog slobber.” He lifts his shirt to wipe his face. My gaze drops his stomach before I can stop it. Stuff a turkey and smack its ass—his body is unbelievable. I know it. I’ve touched it. And although I swore I never would again, looking at the sculpted packs of muscle makes me want to. Don’t even think about the temptation trails shaped in ‘v.’ Those suckers dip tantalizingly low beneath the waistband of his shorts. Low enough

that your tongue could go muscle to cock in less than a second and you wouldn’t even realize it. “Are you done enjoying the scenery?” Zeke’s dry words were wrapped in a heavy dose of smugness. “I think,” I reply slowly, “That if anyone were to shoot you in the stomach, it’d just bounce right off. Those abs are like a built-in bulletproof vest.” “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.” Shit. My cheeks flame. It would help if there was communication between my brain and my mouth sometimes. Seriously, Brooke is a mess, but my filter doesn’t exist. If it did, my mouth would have sent my last words right back to my brain with a “Nope, keep that up there, moron.” “And that’s right up there with the dumbest things I’ve ever said out loud,” I mutter. “Delilah. Let’s go.” I whistle. Her ears perk up, and she finally turns her

attention to me instead of Zeke’s feet. “If that’s what you’re saying out loud,” he says with a smirk, “What are you not saying?” “That I’d like to test my theory.” “Sure it is, sugartits.” I groan, redoing my ponytail. “No, don’t call me that. I hate that.” “I know.” His smirk slides into a grin. “That’s why I do it.” Damn it. Should have ignored it. I know better than to give him ammunition. “Delilah!” I shout. She’s climbing up Zeke’s leg. “Do not shake your leg,” I warn him. He looks down at her…With her little ass humping like mad. “That’s the most action I’ve had since Cain’s birthday party.” My cheeks burn once again. Of course he’d bring up that night a month ago. I grab Delilah’s collar and pull her away from Zeke’s leg. The girl can hump all she likes—even if she were the one being humped, it’d be a

fruitless exercise. She couldn’t have puppies unless she stole them from another Jack Russell. I clip the leash back on her with a firm, “No,” and stand back up. Like always, Zeke has that stupid-ass grin on his face, and all it’s doing is highlighting the fact there’s the hint of a five o’clock shadow darkening his strong jaw. “Your dog likes me just as much as you do.” His words tease laughter. “Then my dog is just as stupid as I was.” I smile. “Come on, Delilah. Let’s go.” I turn away from him and get back on the path that winds its way through the park. It’s rough and gravelcovered, but there are parts that have been worn down more than others that are little more than dust. Zeke falls into step beside me. “What are you doing?” I ask him, glancing over toward him. “Running with you. Do I need permission?” “Asking if I care would be nice.” “Do you care?”

“Yes, actually.”

He grins. “Awesome. I’ll just run behind you then.” Oh no, no. I know exactly what he’s up to. “Get back around here.” I reach out and tug on his t-shirt before he can. “Stay right there, mister.” “Shame,” he murmurs, but he doesn’t say another word as we both settle into a comfortable speed. Yep. I definitely need to be more careful what I wish for. *** There’s nothing like waking up to an unwanted dick pic. It’s one of those moments that should come with a ‘Don’t try this at home’ warning. Because, yeah. Don’t try this at home. Or anywhere, actually. It’s not a good ‘there’s nothing like this.’ Especially when said penis is one hundred percent hairless. Hairless peens on grown men resemble

newborn mice. Gross. I shudder as I delete the message. I’m not even going to entertain that, and I have no idea how he found me on Facebook. I don’t want to know either. There might be more where he came from. Online dating really isn’t working out for me, is it? Delilah whines from somewhere in my apartment which prompts me to get out of bed. Six a.m. on Monday is far too early for my liking. Actually, six a.m. any day is too early, but I think I’m on autopilot these days. I’m not really awake until the doors to the bank open and I have to be a normal human being for a few hours. Too many hours. At least my lunch dates with Brooke haven’t been compromised by her relationship with Cain. Yet. Ugh, there I go again with the bitterness. I need to get the hell over it already…And get laid again while I do it. I don’t need sex as Zeke would like me to believe, but I sure as hell wouldn’t mind

it. Why am I thinking about him? Zeke Elliott was a mistake. A big mistake. Something I’m very good at. It goes along with the time I wanted to bleach my eyebrows to lighten them and ended up taking them white blond and getting bleach burns on my skin. Or the time I hammered a screw into the wall instead of a nail. Or the time I dated a married guy. In my defense, I didn’t know he was married until his wife came into the restaurant we were eating at…with another man. Yeah. Awkward. And then there was Mr. Octopus, a.k.a Ian. He was grabbier than a kid in a candy store. Long story short: Making bad mistakes is something I’m very good at. Again, Zeke. Potentially the biggest mistake I’ve ever made. I don’t even like him. I…tolerate…him, for want of a better word. I do that only because he’s Cain’s brother, and yes, good lord the man is sex on a stick, but I still don’t like him. I fully blame the

alcohol I’d consumed at Cain’s part for what I did. I had sex with Zeke Elliott. I had sex with my best friend’s brother. Oy vey. It sounds worse like that. I don’t like that. Why am I still thinking about this? I could really do with a new, promising guy to date right about now. Oh, screw it. Does it matter that I still sometimes think about the way Zeke’s rough fingers traveled down my sides and gripped my hips? Does it really matter that I still might think about the gentle desperation he kissed me with? And does it really, really make a difference if I still sometimes remember the way he fisted my hair as he came while groaning my name? Oh god. Yes. It does indeed. It matters a lot. A whole ton more than a lot. I can’t keep remembering that. Why can’t I be one of those girls who has sex with someone and can’t remember it the next day, never mind a month later? I want to be

that girl. Yes. I want to be a slut. I want to be a drunken, free, sexually liberal woman. Well. Not so drunken, because hangovers, and not so free, because condoms, but the rest of that? Yes. All of the rest of it. Delilah yaps. It pulls me out of my stupor, and looking down, I realize I’ve been so lost in thought I’ve over-poured her breakfast. Dog biscuits are scattered across my tiled, silver kitchen floor. She’s in a level of heaven akin to a multiple orgasm, and I’m so far down in Hell I don’t think Satan can find me. I clean up the mess I made and head for the shower. I’m done with today already. I can tell it’s going to the Mondayest Monday to ever Monday. Oh, Monday. You’re only matched by the moment you come on your period while wearing your best underwear. I take a deep breath and turn on the shower. I’m blasted by ice cold water. Of course I am. Sigh…

CHAPTER THREE Life Goal #3: Don’t kill the stupid people. Let them stick their fingers in a plug socket or something. “Sir, I’m afraid your check is four days out of

date.” I slide the slip of paper back through the opening in the window to Mr. Heizburg. “What do you mean it’s out of date?” He sputters each word, his cheeks flushing. “That’s impossible! This check is good for thirty days!” Oh god. Here we go. “Yes, and if you check the date, you’re four days late to cash it. The other two are good, but you’ll have to contact the writer of this one to have it redone.” I keep my voice calm and nonconfrontational. There’s only five minutes of the day left. Five minutes. Five. Minutes. “I can’t be late!” “I’m afraid you are, sir.”

“But I can’t be.”

I’m getting tired of this shit. “Feel free to check the date while I run these into the system.” I turn to my computer and begin the process. Mr. Heizburg lifts the check to his face, lowering his glasses to his eyes. After a few seconds, he says, “Come on, Carly. It’s only four days. Can’t you do anything about it?” “I can cash the check, but it’ll just be sent back to you,” I say to him, finishing up with the first good check. “So, no.” “This is ridiculous.” “Well, Mr. Heizburg, a suggestion, if I may?” He grumbled a sound that was neither a yes or a no. “I would check the dates and make sure you cash them on time. Otherwise you’re wasting nobody’s time but your own.” “I’m wasting yours too.” “That too.” I finished up with the second check and hit ‘print.’ The printer whirred to life behind me. I scooted my chair over to it, whipped out the

sheet with the confirmations, signed it, and wheeled back to my desk. “Here you go, sir. All done for you. Have a nice day.” He mumbled a displeased “Thank you” before turning away. I let go of a long breath and filed the checks. “I need to pay this in, please.” I snap my gaze upward. “Zeke Elliott, you’re a damn rash, aren’t you?” He slowly grins. “Small town life, sugartits.” I pull back the slider for the thingy of which I’ve somehow never learned the name. Zeke puts a cash bag into it and, with a crash, I push the slider shut and pull the cash bag through. Opening it, I see that it’s a mix of cash and checks. Excellent. Just what I love doing. “To the main account?” He answers by slipping a bank card under the screen. I take it and get to work. He doesn’t speak as I enter the Elliott and Sons account and empty out the bag. “Do you know how much is here?” I peer up at

him, the checks in my hand. He leans forward and says in a low voice, “Twelve thousand exactly in checks and one thousand, three hundred and fifty one dollars, and seventy-six cents in cash.” “An estimate would have worked too.” I turn my attention back to the checks. I process them all and turn to count the cash. I count it lightning-fast, the green notes nothing but indiscernible blurs as I place them down on pile after pile. “One thousand, three hundred and fifty three dollars, and thirteen cents in cash, actually,” I say. I lick my fingers and recount as I place the notes in the drawer one by one. “Cain really has to brush up on his math,” Zeke says, now leaning to one side on the counter. “If he has to count, Cain doesn’t math,” I answer. “And if he did, the answer you gave would have been dreadfully worse. Try again, Ezekiel.” “It’s kinda hot when you call me Ezekiel.” “You’re only saying that because you think it’ll annoy me.” I type without looking at him. “Would

you like a receipt for your cash deposit?” “Yes, please.” He pauses when I roll over to the printer. “And no, I’m not. It actually is a little hot.” “You need to get out more.” I pull the sheets from the print tray and roll back to him. “Here you go. Please send your brother next time.” I smile sweetly. He chuckles. “No chance.” “Sorry. This window is closed now.” I log off from my computer as the clock clicks over to five p.m. “Oh, and if you need help with your weekly sums, I know a great math tutor who can help you.” My smile is anything but sweet as I turn away from him. His expression is a mixture of a glower and a smirk, his gaze a tormented combination of laughter and frustration. I don’t laugh to myself until I’ve punched in the code and I’m on the staff-only side of the building. Zeke Elliott can call me sugartits all he likes—today, he unwillingly gave me a weapon to add to my arsenal.

Now, don’t think I’d usually screw with someone in this manner. But Zeke, someone who will one day own part of a business, being unable to add up the takings for the weekend…That tickles me. Besides, he calls me sugartits. Anything goes then. I pull my phone from my purse and check my messages. There are three from Brooke, so I open hers first. Brooke: Billie is kid-free tonight. Girls’ night? Brooke: Hey, bitchhead. Answer. Brooke: Shit, you’re working. I bought your wine. Billie’s house, six p.m. Be there or I’m going to tell Zeke you wanna go fishing in his pants. Bit too late for that last one. Me: Yes, girls’ night. Yes, I was working. And yes, Billie’s. See you in an hour.

*** I pull up outside Billie’s house after making a quick stop at my apartment to change and feed Delilah. I also ignored a call from my mother. That isn’t entirely unusual, but mostly because she has this amazing habit of calling at the absolute worst times. Seriously. I work eight ‘til five, Monday to Friday. Mom, don’t call me at three on a Monday. I won’t answer. I grab my purse and get out of the car. The sunset stretches up over the sky, even into the suburban bliss that is Billie’s neighborhood. The golden hue of the diminishing daylight chases me to the front door where I knock three times before opening it. “Hello?” I say, stepping inside. “Carlyyyy!” Billie trills my voice from the living room. Seconds later, she staggers into the doorway, clutching a glass of wine. Her eyes are glassy, and she’s clearly out of it.

“Hey, Bills.” The last time I saw her this

hammered, I was sixteen. “Okay.” Brooke appears seemingly out of nowhere and plucks the glass from Billie’s hand. “You’re going to bed.” Billie snorts. “I should call Marcus for some tips. He’s good at going to bed. Not with me, though. Whoops!” My eyes widen. Well. Shit. I close the front door and hover back while Brooke puts down the wine glass and takes a solid grasp of her big sister. Billie hovers on her feet for a moment before she closes her eyes and her nostrils flare. “I’m okay,” she says. “I swear, I’m okay.” Brooke hesitates. “Fine, but water only.” Billie shrugs but she doesn’t argue. She lets Brooke lead her into the kitchen, and I follow them in. I don’t know if I know what’s going on or not. Actually, I have no idea. All I know is that Billie is high school senior wasted. And something about

Marcus and bed. Billie drops onto one of the stools lined up by the island in the middle of the room. Her entire body sags forward, and her face is soon hidden by the way her dark hair falls across her cheeks. “Here.” Brooke slides a glass of water. “Thank you.” Sitting up seems like a complete hardship for her, but she does it, sipping the water several times before she puts the glass back down. “Perhaps the wine was a bad idea.” I nod. “Where are the kids?” “At Marcus’ parents.” Billie runs her hand right through her hair. “With him. Apparently I’m not in the right frame of mind to parent them tonight.” “Well, to be fair,” Brooke starts. “It is six p.m. and you’re drunk.” “I’m not drunk. I’m emotional.” “They usually go hand in hand,” I point out. Billie offers me a withering look for a fleeting second. “Ugh. I’m too exhausted to even Mom-look you.” Thank god. Those Mom-looks are scary.

“What’s going on?” Brooke finally asks. “Since

I’ve got nothing out of you since I got here.” Billie slumps forward again. “My marriage is over. My husband is a cheating son of a bitch, and my entire life is about to collapse.” That sounds a little dramatic. “Marcus cheated on you?” I ask after it sinks in. “What? Why?” “When?” Brooke adds. “Today was his day off because he worked all weekend,” Billie answers. “So I took the kids to school, ran some errands, and then had a lunchtime nail and hair appointment. Turns out my girl is sick, so I come home and find him screwing his secretary. In our bed.” Brooke tilts her head to the side. “Isn’t that a little cliche?” I didn’t want to say it, but… “Right?” Billie’s voice rises a few octaves. “At least be fucking original, you unfaithful pig!” “What did you do?” I ask. She looks me dead in the eye and says, quite

matter-of-factly, “I threw a glass lamp at them.” I blink at her for a second. “Did you hit them?” “The headboard. Close enough.” A weak smile briefly flirts with her lips. “You always were a good shot,” Brooke muses. “Then what happened?” “I threw Sandra the Slut out of my front door, half naked, and threatened Marcus with another lamp until he came clean.” Her previous hysteria has completely gone, and in its place is now a steadfast, unemotional robot. “He admitted he’d been having an affair with her for three months. She had been coming to the house on occasion under the guise of an interior designer, since we’d been visiting with designers to re-do the kitchen. My friends asked me vaguely and it never rung any bells.” She pauses. “He admitted that not all his work trips were work trips, and his late-night Thursdays weren’t for clinic hours. Although he should perhaps consider using that time to visit the sex clinic to get tested for whore-itis or whatever

the popular one is these days.” Whore-itis. I shouldn’t want to giggle at that, but I do. Kinda… “Wow. I’m sorry, Bills.” “Don’t be.” She waves her hand at me. “Ten years, two children, and it’s all gone up in smoke because he couldn’t keep it in his pants. If he didn’t want to be with me, why didn’t he just say? Why do this? Why cause such pain?” Brooke slips onto the stool next to her and leans into her. “I don’t know. But I wish I could make it stop hurting. Did you tell Mom yet?” Billie shakes her head. “I called you first. I don’t want to tell her.” “We’ll tell her,” I offer. Welp. Clearly my filter failed me again. Another mistake… “You will?” Billie asks, hope in her expression. “Sure. And by we, I mean Brooke.” I grin. Brooke rolls her eyes. “I’ll tell Mom. Don’t worry. Do you know what we need to do? We need

to watch Mean Girls.” “Why could we possibly need to watch Mean Girls?” I ask her. “What relation does that movie have to this situation at all?” “Nothing,” she answers simply. “I think that’s why we need to watch it.” “It’s not a bad idea. It is a pretty terrible movie.” “That makes even less sense than my plan.” “No. You watch bad movies in bad situations. They remind you how much shittier the movie is than your life.” Billie purses her lips. “Can I pretend Sandra the Slut is Regina George when she gets hit by the bus.” I share a look with Brooke. “Sure.” She nods and stands. “I’ll go find it.” When she’s left the room, Brooke meets my eyes. “I hate him right now, but Marcus might be onto something where her emotional state is concerned.” “Heard that!” Billie shouts.

“Crap.”

*** Sometimes bad situations make you reevaluate how not so bad your life is. I mean, sure. I’m getting random dick pics at least three times a week—none of which are pretty, although dicks tend not to be—but at least nobody has the power to break my heart. Well. Except George R.R. Martin. I’m only on season four of Game of Thrones, and who knows who else he’s gonna kill. That said, Billie’s terrible situation has me thinking about what a terrible person I am for being glad that there’s absolutely no chance of me being in said situation for a good while. I never pretended to be a good person. I just pretended to be a sensible one, okay? I feel bad for her. Of course I do. I love her like she’s my own sister, but it’s also reminding me there’s the upside to being single. Not many, but enough.

My grandmother is also doing a pretty good job of reminding me why I shouldn’t stay single. I’m this close to considering paying someone to pretend to be my boyfriend. “What if you burst a pipe?” Grandma asks over the top rim of her half-moon glasses. “Then I call the building manager and a plumber,” I answer, reaching for my drink. “What if you get flooded?” “Then I jump out the window.” “What if you need a shelf putting up?” “Then I’ll call Dad or Cain or, shock horror, put it up myself.” “Carly Louise Porter, if you try to drill a wall, you’d put a hole in your thumb.” Her lips tug up to one side. “I’ve seen you attempt to hang a nail—” “Yes, yes,” I cut her off before she can go further. “And I ended up in the emergency room with a broken pinky finger.” “I’m still unsure as to how you managed that.” She could take a number and get in line. I didn’t know either.

“So, Grandma, we’ve established nothing has

changed with me,” I say before she can restart her line of questioning. “What’s new with you?” “Well, I’m having a party on Saturday.” She peers up at me slowly—and slyly. A fact only magnified by her glasses. I know where she’s going with this, and I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all. “A party,” I reply flatly. “What for?” “My birthday!” She taps her hand against mine. “Grandma, your birthday is next Friday. Why are you having the party this weekend?” “Because I can,” she answers like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “And I’d like you to come.” “Of course I’m going to come to your birthday party…If you tell me why you look like the fox who just found the chicken coop.” I raise an eyebrow in challenge to her. “You’re too much like me.” Light from the glaring strips above us glances off the shininess of

her French manicure. “You need to bring a date with you.” I blink at her. She has got to be freaking me. Did someone steal her meds? “A date,” I say after a moment. “Yes.” She smiles. Slowly. Sneakily. Smugly. “A date. A male one.” Suck on a llama’s shit. She has me cornered. “Fine.” I bite down the annoyance and the dread of the task ahead. “I’ll see you there. With my date. I have to get back to work.” I snatch my purse up and put twenty dollars on the table. “My treat.” Grandma slides the bill across the table back to me. That smile is still on her face, and it’s widening by the second if the deepening of the lines around her eyes is anything to go by. “I’ll call your mother with the details.” “You do that,” I mutter, slipping out of the booth. God. Damn. It.

CHAPTER FOUR Life Goal #4: Find a date for Grandma’s party. Preferably one my family will hate. “A date!” I tell Delilah. “The woman is out of

her mind. I’m telling you, Delilah, she’s completely crazy.” She cocks her head at me for a second before turning and scuttling over to her bed. Now, I don’t speak dog, but I had the feeling that head cock was reminding me that for all my insistences of my grandmother’s insanity, I was the one engaging in conversation with an animal, like she’d understand. Not even a smart animal, at that. If it were a cat, it’d probably have come up with a solution. Or blinked at me in disdain and gone to bring me home a dead mouse for its poor, incapable human pet. Thankfully, Delilah isn’t a cat. I can’t cope with mice. Grandma has well and truly thrown me in at

the screwy deep end. She knows as well as I do that the dating pickings in this stupid town aren’t exactly New York City heir-esque. Hell, they’re not even playboy-esque. The good ones are taken and the bad ones are, well, exactly that. Too grabby and handy and pervy. I could always ask Brooke if I could borrow Cain for the night. Or… No. Not Zeke. I am not taking Zeke to my grandmother’s party. I know that man. He’ll think ‘party’ is a euphemism for sex. Although, in all fairness, that’s my fault for sleeping with him in the first place. Why does it always come back to that? Aren’t men the ones who think about sex far too regularly for it to be considered normal? My brain has got to get hold of herself. I so wish I could do what I said would happen —that I’d forget about it the next day. Long term goal. That definitely needs to be a long-term goal. My phone rings from the coffee table. Mom’s

name is blinking at me on the screen, and I purse my lips. My mom and grandma live by one simple rule: tolerate each other in the presence of my father, and ignore each other otherwise. “Hi, Mom.” “Hi, Carly.” Her voice trills down the line. “Your grandmother called.” “I’m fine, Mom. Thanks for asking,” I say as I always do. She’s not being rude. She just skips on over that question on the regular. “And yes, she said she would.” “I’m well, too. So is your father.” See? She’s not all bad. “She said something about a party on Friday at six and a date. Can you explain? I didn’t stay on the phone any longer than I needed to.” She sniffs. “She was trying to recruit me to her side.” Ah, yes. The great divide. Grandma wanting me married off and Mom believing it’s my choice and that Grandma should back off. Go Team Mom. Woot woot. I give her a brief recap of our conversation

from lunch earlier today. “I have no idea who I’m supposed to bring. She’s given me, like, four days notice.” “Hmm, yes. She did mention that if you didn’t take a date, she had one ready for you.” She said what? “She said what?” Did I just hear that right? Surely not. She has to be screwing with me. “She has a date lined up for you if you can’t get one for yourself,” Mom elaborates dryly. Obviously, she isn’t too impressed about this either. Nope. This isn’t going to happen. Not today, not Friday, not ever. Ever. “So, if you’re wondering, I’m going on vacation on Friday,” I say after a moment of silence. “Unfortunately I’ll be indisposed as I attempt to find a new place to live where there is no Wi-Fi, no phone connection, and no chance Grandma will ever find me.” There’s nothing but the light crackling of the line for a few seconds. Then, Mom’s muffled

laughter breaks through the static. “Noted. When she calls, I’ll send her to Atlantis.” “That’ll do it.” I pause. “Does she really, really have me a date?” “Really, really,” Mom answers. “Sorry, sweetie.” “Why are you apologizing? You’re not stuck in the middle ages.” “I know. I have to go—your father is yelling about his socks.” I swear I can hear her eyes roll. “All right. Bye, Mom.” I hang up and drop back on the sofa. I’m an independent woman, damn it. I don’t need setting up on a date with anyone. Granted, my choices so far haven’t exactly been stunning, but everybody makes mistakes. I just make lots of them while pretending I’m all put together and shit. “Oh, Delilah,” I sigh, rolling my head to the side to look at her. “Don’t grow up.” She opens her eyes and stares at me for a moment. She doesn’t even lift her head off her

paws. Nope. She turns away from me, moving her whole body and giving me the view of her butt. Brooke’s right. My dog is an asshole. *** “That’s ridiculous.” Brooke stares at me. “She has you a date?” I nod. “She was specific. I can’t even take you.” “I would totally pretend to be lesbian for you for a night.” True friendship right there. “And I would love every second of your fake attention,” I tell her. “But no bueno. It has to be a guy.” “Cain?” “Single guy.” She taps her finger against pursed lips. “We could fake break up and you take him to cheer him up.” “Great.” I tilt my head to the side. “Then I’ll be known as the girl who could only take her best

friend’s broken-hearted ex on a date.” “True,” she says it slowly, frowning. “Boy, you’re really fucked, aren’t you?” “I’m not just fucked, Brooke. I’m fucked up the ass at fifty miles per hour without lube.” She winces. “Why don’t you just take Zeke?” “Because I’d rather be fucked up the ass at fifty miles per hour without lube.” “I could take you like that if you really wanted.” I turn in my seat. Zeke is standing right behind me, his hands gripping the back of my head. The grin stretched across his face is his trademark, lopsided one, and his bright eyes are twinkling in amusement. My pussy clenches. Um. What the hell, pussy? Put your claws away. We don’t like this guy, you little whore. “Cain does this all the time,” Brooke says. “Pops up when he’s not wanted. It’s kind of annoying, actually.”

I groan and slump forward on the table without speaking to him. “Great. I have my own personal rash.” “You should go and see somebody about that.” Zeke slips into the chair next to Brooke, ignoring her sideways glare. “I would,” I reply slowly, “But I don’t know any witch doctors.” “Ouch.” He smirks. “That’s some rash.” “Oh, it is. It’s six-foot-three inches tall and goes through women faster than Leonardo Di Caprio.” “Ah, if only the women looked like his.” I give him a flat stare. One I hope that Brooke easily misconstrues as disgust and not disgust mixed with mild offense. I’m no watercolor painting—at least according to my reflection in the mirror this morning—but I’m at least a decent pencil sketch. “I think I’m taking my lunch to go,” Brooke says, looking at her phone. “One, I have make a call, and two…Well, I’m getting a little turned on

by this tension.” Zeke coughs into his hand, but the corners of his eyes are crinkling the way they always do when he laughs. Wait. Why do I know that? “You’re gross.” I watch as she stands and grabs her purse. “Do you have to leave me with him? What if I kill him?” She pauses, blinking her brown eyes at me. “I’ve got bail money. Don’t worry. We’ll smuggle you into Venezuela.” “Awesome. That’s so reassuring.” She smiles and waves. “Bye, guys. Don’t kill each other. Or, you know. Get arrested for indecent exposure,” she adds hurriedly before turning and running to the counter on the other side of the restaurant. That ‘true friendship’ thing I was thinking a few minutes ago? Yeah. Scrap it. This is bullshit. “She has great timing, doesn’t she? And she’s so subtle,” Zeke says dryly.

“Was it the turned on thing or the indecent

exposure thing that clued you into the subtlety?” I roll my eyes. He’s looking over my shoulder as he answers, “The fact she’s made a circle with one hand and is poking her finger through it with raised eyebrows across the restaurant.” I jerk around so I can see the take-out counter. Brooke drops her hands and shoots me a sweetly innocent grin that reeks of bullshit. “Awesome,” I mutter, sitting back around. Zeke narrows his eyes as he slowly brings his gaze to meet mine. “Do you think she knows what happened between us?” I guess now isn’t the time for a smartass answer that I don’t know either. Shame… “Did you tell anyone?” He shakes his head. “Then no, she can’t possibly know. I didn’t tell anyone. Not even my dog.” He raises an eyebrow. “You talk to your dog?” “Of course.” I reach for my drink and pull it

toward me. “It’s that or myself, and if I talked to myself, people would think I’m crazy.” “Nah, that’s not the first sign of being crazy. I read that the first sign of craziness is having little white hairs on the palm of your hand.” Frowning, I turn my hand over and lift it toward my face. I cast my gaze over the lines on my palm. And through my splayed fingers, catch Zeke’s changing expression. His lips curve into a wide, thin smile, like he’s biting down on both of his lips to stop himself laughing hard. “What?” I say slowly, unable to fight my own tiny smile. “Carly,” he leans forward, his upper arms pushing against the material of his paint-splattered t-shirt. “The second sign of craziness is looking for those hairs.” My lips turn down as it hits me. That little shit. I can’t believe him. So I do the only thing I can think of. I grab a menu, lean across the table, and whip

him in the side of the head with it. He bursts out laughing. The rich, deep sound catches the attention of a few people around us, so I drop the menu quickly and sit right back. “You’re such an asshole,” I hiss. “I told you, you’re so easy to rile, sugartits.” I jerk my foot out toward his leg beneath the table, but I miss him. Instead, my toes slam into the chair leg. Zeke grins. That stupid fucking shit-eating grin that makes my clitoris cry. She’s a whore too. Filthy slut. “You’re impossible.” I fold my arms across my chest. “How can I be impossible? I exist.” “Fine. Putting up with you is impossible.” “Yet,” he smiles, sitting back, “Here you are, putting up with me.” “I am this close,” I say, pinching my finger and thumb together, “To throwing my glass of water at you and screaming that you’re a sick, cheating

bastard before walking out. Just to embarrass you.” His smile is lopsided—mischievous. “Then, when everyone stares at me, I’ll shrug and tell them you’re PMSing and it was a dream cheat.” “Hey, don’t dismiss that. Dream cheating is a very real thing. It’s all subconscious.” “I don’t think that counts if you’re dreaming that your partner is cheating on you. That just makes you paranoid.” “You know what else makes a person paranoid?” “What?” I stare at him as I lean forward on the table. “The knowledge that I know exactly what size your dick is,” I whisper. “Sugartits, that’d only make me paranoid if I didn’t know that the hand size matches.” He wiggles his fingers in front of me, reminding me that he has big…hands. “Those rumors aren’t lies.” The waitress brings our food over and serves it to us. I shake my head at her question of whether or not we need anything and turn my attention back

to Zeke as she leaves. “I’m not saying they are.” I prop my chin on my hand. I desperately want to ask him if he knows that supposedly the length of his forefinger equals the length of his penis, but that might be a little obvious for now. I’ll keep that in my arsenal for another day. “Are you agreeing I have big…hands?” I raise my eyebrows and grab his wrist. Pressing the palm of my hand against his, I suppress a shudder as his rough, calloused skin rubs across mine. “Your hands are huge, Zeke. Look.” I turn our hands so he can see just how much smaller my hand is than his. “You have an entire fingertip on my nails, not just my fingers.” He dips his head slightly to look. He smirks. “You have the tiniest hands I’ve ever seen in my life.” “That’s slightly dramatic.” I pull mine away. He wraps his fingers around my wrist and presses our hands back together, this time, twisting them back so I can see the back of my hand. “Look.

They’re tiny. That’s ridiculous. How do you get anything done? Can you even grab anything?” “I can grab your balls and twist them off.” I give him a sweet smile and divert my attention back to our hands. “They’re not that small,” I insist, letting my hand fall away from his. “I’m smaller than you, so obviously, I have smaller hands.” My fingertips trail down the center of his palm, and I’m pretty sure my nails do too. Zeke stares at me steadily, his eyes darkening the tiniest bit as our contact is broken. The urge to wet my lips tingles across my tongue, but instead, I swallow, then bite the inside of my cheek. He gently lowers his hand to the tabletop, his gaze unwavering, and my stomach does a little backflip. Everything else disappears. I don’t know how or why, I just know that the hullabaloo from the restaurant, from the voices of patrons to the radio to the kitchen door opening and closing, stops. There’s just this unfairly handsome, cocky guy, staring at me. Keeping me transfixed on him— trapping me without touching me.

“Obviously,” he drawls, the drawn-out word

snapping through the imaginary silence and bringing the rest of the world back to life. “Shame that doesn’t apply to attitude, though, does it?” I grab a fry and throw it at him. Whatever that moment was, I’m glad he killed it. *** I could put up an ad on Craigslist. Write into the local paper. Facebook it. There are so many other things I could do to get a date for Grandma’s party than just ask Zeke Elliott. If I didn’t already know that the easy decision was a ridiculous one, yesterday’s forced lunch date proved it further. The hand thing? Why did I touch his hand? What in the freaking hell possessed me to do that? Whatever it was, the jury’s out on it. I think they’ve given up deliberating. It’s all I’ve been able to think about for the past eight hours.

My hand still tickles where his rough skin was against mine. I keep scratching it in the hope I can get rid of it and banish the feeling to my memories. It’s painfully obvious that there is still some lingering sexual tension between us. Well, it’s that or Zeke has it and he’s projecting onto me. I want to believe it’s the latter, but I’m not quite that naive. Zeke is fucking hot. There. I said it. With his dark hair, oceanic blue-green eyes, smoldering smile, and a yes-let-me-lick-whippedcream-off-you kind of body, he’s irresistibly attractive. His laugh is a little too infectious, his smirk horribly sexy, and the sound of his voice is addictive in all the best ways. Except he’s a jerk. I’m not going to pretend for a second that Zeke Elliott is a nice guy. He’s not a horrible person, but in the terms of being a nice guy… Unattached. He’s unattached to almost everything and everyone

outside of his family and closest friends. I don’t blame him for a second. If I found out my fiance was fucking someone else two weeks before our wedding, I’d be the same way. But I’m not. I want everything he doesn’t, which begs the question why I’m even thinking about this. Why I’m even allowing myself to think about this. Sex doesn’t equal anything more. We made that agreement and that was that—except it isn’t. Our lives are intertwined thanks to Brooke and Cain. We will never not run into each other on a regular basis or be pushed together in awkward situations. That one, stupid night will always exist and, regardless of his feelings, will always bug me. It’ll always be there, hovering over me. I don’t know why I can’t let it go. I want to let it go. I want to find a fucking prince charming, damn it. He doesn’t have to be perfect—he just has to be real. Battery operated boyfriends are all right on the orgasm front, but they’re not very fucking talkative, are they?

They don’t snuggle either, and everybody loves to snuggle after an orgasm. And pillows don’t hug back. Jesus Christ, my life is sad and lonely. No wonder I can’t let go of that one night with Zeke. It’s the last real human contact I had. Am I too picky with dates? God, I’m too picky with dates. I need to reevaluate my standards. I pull my laptop from the coffee table and open it. I’m not watching the TV anyway, mostly because these Gilmore Girls reruns have reached Team Logan, and I’d rather eat a samurai sword than watch that pompous moron. Facebook opens as soon as I click onto my browser. I click a new tab open while leaving it to load and go to Hell. AKA, the dating website. They’re really not that far apart in terms of torture. It takes just about everything I have to brace myself for what’s sure to be an onslaught of ridiculous messages. I even wince as I hit the inbox thing on my profile. I have three new messages, and I just know

they’re all doozies. I click on the first one. And, oh, look. I’m right. So right. Dear Carly, You are very beautiful. I’d like to make you’re acquaintance over dinner. Would you like that? I slowly knock my fist against the top of my desk. Am I giving him the benefit of the doubt of autocorrect? No. No, I’m not. I delete that one and move to the next. Can you take another picture with the camera lower down? In the infamous words of Simon Cowell, that’s a no from me. With a deep breath, I move onto the third. Carly,

I came across your profile minutes before giving up on this search for the day. I think we have a lot in common, and I’m not far from Barley Cross. Would you like to have dinner with me tomorrow night? Scott All right, so the guy is totally spinning me a line, but whatever. A glance at his profile tells me he’s pretty hot, and since he’s apparently a lawyer, and thirty-one he’s also educated. A little older than I’d usually go for, but since I just told myself to lower my standards, I think I’ll broaden them too. I shoot him off a reply thanking him for his message and saying that I’d love to. He’s obviously online, because his response comes within two minutes asking for a recommendation for a restaurant as he’s never eaten here. I send the link for Italia’s along with my cell number and shut the tab down. My Facebook feed refreshes, and the first post on the top of the feed is from the guy I’ve

successfully managed to push out of my head for the last fifteen minutes. Zeke. Except he’s changed his profile picture. What was, this morning, a photo of him grinning at the camera, is now a picture of the Dallas Cowboys star. I blink at it for a moment. Then, with a shake of my head, I close my browser completely. Not my circus. Definitely not my monkeys.

CHAPTER FIVE Life Goal #5: Stop planning dates for the next day. A girl can’t pick a dress in that time… Or wash it. Me: I don’t know what to wear. Brooke: Underwear. Definitely underwear. Me: That much I figured out for myself, thanks. Brooke: What about that black dress with the red strip at the bottom? I look up to my closet from my phone. The bottom of that dress is peeking out from between two others, beckoning me toward it. Should I? Yes. I get up and pull it out. The hanger clinks against the wooden closet door when I hang the dress over it so I can step back and look at it. It’s maybe a little shorter than I’d usually go for a first date, and the skater skirt means any wind and I’m screwed, but the boat-neckline keeps to the boob

or leg rule. Delilah trots into my room and lies down in the patch of sun coming in through my window. I swear she’s secretly a cat. “What about this one?” I ask her, pointing to the dress. She blinks at me with her big, brown eyes. “Thanks for your help,” I mutter and turn away. Should’ve known better than to ask the damn dog. I pull the dress from the hanger and throw it onto my bed. A flash of white catches my eye as I do, so I snatch it back up and fight through the material until I find the big, white splotch of frosting on the back. That’s right. The last time I wore this dress was to my six-year-old cousin’s birthday party. Apparently, I forgot to wash it. Shit. I snap a picture of it and send it to Brooke. Me: Oops. Brooke: Uhoh.

Me: I’m just gonna wear my usual. Brooke: Gee, you’re excited about this date. I’m really starting to not be, if I’m honest. Should I have talked to the guy more before agreeing to go on a date? Should I have asked for another picture or asked to double date or oh god, what am I doing? Me: If I text you the codeword, you get me out of this date. Brooke: What’s the codeword again? Me: Assmonkey. Because it usually describes the guys I’m on a date with. Brooke: Nailed it. I’m on standby. Awesome. Unless I’m really, really unlucky, I’m not gonna need it. Brooke: Wait, where are you going for dinner?? Me: Italia’s. Why?

Brooke: Uhoh. Me: What? She doesn’t reply. At all. Is it wrong that I’m now shitting-my-thongs scared? No? Good. *** Brooke’s “Uh-oh” is evident to me the moment I open the door to Italia’s and step inside. Sitting only feet away at a table with a pretty blond is Zeke Elliott. I don’t need to see his face to know it’s him—his messy, dark hair is in direct contrast to his crisp, white shirt, and there’s no other guy who’d dare go to dinner with a woman without at least combing his hair beforehand. There’s still a little sawdust in his hair. The thought that he didn’t wash it before is amusing too. God, I hope for her—and everyone else’s sake—he showered. Georgio catches my eye and waggles his

eyebrows. “Mhmmm.” I point at him. “You stop,” I whisper harshly. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.” He taps the side of his nose with a wink. “Your date is this way, bella.” It takes all I have to suppress my groan. I don’t want to be here. Laundry isn’t the only reason a girl shouldn’t agree to a date the next day—the entire act of wanting to go on a date takes at least forty-eight hours to get into full swing. I’m such a rookie at this shit. Now I have to fake it— Oh god. This just went from bad to worse. Sitting at the table Georgio is leading me to is not the guy from the photo. He’s not even close. “Georgio,” I hiss, grabbing his arm and stopping him. “Are you sure this is the right guy?” He raises his strong, black eyebrows. “I am sure. He called yesterday and said Carly told him about this restaurant for a date. I must admit, I was…surprised…when he arrived. He’s not your usual type.”

He could say that again. I’m not a terrible person—most days—but when you turn up to a date where the woman thinks you’re a hunky, hot lawyer in his early thirties and you’re not, well, I’m going to be the terrible person I don’t like being. There is no possible way the man sitting in front of me with glasses, ginger hair, and suspenders can talk his way out of his sandy blond, blue-eyed, suited profile picture. No. Way. In. Hell. “Georgio. Help me,” I ask quietly. “Has he seen me yet?” Mr. Not Scott smiles and stands up, answering my question. Shit. He’s seen me. Am I a bitch if I run? Oh god, that doesn’t even need answering. It totally makes me a bitch if I run. I really want to be a bitch.

I really need to start wearing a blond wig in my dating profile picture. That way, if I show up to a date and this happens again, I can disappear without being recognized. Suck on them apples, James Bond. How’s that for undercover? “Carly?” Mr. Not Scott holds out his hand. Oh, goodie. A hand-shaker. That says romance on a first date. I blink at him. I’m gawping. Jesus Christ on a unicycle, why am I gawping? Oh. I know. Because he looks nothing like his picture. “Hi,” I finally manage to eke out, shaking his hand. Swoon. Not. “I didn’t recognize you.” Excellent job, Carly. Point out the obvious right away. Mr. Not Scott has the decency to look sheepish. “That’s an…old picture.” Yeah, all right. Maybe on Google. “My name really is Scott.” He smiles. “That’s…great.” I return his smile, but I cringe at my own fakeness.

Make me stop. Somebody get me out of here. “Can I get you a drink?” Georgio asks, looking right at me. Scott opens his mouth to answer, but I beat him to it. “Mango margarita. Unsalted.” I force another smile, because what I really want to say is, “Vodka. Neat. In a pint glass.” Scott orders a beer and looks at his menu. “What’s good here?” “Everything,” I answer, creeping my hand into my clutch under the table. He raises an eyebrow. At least, I think he does. His entire face kind of…gets stuck in a permanent twitch. “Everything?” “That’s not me being an ass. It really is. You can’t go wrong with anything.” I finally get my fingers on my phone and unlock it. My menu gives me enough privacy to pull out my phone and shoot a message to Brooke. Me: Code red assmonkey

Her message flashes up within seconds. Brooke: On it I lock my phone and set it on my lap on top of my purse. I’m reading this menu, but I’m not actually seeing any words. It’s like an invisible plan on how to get myself out of this date, except the menu doesn’t know either. I’m screwed. Until my phone lights up again…Not from Brooke. Zeke: You’re having fun. Me: Not now Zeke: Go to the bathroom when G brings your drinks. Me: I said not now Zeke: I’m getting you out of here, sugartits. There is no way on Earth that Zeke Elliott is able to get me out of this place.

Me: How? Zeke: Trust me. Famous last words, because I don’t. Not at all. I should have suddenly gotten sick or something earlier. This is a nightmare of epically bullshitting proportions. I would literally rather have sex on top of a porcupine that have Zeke get me out of this disaster. And Brooke thinks she had problems. Georgio brings over our drinks with a sympathetic glance at me. “Are you ready to order?” Again, I beat Scott to it. “Actually, I need to use the restroom. Could we hold on the orders for a few minutes?” Scott smiles. Genuinely. “Of course.” Ugh. Now I feel like a shit. “Thank you.” I tuck my phone inside my clutch and get up. It takes great, mature restraint for me not to run to the restrooms, but when I get to the door and look back, Zeke is still sitting at his table

with the blond. He catches my eye and winks. Awesome. That’s reassuring. Still, I disappear into the ladies and run right into a cubicle. The slamming of the door and the lock echo through the empty room in a weirdly eerie way. With a nudge of my purse, I knock down the toilet seat and perch on the edge of it. Me: Now what? Zeke: Two minutes. My grandma is sick and I need to go. Me: Your grandma died five years ago. Zeke: Blondie doesn’t know that. I slap my hand against my face. This is going form bad to worse. Bad decisions. If anyone ever needs proof that I’m the queen of them, I’m going to direct them to this moment. Where I’m sitting on the toilet, in a restaurant, waiting for my best friend’s brother to get out of his date to come rescue me from mine. If my life were a horror movie, I’d be the first

one to be killed. I select the camera on my phone and take a selfie. Then I attach it to a message to Brooke. Me: This is not what I meant. Brooke: Why are you in the bathroom? Me: Ask my great rescuer. Brooke: Your rescuer???? I blink at my phone. Then it rings. “Your rescuer?” Brooke says into my ear a little too loudly. “What rescuer? I didn’t come up with a plan yet!” Oh no. “You didn’t put Zeke on the case?” “No.” She pauses. “Is that why you’re in the bathroom?” “No, I’m here for my own amusement,” I snap. “This is a disaster. I bet he’s not even going to—” “Carly? Is everything all right?” Oh sweet shit on a shovel. I hang up and, ignoring Scott’s hesitant knock at the main bathroom door, text Zeke.

Me: HELP ME DAMN IT “Carly.”

I blink and look around. “Zeke?” I whisper loudly. “The window.” Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh no. I quietly release myself from the cubicle and go to the window. The top of his face is peeking over the bottom ledge, and the crinkles of his eyes tells me he’s smiling. “What are you doing?” I whisper. “Come through the window,” he replies, his voice only a little louder than mine. “It’s not that far down.” “Not that far down? You’re taller than me!” I put my purse on the sinks and haul myself up onto the counter. Zeke moves over when he sees what I’m doing, so I peer over the ledge and at the drop down. “That’s like eight feet! How are you up here?”

“Crates.” He grins. “Come on, just jump. I’ll

catch you, Carly.” I shake my head. “No. That’s so stupid. Plus, I can’t climb through the window without hiking my dress up so far everyone will think I’m a hooker giving a private show!” Voices from outside the restroom make me pause. “Are you okay?” a female voice asks. “Yeah. Hi, could you do me a favor?” Scott replies. “Sure…” “Could you see if there’s a brown-haired girl in there? Her name’s Carly.” “Sure.” Zeke’s eyes widen. “Shit.” My jaw drops as he climbs down from the crates and presses himself against the wall on the other side of the dumpster. This is so not fair. This is the most ridiculous situation I’ve ever been in, and my best friend is Brooke Barker, for the love of god.

“Zeke!” I hiss.

He waves his hand right as the bathroom door opens. I take his “shit,” and I raise him “Oh, fuck.” Of course, the woman who enters is Zeke’s date. No wonder the shit is hiding. An understanding smile stretches across her face. “Carly?” she mouths. I nod. She crosses the bathroom toward me and glances up at the window. “I guess the slightly anxious man outside belongs to you.” “I really, really hope not,” I breathe on an exhale. She giggles. “Don’t worry, I’ve been there, girl. Are you escaping?” I flick my gaze toward the window. “Something like that.” Her smile is wide. “I’ll tell him you’re not here and must have stepped outside for a call.” I let go of a deep breath. “Thank you.” I wait until she’s done her business and left,

the door shutting behind her, before I grip the edge of the window. “Zeke?” I whisper. Blondie recites her line to Scott outside. “Ezekiel!” I whisper, this time adding heat to my voice. “Help me!” “She gone?” “Yes, now help me before I throw my shoe at your head!” I reach back and pull off my heels. By the time I’ve done that, he’s back on the crates. He takes my shoes and purse, stepping back down and putting them on the ground before giving me his attention again. “Now you.” Hiking my dress up, I look at the window. “I’m not gonna fit!” “Sure you are, sugartits. You’re five-feetnothing.” “Five-five!” I stand on the counter and really look at the window. He’s right. I can do this. It’s bigger than it looked when I was on my knees. A giggle bubbles out of my lips. That’s what she said. “What are you laughing about?”

“Nothing,” I answer. “Don’t look as I climb

out!” “How can I catch you?” “I’ll tell you when my legs are out. I mean it, Zeke. Don’t look at my underwear.” “Shit, that was the part I was most looking forward to.” “Stop it.” “All right, all right, my eyes are shut.” I look down. They are. I guess I’m gonna have to trust him. Which, again, is a terrible decision. I grunt as I haul myself up to the wide window ledge. It’s a little dusty and the outer half is dirty, so thank god for the hand wipes in my purse. Another glance shows me that Zeke still has his eyes closed. “Zeke?” I’m balancing pretty precariously right now. “You need to move.” “Right.” He jumps back off the crates. I close my eyes and slip one leg out of the window. Everybody can see my panties.

Not that anyone is here, but I just know everybody can. This is horrible. And it hurts. I’m never dating again. I’m going to buy fifty cats. They’ll never make me climb out of a bathroom window. “You’re looking at my underwear, aren’t you?” I ask, unfortunately pausing with my legs wide open. “No.” “Liar.” “It’s nice underwear.” “Oh god.” I swing my other leg down a little too quick. My dress rides up. Right over my ass. And my feet can’t reach the crates. Zeke chuckles. “Help me, you pig!” More laughter. “I’m gonna be stuck here forever. Oh my god.” The bathroom door opens.

Can this get any worse? A fifty-something woman I don’t recognize freezes in the middle of the restroom. I smile sweetly. She eyes me suspiciously before shuffling into a cubicle. “Get me down!” I hiss, kicking my legs. “Now, Ezekiel!” Something scrapes and knocks together. “Still so hot when you call me that. Especially when your ass is out.” Thud. “All right, sweetcheeks. I’ve got you.” “Sweetcheeks? What is wrong with you?” “Look, you can hang there all night bitchin’ at me if you want, but it’s not my bare ass in the middle of the alley. As much as I’m enjoying the view.” “Oh my god,” I groan. “You swear you’ll catch me?” “I swear.” His fingertips brush against my bare legs. My shudder is disguised by the trembling of

my arms as I lower myself down. Zeke’s fingers trail up the outsides of my thighs until he grasps my waist. “Let go.” I freeze, tensing up. “Carly, let go. I have hold of you. I won’t drop you.” Still tensed, I let go of the window ledge. My life flashes before my eyes. Seriously. I see everything from my first memory to the moment I let go of the ledge and I squeal because I’m going to die and I know it he’s going to drop me and— Zeke’s strong grip solidifies when he wraps his arm around my waist and holds me against him. “There,” he says calmly into my ear. “You dropped about six inches. You’re hardly cliff-diving.” I open my eyes and look down at where his arm is pressed across my stomach. His grip is tight, and the popping veins on his forearm trace tantalizing lines across his skin. And my dress is still around my hips. I reach down and tug the material over my upper thighs. “Thank you.” “You’re welcome.” He releases me, and when

he jumps down from the crates, I see a flash of his cocky grin. “Nice thong.” That explains the grin. I clear my throat. “Thank you. It took me an hour to pick.” “From your drawer?” “No. From Victoria Secret. Have you seen how many panties are on that website?” Zeke holds his hands out for me to take. “Oh, yeah. I’m wearing a pair right now.” My lips curve slowly as I step down onto the ground. “Interesting. What type? Brief? Thong? Boy short? V-string?” He blinks at me when I put my shoes on. “Why do you need so many different types? It’d be much easier if you just wore none at all.” “Maybe for you.” If he’d ever come on his period unexpectedly, he’d feel very differently, I’m sure. “And there aren’t a ton of types.” “There really are.” He picks my clutch up from the floor, hands it to me, and helps me stand. “Men have three options. Briefs. Boxers. Boxer briefs.

And commando.” “You’re a commando guy, aren’t you?” I clap my hand over my mouth. Why did I ask that? I knew he wore boxer briefs. I’d peeled them off him, for fuck sakes. “Only when I’m wearing sweatpants,” he answers, apparently not bothered by my flaming hot cheeks. “It’s not great to be commando with a hard-on when you’re wearing jeans.” I follow him out of the alleyway and onto the street. “Do you go commando on dates?” “Carly, if you really want to know, you don’t need to fuck around with these questions. I’ll drive my car back down that alley and let you find out for yourself.” His lips curve sexily into a smirk. I will not look at his groin. I will not look at his groin. I will not look at his groin. I really need some red shoes. I snort. “I don’t want to know that badly. Are you sure we can get your ego into your car?” “One hundred percent. Not sure I can sit down in it though.”

My eyes flick to his crotch. Goddamn you, you slutty gaze. How dare you defy me? “Any particular reason you’re perving on me?” Zeke asks. “Not to see your erection.” I smack my hand over my mouth again. Goddamn it. Where do I buy a brain-to-mouth filter? “And that’s exactly why I’m glad I’m not commando.” He pulls his car keys from his pocket and clicks the button on the fob. The brightness of the headlamps briefly illuminates the side-street in a yellow-orange haze—one that flickers over his features as he passes in front of the car. “Come on. Get in.” I eye him. “How do you know I didn’t drive?” “Because,” he starts dryly. “I know Georgio, and I know his margaritas are meaner than a cartel full of angry drug lords.” He has a point. “And knowing your penchant for cocktails,

there’s no way you would have driven here. So, get in.” I roll my eyes and go to the passenger side, even though I know it’s a bad idea. The last time I got in this car we…yeah. At least I’m sober this time. Winning. “You make it sound like I’m addicted to cocktails,” I say lamely. “Maybe you are.” “Maybe you’re addicted to assholery.” “Not sure why you’re saying ‘maybe.’” “Why? Do you know you are?” “No.” He starts the engine. “I’m saying you’re an asshole, so you’d know if I was.” I blink at him. “Did you seriously just call me an asshole?”

CHAPTER SIX Life Goal #6: Don’t ever climb out of a public bathroom window again. Ever. “Yes.” Zeke answers my question so simply,

I’m too shocked to respond. I’m not an asshole. I’m a nice person. If you discount the fact I just climbed out of a restaurant’s bathroom window to escape a date. “I’m not an asshole,” I say lamely. “You’re totally an asshole. A nice person would have told that poor bastard that he wasn’t who they were expecting to meet, so they’re sorry, but they have to go.” “Then I’d look shallow!” He pulls up at a red light and turns to face me. It’s dark, and the lights from both the traffic light and the street light nearby play with his angled features, teasing across his cheekbones in light shadows. “Carly, you just climbed out of a public bathroom window to escape your date. That makes you shallow and it makes you an asshole.”

“You used your dead grandmother to get out of

your date.” “We’re not talking about me.” “Of course we aren’t.” He pulls away when the light turns green. “I was doing it for a good cause. I was being noble.” “By making me climb through a bathroom window?” “Hey.” He holds up one hand. “You coulda said no. I didn’t drag you through it now, did I?” I huff and turn in my seat. “I hate you.” “Only when you’re wrong.” He flashes me a grin. “I’m never wrong. I’m a woman. It’s a universally accepted truth that, as a woman, when I’m right, I’m right, and when I’m wrong, I’m right then, too.” “That doesn’t make any sense.” “And you’re wrong about that.” More lights. “Does that mean I’m actually right?” He meets my eyes and raises his eyebrows. I shake my head. “When you’re wrong, you’re

wrong, and when you’re right, you’re also wrong.” “So, this is an ego thing.” “You get penises to show, we get righteousness. You can’t have both, Zeke.” “You get boobs.” “They’re not as great as you think they are.” The engine rumbles as he pulls away to the lights turning green. “Really?” His tone is low and thoughtful. “If I could be a woman for a day, I’d literally grab my boobs and never let go.” I shift back in my seat and tilt my head to the side. “So, you’d simply ignore your clitoris? You know that’s way more fun to play with, right?” He keeps his eyes on the road, but a slow, easy grin spreads across his face. “Trust me, I’m more than aware of how much fun a clitoris is to play with. Yours included.” I choke. On thin air. Because I am discreet as fuck. It makes him laugh. Which is really annoying, because the cab of his truck isn’t as big as it looks

from the outside, so the echoes of his laughter literally bounces off the windows and slams into me. The goosebumps that tickle their way up my arms have me fighting a shiver with their intensity. The last thing I want Zeke to know is that he affects me. I’d rather throw myself out of, well, this moving truck. “I thought we weren’t talking about that anymore.” It’s worth a try. “You’re not talking about it, sugartits. I can’t resist. It’s really fucking cute when you get all flustered.” He shoots me a sideways glance. “I don’t get flustered. I get annoyed.” “Of course you do. You’re a woman.” “What does that mean?” “I’m agreeing that you’re right. That’s all.” Hmm. “That sounds like a cop-out to me.” He inclines his head as he makes a right turn. “When you’re right, you’re right.” “You’re a cocky bastard.”

He grins. “I know. And since you ruined my date, you can buy me ice-cream.” He pulls up right outside the ice-cream parlor on the seafront. I’ve been so caught up in his ridiculousness, I had no idea he’d brought us here. “How did I ruin your date? I’d just texted Brooke. She was going to rescue me.” I get out of the truck and adjust my dress. Goddamn window climb has screwed it all up. “I thought she’d texted you since she knew you were going to be there. And ice-cream? What are you, five?” “Twenty-seven, but pretending I’m five has it’s benefits. Like getting ice-cream.” His smile reflected a hint of boyishness that was only exaggerated by the playful glint in his eye. “And no, she didn’t text me. I was your knight in shining armor tonight.” “Knight full of shining bullshit, you mean.” “That, too. Now, buy me ice-cream and tell me what the hell happened to you tonight.” I stop next to him outside the ice-cream parlor and, with my hands on my hips, look him dead in

the eye. “Fine. But you’re gonna tell me why you have the Dallas Cowboys star as your Facebook photo when you hate them.” His lips twitch the tiniest amount, and something close to a mixture of amusement and annoyance flickers through his gaze. “Fine. But that’s a damn big ice-cream you’re buying me.” “Don’t push your luck, Ezekiel.” “Don’t call me that when I have an erection.” “Ezekiel. Ezekiel. Ezekiel.” He groans, adjusting his jeans. I laugh and walk into the parlor. He’s so commando right now. *** With my shoes clasped in one hand and my waffle cone in the other, I follow Zeke onto the beach. It’s not too late, but with Georgia just wriggling into spring, it’s still dark enough that the only light is that of the moon. There are a few groups of people on the beach, mostly teenagers, and Zeke picks a spot

well away from anyone else. I guess he’s ashamed of his profile picture. “So. Mr. Preppy back there. How did that happen? He’s not your usual type.” Zeke stretches his legs out in front of him. “Why does everybody think I have a type? I don’t have a type, unless that type is disaster.” I huff out a long breath and set my heels and clutch on the sand next to me. “You have a type. I don’t.” “What’s my type?” “Blond.” “As evidenced by the fact the last woman I slept with has hair as dark as her heart.” I glare at him. I really wish he’d stop bringing that up. “Do you honestly expect me to believe that?” He shrugs a shoulder. “I don’t really give a shit if you believe it or not. It’s the truth. Just because I go out with women doesn’t mean I sleep with them all. Much to their disappointment.” “But of course.” I roll my eyes. “Those poor things, never getting to experience the whirlwind

that is a horny, naked Zeke.” “Finally, she understands.” It’s honestly painful not to roll my eyes again. “Tell me about Mr. Preppy back there.” I sigh and scratch behind my ear. I’m not getting out of it. He’s like a dog with a bone when there’s something he wants to know. So, I give in. I explain about my sad, long-winded, hopeless search on the dating website—dramatizing it slightly, of course, since everybody loves a bit of a sob story—and finish with The Story of Mr. Preppy Not Scott. Zeke’s grinning ear to ear by the time I’m finished. I don’t know if he’s grinning in amusement, solidarity, or sympa—no, no. It’s amusement. No doubt about it. “Seriously,” he says after a moment. “His photo was that different?” “Seriously! I even screenshotted it and sent it to Brooke. I knew it was too good to be true, and since I’m sitting here having ice-cream with you, it was.”

“What else would you be doing right now?

Having boring sex?” “Okay, one, it could have been potentially amazing sex,” I tell him, eyebrows raised. I put up a second finger. “And two, I don’t have sex on the first date.” Zeke stares at me with unnerving intensity. “Doesn’t count,” I say before he can. “We never went on a date.” “Let me get this straight. Hold on.” He shoves the last of his cone into his mouth and chews. “When you’re ready,” I say dryly, licking the last of the chocolate from my fingers. He reaches forward and smears chocolate down my cheek with his thumb. I have no idea what to do, so I do nothing. Like it’s completely normal for me to be sitting here with a chocolate smear on my cheek. Whatever. “You’re such a child,” I mutter. His answering smirk does nothing to refute my claim. “Let me get this straight. You don’t have sex

on the first date, but one night stands are a-okay?” “I didn’t say they were okay.” “So, you regret…that night.” I meet his gaze. “You know, if this man thing doesn’t work out for you, you’d have a great career as a woman. That’s some complicated, feminine, word-twisting shit you got goin’ on there.” He holds his hands up in front of his chest, and the bending of his arm makes the material of his shirt stretch across his biceps. And when I say stretch, I mean if the button of my pants struggled that much, I’d be going to buy my ass the next size up. He really needs a bigger shirt. Then again… I look at his arms. My gaze hovers just a little bit too long. Nah, never mind. That size works just fine. Zeke’s lips quirk, but he ignores it. “So, you don’t regret that night.” “We made a really big jump from my date to this, don’t you think?” This is my lame attempt to steer the conversation away from its current vein.

“Can we go back to where we were?” “To the one night stand thing?” “No. To the part where I told you how my date ended up so badly and you tell me why you have a stupid Facebook picture.” He laughs and rubs his hand over his mouth. “Well, uh…” When he doesn’t say anything else, I say, “Well?” “Shit.” He laughs awkwardly. “You know their new running back?” “Do I look like I watch football?” “Not at all.” “Then don’t ask me such a stupid question.” More laughter. “Okay, well…Their new running back, in a freaky yet funny twist, has the same name as me.” I know exactly where this is going and there’s only one appropriate response to that line. “Oh no.” “I had a few messages.” “Oh no.”

“So I thought I’d have fun and change my

profile picture to the Cowboys star.” “Oh god, no.” I cover my face with my hands. “There are some desperate women out there, as it turns out. And lots willing to send you boob pictures..whether you ask or not.” I shake my head in my hands. I should have guessed it would be something along those lines. There had to be a reason he’d do that and there it was. “I don’t know what to say to that,” I say after a moment, dropping my hands to my lap. “Like, seriously. I’m out of ideas.” He shrugs. “That’s not right, you know that?” “Hey, it was a social experiment.” “No, it wasn’t. You wanted the attention, you attention whore.” Zeke pauses, purses his lips, then grins. “I was getting it anyway. I was simply interested. A social experiment, if you will.” I turn my whole body toward him. “Social

experiment my right tit. You pretended to be him!” “I didn’t do anything like that. For all anyone knows, we have the same name and I like the Cowboys.” “Half your Facebook feed on a Sunday night is how much you hate them.” “Hence why my feed is private.” “Dear god, it’s like reasoning with a threeyear-old.” His lips drag up on one side. “I’m taking that as a compliment. Three-year-olds are master negotiators. If you created a tiny army of them, they could run the White House.” I tilt my head to the side. “Run it with what? Bouncy balls and cookies?” “That’s how I’d run it.” “And that’s why you don’t work in politics. Thankfully.” Wow, we’ve gone off on a tangent. “God, that’s gold. Your picture. That’s going to be so much fun to tell everybody.” His eyes flash with alarm. “No. I’m changing it back. I only told you to find out about your date.”

I snatch my phone out of my purse and get up. “I’m calling Brooke.” “No, you’re not,” he says, deathly still. I unlock my phone and bring up her number. “I so am.” I hit ‘call.’ “Carly. It’s a joke!” I grin and walk backward along the beach. “Still telling her.” “Carly!” This time, he growled my name. The sand shifts quickly around him as he scrambles to his feet. “Hello?” “Brooke! Zeke changed his Facebook photo to the—ahhh!” He wraps one strong arm around me from behind, but he turns me so my front slams into his. “No!” “What is going on?” Brooke asks down the line. “Zeke! Get off me!” I wriggle, but his grip is vice-like so it’s impossible to break free. “He changed his—”

“She’s lying!” he yells, closing his hand around

mine on my phone. “Brooke, hang up.” “What are you doing?” she asks instead. “Zeeeeeeeeke! No!” I tighten my grip on my phone. “He changed his profile picture so women would think he’s the player!” I manage to shriek right as he finally wins the battle and wrenches my cell out of my hand. He hangs up, but not before Brooke’s laughter crackles through the speaker. Breathlessly, I laugh. I can barely stand on this soft, warm sand, and the fight with Zeke hasn’t exactly helped me steady myself at all. “Oh my god,” I breathe, still squished thanks to his hold on me. “You’re cute when you’re embarrassed.” He looks down at me. His blue-green gaze is vivid, cutting through the darkness like a lightning bolt. “Payback,” he mouths. He taps something on my phone screen and lifts it to his ear. “Yeah, she’s a dirty liar. And now I’m going to throw her in the water.”

“No, you aren’t!” I push at his chest.

It doesn’t move him. Of course he wasn’t. He’s a mountain of solid muscle. He does let go of me, though. Except, I freeze. And I stay frozen as he walks to where my purse and shoes are and tucks my phone into my purse. I stay frozen as he pulls off his shoes and socks and sets them next to mine. And I sure as hell stay frozen as he turns and stalks back to me. Slowly, he raises one eyebrow. “Even though you know what I’m doing to do, you didn’t run.” His low tone makes me swallow. “So you can catch me anyway? I don’t think so.” He grips the hem of his shirt and pulls it over his head, revealing the toned perfection of his body. I don’t know what he’s doing, but if he’s trying to knock me off my game, then holy fuck, it’s working. Goddamn it.

My feet move before my brain catches up, and the next thing I know, I’m running away from him. A whole six steps. I make it a whole six steps before Zeke catches me. I guess he threw his t-shirt somewhere, because he grabs me with both hands and spins me back to face him. Then, with a swiftness I didn’t know he possessed, he takes hold of my waist and lifts me up. He literally throws me over his shoulder and clamps one arm around the tops of my thighs. His thumb brushes across the underside of my ass cheek in a blatantly deliberate move, but all I can think about is the fact he’s going to throw me in the damn water. “Zeke! No!” I flatten my hands against his back and look over my shoulder. We’re at the edge of the water already. “Zeke, I’m sorry! Oh my god, no!” “Nope. Payback is a bitch!” I’m not wearing a padded bra. Oh god. Oh fucking hell. I do not want my nipples poking out as soon as

they hit the cold water. So many problems. “Zeke. Zeke!” I squeal as the water level raises as he walks deeper into the water. “I’m sorry. Ezekiel!” He slaps his hand against my ass. I squeal. “Put me down!” The water tickles my toes. “Put you down?” he replies, a streak of mischief in his tone. “All right.” “No, don—” I scream as he throws me down into the water. It only takes seconds for me to go under, so I dig my toes into the seabed and push myself back up to break the surface. I gasp as I do. I’m wet from head to toe. I push my hair back from my face. My heart is beating like crazy, and as a wave rolls across the surface, it knocks me slightly off balance. Zeke grabs me and steadies me. “You look good wet.” “Oh my fucking god!” I shove his hands away from me. I’m waist-deep in the water, and it’s

damn cold. Thank god for waterproof mascara. “I can’t believe you just did that.” I wipe water away from my forehead with my…wet hand. Excellent. I’m sure that’s worked. Another wave rocks me. Zeke takes hold of my upper arms before I can lose balance again. His reflexes are alarmingly fast. “Thanks. I hate you, but thanks.” I wipe my hand across my face again. He gazes down at me. “You hate me? You started this.” “Look at me! I’m soaked from head to toe.” “I know.” He flashes me the cockiest grin known to man. Then he rubs his thumb across my cheek. I swallow. “What are you doing?” “Chocolate,” he says in a low voice. “Still on your cheek.” I blush. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s the tenderness of the way he wipes it away with the

pad of his thumb, or the glint of the moonlight across his features as he lowers his eyes to check he’s gotten it all. Maybe it’s as simple as the unwanted shiver that shoots down my spine… A wicked idea flashes through my mind. Payback—I’ll give him payback. It’s a risk, since I already know he’s made of stone, but… I shove him. Hard. He stumbles and crashes back into the water with a bigger splash than I did. The wide-eyed expression that flitted across his face right before he fell has me laughing, but as he pushes back to the surface, instinct takes over. I need to get away from him and out of this water before he emerges like some kind of Roman god, all tanned and toned and dripping with water. Lord…That’s enough fresh air for today. “Carly!” There’s a threat and a promise in the way he shouts my name. “What?” I stop when the water is up to my knees. “I didn’t do anything!”

He narrows his eyes. “Run, sugartits. Right fucking now.” Fear fizzles through my blood, but so does adrenaline. It’s the adrenaline that makes me laugh as I wade through the water again. For the millionth time today, his longer legs give him the advantage over me. He sweeps one arm around my waist and tackles me to the ground. I half-scream, half-laugh as I find myself plowed into the water for the second time tonight. Except this time, he’s gone down with me. I sit up, the water pooling around my waist, sputtering as I try to blink droplets out of my eyes. Zeke does the same, except he’s laughing instead of the stupid noises I’m making. He’s leaning over me, too. One of his arms is stretched right over my legs, and through the shallow water, I can see the outline of his hand half-buried in the sand. He turns his face toward mine, his almosttrademarked smirk firmly on his lips. “Now, we’re even.”

“How can we possibly be even? That’s two

times you’ve thrown me into the water.” “The first time was payback.” “You’re such a child.” I sniff, wiping under my eye. “And I still hate you.” His lips twitch. “I know. But it’s fun when you hate me.” I glare at him. As much as I can. It’s shallow of me, but it’s hard to glare at someone who looks the way he does and looks at me like…Looks at me the way he is right now. Steadily. Intensely. Scarily. “Fun.” I run my tongue across the roof of my dry mouth. “How can that be fun?” “Because,” he says quietly, the word almost drowned out the wave that crashes around us. “It’s a toss-up in moments like these.” I shouldn’t ask. I don’t want to know. “What’s a toss-up?”

“Whether I kiss you or not.”

My traitorous heart skips. “Don’t you dare, Zeke.” Unaffected by my words, he smiles. It’s lopsided and cheeky, yet somehow just as hot as that goddamn smirk. “See—that doesn’t help.” “How does me telling you not to kiss me not help? I think it makes it pretty clear what you should do.” It helps. It makes it clear. I don’t want him to kiss me. So, why can’t I move? Excellent question. “It does,” he agrees, his voice low. “But now I wanna know…” He lifts his other hand to my face. A shiver runs across my skin from where he touches his thumb to my chin, too close to my lower lip for it to be an accident. Somehow, I’m able to speak through the firm pulsating of my heartbeat echoing in my ears. “Know what?” His tiny movement means his thumb ghosts along the curve of my bottom lip, and his eyes snap

to mine. “I want to know if you’d hate me even more if I kissed you right now.” The water is cold—colder than it was a minute ago. Despite the ferocity my heart is pumping blood around my body is, I’m freaking freezing. Goosebumps cover every bare inch of my skin, my hair is slicked to the sides of my face and the back of my neck, and my dress is clinging to me too tightly to be even close to comfortable. Yet, his hand on my chin? Hot. So hot. Compared to the cooler wash of the waves and the lick of the sea breeze, his touch is burning me, like a glowing, red-hot iron poker. If I go home and find his thumbprint perfectly outlined on my chin, I won’t be surprised. “Yes,” I finally whisper. “I would.” His gaze searches mine. “So why are you still here?” “Because I think I’m getting hypothermia.” He blinks at me for a moment before bursting into laughter. “I’m the one half-dressed, sugartits.” “They’ll be icicle tits if I don’t get out of this

water soon, never mind fucking sugartits.” “Come on,” he laughs, standing. “I think I have a sweater in the car you can put on. As much as I hate to spoil the view.” I let him pull me up. “You’re such a pig.” “I know. Let’s go now. I like your boobs the way they are.” I smack his arm. “Shut up and get me that sweater.”

CHAPTER SEVEN Life Goal #7: Grow a pair. Not balls. Plants. Grow plants without killing them. It’s pathetic, really. I’m a twenty-five-year-old woman who can’t keep a plant alive longer than three months. I think it could be the one disastrous quality I have in common with Brooke. We should stick to plastic plants. Otherwise, one day, I’ll probably find myself arrested for cruelty to plants, if that’s a thing. I bet someone could make it a thing. Some obsessive, green-thumbed plant lover is bound to find offense at Ms. Black-Thumb over here. Wait, no. Screw the black thumb. I have a black hand. Arm. Body. Whatever. Maybe I should go for a cactus instead. Pretty sure you can forget they even exist for, like, a few months, then they spring right on back to life. I have no idea how I can keep a dog alive. The other pathetic thing worth noting is that my grandma’s party is tomorrow. And I’m still

dateless. Ta-da! God only knows what kind of date she’s rustled up for me, but my money is on it being as hellish as last night’s date—the one I escaped from. I can’t say that the time with Zeke after was hellish. Apart from the fact I still smell like fish piss —aka seawater—after two showers. Can’t win them all, I suppose. “Has it occurred to you,” Brooke begins, “That she doesn’t have a date for you at all?” This impromptu, and needed, girls’ night brought to you by a late delivery of stuff to the Elliott workshop. I tilt my head to the side and look at her. “This is my grandmother. Of course she has a date for me. Do you remember my sixteenth birthday party?” Her pause lasts a split second before she shudders. “She got us both.” “Exactly. And they were the worst dates ever, because they were both thirteen.”

She shudders again. “I don’t even remember their names. I don’t think I spoke to him all night.” “And that’s why I need to find a date. Or she’ll hook me up with the spotty eighteen-year-old grandson of her best friend’s enemy or something.” I huff. “Is a bad date better than no date, though?” “You’re not the one who just had to climb out of a bathroom window.” “True, but I did warn you about online dating.” “You’ve never warned me about online dating.” “Oh, that’s right.” She slides her eyes toward me. “That’s because you have always been the creator of disaster dates.” I sigh and lean my head on the top of the sofa cushion. “I think I just stole your crown as Queen of Dating Disasters.” With a grimace forming on her lips, my best friend nods. Tiara. Crown. Legacy. Reputation. All of it. Now mine. “What do I do?” I ask her. “If I fake being sick,

she’ll literally drag me down there. If I show up without a date, she’ll have me a terrible one. If I find a date…Well, it’s too freaking late for that now unless you can wave a wand and magic me one up.” She makes a strangled noise not much different to what I imagine a choking squirrel sounds like. “What?” I stare at her. Alarm has the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end. “What did you do?” “MightamensunedtoZeke,” she mumbles into her hand. I only understood one word in that, and I don’t like it much. “I swear to god if you tell me you mentioned it to Zeke, I’m going to shove the cactus on my windowsill so far up your ass you’ll be sitting on it in ten years’ time,” I warn her. “Fine, then Cain mentioned it to Zeke.” “You’re a shit girlfriend.” She holds up her hands. “When the zombie apocalypse happens, I’ll feed him to them before

they get me. Don’t judge me. The self-preservation is strong with me.” “Brooke,” I say her name slowly. “You tripped on a coloring pencil and sprained your wrist when you were ten.” “And you sprained your ankle while changing a light bulb. You were standing on the floor.” “I’d feed him to the zombies, too.” What? I would. Plus that light bulb thing isn’t exactly my greatest moment. “Let me guess: Zeke had a smartass comment about the party.” She held her hand out and rocked it from side to side. “He said he’s free if you need a date.” “I don’t need a date.” Pointless. I do. “Eighteen-year-old grandson of her best friend’s enemy,” Brooke reminds me. “I need a date. Oh god.” I grab a cushion and press it against my face. “I hate life!” “Just text him.” “I don’t want to text him.” “Then go on a date with a kid who might not even be legal yet.”

This is going from bad to worse. I didn’t sign up for this when I became an adult. I signed up for independence and freedom and bills and cooking disasters and…oh god, I totally signed up for this. Nobody tells you how bad adulting is when you’re a kid. I mean, seriously. When I was seven, all I wanted to do was grow up. Now I’m actually grown up, I want my mommy. “Just text Zeke.” Brooke tucks her feet beneath her and props her hand up on her chin. Her elbow digs right into the leather of my armchair. “I know you guys hate each other, although I’m not entirely sure why he saved your ass last night.” “He wanted out of his own shitty date.” I say it too quickly. I don’t know if that’s true. I don’t know if his date was shitty or stunning. I mean, she was stunning. It might have been really bad. “His date wasn’t shitty. He called me last night to tell me he’d delivered you home, soaking wet, and that what you said about his Facebook profile wasn’t true.” She smirks. “He doesn’t go on there a

lot, so I screenshotted his profile before he could stop.” “You sent it to him, didn’t you?” “Yes.” “He’s going to drown me next time. Ohhh.” I groan. “I’m not texting him. I don’t want to be around him.” Brooke opens her mouth. Then she stops. “Oh my god,” she whispers. “You like him.” Mayday. Mayday. I do not like Zeke. “No, I don’t.” Shit, who am I trying to convince with that? “Not like him. I mean you like, like him.” “Like, like him? Are you old enough to own a business?” I snort. “This isn’t high school.” She throws a cushion at me. “You know what I mean.” “And you’re wrong.” “Liar, liar, pants on fire.” Her voice is way too sing-songy for my liking. “Tell me the truth or I’m going to take the wine home with me.”

I have my own wine. Obviously. It’s like she doesn’t know me at all. “I don’t like him. Drop it.” “You only say drop it when you’re lying.” “I’m seriously going to shove that cactus up your ass.” “You do like him!” “I do not!” I thump my hand against the sofa. Brooke stares at me. Really, really stares at me. Then, a slow, sly smile creeps across her face. “You had sex with him.” Like the idiot I am, I freeze. Her jaw drops, and her gasp is so loud it makes the TV sound like it’s on damn mute. “You had sex with him!” “No I didn’t,” I argue weakly. “You so did!” “It was an accident!” I cup my hands over my mouth as her eyes widen. Oh dear god. “I accidentally had sex with him.” “Accidentally? What did you do, trip over a rug and just happen to sit your vagina on his cock?”

“Yes. Yes, that’s exactly what happened.” “And your clothes?” “Magic. Poof.” I throw my hands up.

This has gone from bad to worse to fuck-thisshit. “Accident,” I say lamely. “Still an accident.”

Who am I kidding? It was the furthest thing from an accident. It was more deliberate than the time I tried to home-bleach my hair and screwed up my eyebrows. Don’t. Ask. “Oh my god! This needs more wine!” Brooke throws her cushion onto the sofa and scrambles up. She doesn’t pause as she makes a beeline for the kitchen, and before I can even get up, the fridge door opens. I reach the kitchen to the sound of a bottle clinking, but I don’t stop. I walk right past her to the bottle rack on the edge of my wall cupboards. My fingers hover in front for it for a moment before I wiggle and select the bottle with the bright red cap.

Nope. Wine won’t cut this. This is a job for vodka. Ironically, vodka is the reason I’m having this conversation. Vodka makes me a little horny. I don’t know why, but it just does, and if that information ever got out…Let’s just say there is one man who would probably use that to his advantage. Again. I grab a glass from the cupboard, pour more vodka than I should in the glass, then stop. Fuck it. I swig from the bottle instead. It was a stupid, rookie move, because both my lips and throat now burn. Not to mention my tongue is running a temperature, too. “Wow.” Brooke looks at me, wine bottle in hand. “That’s some pretty strong feelings right there.” “Don’t.” I put the bottle down on the counter and hold a finger up in her direction. I do not want to go there. I don’t want to go

anywhere close to it right this second. She does as I ask. Except she takes the vodka bottle from me and replaces it with a wine glass. All right. It was slightly drastic. Maybe. I join her back in the front room and sit back in my space on the sofa. She lowers herself onto the other side and flips the blanket over our legs. “Okay.” She stops, as if she doesn’t know where to start. I hit her with a withering look. “Spit it out. Come on.” “How?” The word explodes out of her. “I mean, I know how, but how did you get to that point?” I take a deep breath and let it go slowly. “You know how he took me home after Cain’s birthday?” “Cain’s birthday?” “Yes. No. Shit. Fuck it.” She laughs. “Sorry, I just wasn’t expecting that.” “Right. Now, shut up, or I’ll chicken out.”

She mimes zipping her lips. I sigh again. “He took me home and asked if he could have some water. I didn’t want him to come in, but I said sure. We started talking and… one thing lead to another.” “Like you stripping naked as you fell onto his penis.” “Exactly like that.” She laughs and leans against the back of the sofa. “Zeke. Damn it, Carly. You hate him.” “Precisely.” Another sigh. That man is so exasperating that even talking about him is stressful. “I don’t know. It just…happened. You know, after I told him it’d never happen again, which is even worse because it proves I know exactly what I was doing…” I trail off. “So, it was no accident.” “When it’s put like that, no.” I prop my elbow up on the back cushion and rest my head in my hand. “This is a disaster, Brooke. You don’t even know. It’s like, right after Cain’s birthday, I swear I didn’t see him for two weeks. Then, boom. He’s

everywhere, and for the last week, I haven’t been able to get rid of him. He’s more than freaking everywhere.” “Then ask him if he’ll go to your Grandma’s party with you. No, listen.” She taps the side of my leg before sipping her wine. “Think about it. If you show up with somebody, you can leave after an hour. She’ll have won. If you go alone, she’ll make you stay for hours. Surely one hour of torture with someone you hate who you accidentally screwed is preferable.” “You’re not going to let me live this down, are you?” She grins. “Not at all.” “Fine.” I lift my wine glass. “I’ll text him soon.” “Now.” “Soon.” “Now.” “Soon.” “Now.” I put my glass on the coffee table with a sigh

and grab my phone. “You’re so childish.” Brooke shrugs. “I’m the middle child. I always had someone to argue with. I’m a pro. What can I say?” I roll my eyes and bring up my messages with Zeke. Me: I need a date for tomorrow night. “There. Done.” I balance my phone on my knees. No sooner have I let it go than the screen lights back up.

Zeke: It’s the 22nd. Does that help? My god… Me: Helps me realize my bff is a dick, yeah. Zeke: She loves me Me: No, you love you Zeke: Of course I do. Have you seen me? Me: Too much of you… Zeke: No such thing as too much of me

Me: Clearly you’ve never spent quality time with yourself Zeke: … Me: That came out wrong Zeke: … Me: Fuck Zeke: Keep digging there, sugartits. Me: I’m done here. Zeke: You kill me. Me: ::middle finger emoji:: “I hate him so much,” I declare, setting my

phone back down on my knees. “He’s such an ass.” Brooke snatches up my phone and scrolls. “First, I take offense to being called a dick, and second, that middle finger emoji was so earned. Oh, wait, he replied.” “I don’t care.” “Cute,” she says, peering at the screen. “But how does he know about your grandma’s party?” I take the phone from her, locking it in the process. Ugh. I unlock it and read his message.

Zeke: Don’t worry, sugartits. I got you. I’ll pick you up at 5.30 tomorrow for your gma’s party. I promise I’ll behave. Well, didn’t that just sound like a shit ton of fun?

CHAPTER EIGHT Life Goal #8: Learn to say no. N-O, no. Mostly to cookie-touting Girl Scouts. Shoes are from the devil. Apparently, black dresses are my thing, because I’m wearing one again. The only problem is black dresses mean I can wear any color shoes, and I, well, I like shoes. That’s why I’m staring at five pairs of shoes and trying to figure out which level of hotness I should go for. Should I pick the lower, red heels? The nude, pointed-toe regular heels? The black, heeled ankle boots? The navy-blue lace-up heels? Or the turquoise killer heels? Problems don’t get much more first world than this. I disgust myself. I snatch the turquoise killer heels up and throw the others back into the pit that is the bottom of my closet. I’m sure I’ll be regretting this choice in, oh,

thirty minutes or so, but hey. They’ll look good, and I’m a bit shallow like that. I’ll be sure to remind my toes of that later on tonight. I just slip my feet into the shoes in time for the knocks at the door. The three booms seem to make my door rattle on its hinges, and that does nothing for my concentration as I stand up in the heels a little unsteadily. Not because I’m one of those people who resemble a baby giraffe when they walk—you know the ones. They wobble and you either wonder if they’re co-ordination challenged or if they’re going to snap their ankle in two…When they’re standing perfectly still. No, I’m unsteady because apparently, four inches is a long way up. Funny how four inches never looks that big…Neither does six most times, mind you. Not to a woman, anyway. “Carly.” Zeke knocks again. “For the love of God, don’t tell me you’re not ready.” I stroll across the room. “Sheesh. I’m ready.

You’re so damn impatient.” “No, I’m just used to…” He trails off when I yank open the door. Silence. It’s awkward. And his gaze? Highly uncomfortable. I’m not kidding—I’m breathing, but my lungs are burning as if I’m not. Then again, that’s a side effect of having Zeke Elliott look at you as if you’re the sexiest thing in the world, because my entire body is burning and that’s what he’s doing. He’s examining me slowly, his gaze touching every inch of my body. It doesn’t matter if he’s looking at the tiny mole beneath my right ear or the low cut neckline of my dress. Everything. He’s taking in everything. It makes me want to run and hide. “You’re just used to what?” I step back. God, let it break that scrutinizing trance he seems to be in. It does. Thank you.

Zeke rubs the side of his neck and drags his gaze to mine. “Not this.” “Specific.” I step back again. Why? I don’t know. I just need to. Distance. I need distance. Like a whole solar system of distance. Scotty, I’d like to be beamed up now, please. “I feel somewhat under-dressed,” he mutters, leaning against the door frame. I roll my eyes. “If you feel under-dressed now, wait until we get there. Grandma’s friends are ancient fashion moguls. It’s fun.” “Ancient fashion moguls? What the hell is that?” I grab my clutch purse from the sofa, check it, and tuck it under my arm. “It’s a little hard to explain. But you don’t look bad, if that’s the compliment you were fishing for.” He doesn’t, either. In fact, “don’t look bad” is a dismal description. I don’t know what it is about men in white shirts with their sleeves rolled up, but it needs to stop. Immediately.

There’s something about the way the fabric of a white, button-down shirt is weaved with pheromone magic or something equally similar. There can be no other explanation for why such a simple look is, oh my god, so fucking hot. Especially when that simple look is worn by a man with muscle who probably has to try on shirts just to make sure his arms don’t rip them apart at the seams when he bends them or something. Zeke grins. “You’re so nice to me.” “I try.” I shuffle past him out into the hallway and raise an eyebrow at him. He closes the door. “I still want to know about these ‘ancient fashion moguls.’” I purse my lips while locking the door. “Well, ancient is a bit of an overshot, I admit. Ancient because they’re all, like, eighty, but not ancient in the fashion sense. Do you know what?” I stop, my key still pinched between my fingers, and look at him. “You don’t have to come. I’m not sure if you can handle this. I’d rather take the shit she’ll give me for showing up alone.” “Are you trying to protect me from…whatever

it is you’re talking about?” “Not any more. You had your chance and you lost it.” I tuck my key into my purse and smile. “Let’s go.” *** I really wasn’t kidding when I said fashion moguls. The desire to say “I told you so” to Zeke is absolutely overwhelming. His expression is priceless. His jaw is slack, his eyes wide, and he, well. He looks completely confused. I don’t blame him. If it were my first rodeo at this shitshow, I’d be the same way. Unfortunately for me, it’s not the first, and I can’t remember a party at the retirement community where there wasn’t an overabundance of…alarming outfits. “Fucking hell,” Zeke says in a low voice. “It looks like one hundred years of the Oscars’ worst dressed have shown up.” That was a relatively accurate observation. “One hundred years is a little steep.” I hesitate.

“It’s closer to six—oh, wait. Never mind. NormaJean is wearing her Gatsby dress again.” I squint at the old lady by the bingo table wearing a too-tight, too-short, white, beaded dress. “Her Gatsby…Oh.” Zeke stops. “I’m not going to be able to unsee that any time soon.” I covered my mouth with my hand to stop myself from snorting. “It gets worse every year.” “Why? Does it get shorter?” “No. Norma-Jean gets…wider.” It’s the nicest way I can put it. “And the dress doesn’t.” “Ah.” He grimaces. “Is that the worst we’ll see?” Oh, how I wish it was. “It depends on whether or not Alexander is wearing his shorts.” Shorts…ah, what an exaggeration for what they are. Zeke doesn’t look at me. “His shorts.” “Yes. His shorts.” I smack my lips together. “They’re closer to hot pants really. And bright purple. And sequined.” “How old is Alexander?”

“Ninety-one.”

Slowly, oh-so-slowly, Zeke turns to face me. “He’s ninety-one and he wears bright purple, sequined, hot pants.” “When you put it like that, it sounds slightly absurd.” “Slightly absurd? What kind of party is this?” I hold my hands up. “I tried to warn you.” “No, you didn’t.” He shifts his whole body in the chair and rests his arm on the back of it. Which, by the way, does absolutely nothing for the strength of the hems on that thing. Just saying. “You said ancient fashion moguls. You didn’t say I’d be stepping into a mixed up time-warp of fashions on people who should have stopped wearing them fifty years ago.” He raises an eyebrow. “That’s a little ageist,” I hedge. “Who are we to judge if Alexander still likes his hot pants at ninety-one? Plus, we’re all pretty sure he was a drag queen back in the day. Whenever that was.” Zeke blinks at me.

Damn it. He has pretty eyelashes. “I really hope he was a drag queen.” He rubs his hand across his forehead. “Okay, so what’s Norma-Jean’s story?” At that moment, Grandma sweeps around the back of his chair and plops herself into the one next to him…Wearing her bright red Jessica Rabbit dress. Oh no. She offers him her most dazzling smile. Double oh no. “So, Ezekiel,” she says, setting her hands on the tabletop in a way that doesn’t help the neckline of her dress at all. “Grandma.” I keep my attention focused studiously onto her wig. “Please adjust yourself.” She peers down. “Oh, goodness me. This is awkward. It’s not every day you almost show your granddaughter’s boyfriend your breasts.” “He’s not my boyfriend,” I say the moment Zeke says, “I’m not her boyfriend.” Ah, finally. It’s taken eleven years, but we

agree on something. Grandma gives her dress a vigorous tug up over her chest, dislodging a piece of the tissue she’s apparently stuffed down it. Honestly, you’d think she could do better than that at her age. “So, are you not here on a date?” “Yes,” I say through gritted teeth. “I won a dare and decided to bring him here to torture him.” “Oh, you poor dear.” Grandma places a perfectly manicured hand on his shoulder. Zeke looks at it suspiciously. He’s right to. I would be, too. “Did he see Norma-Jean yet?” she asks me. “You can ask him that, you know. But yes, he did.” She winces and looks at Zeke. “My apologies, dear. I thought I’d burned that last year when we broke into her apartment.” “You broke into her apartment?” What am I hearing here? My grandmother is a criminal? Grandma looks at me and quite simply says,

“Of course we had to, dear. She wouldn’t share the pot brownies with us.” I blink. Once. Twice. Again and again. My grandma broke into someone’s apartment to get pot brownies. “Are you all right, Carly? Is there something in your eyes?” She leans forward. Too much. “No.” I flap my hands in front of me the way people do when they’ve done something really stupid like eat a red-hot chili pepper. Really, I just don’t want her to accidentally..fall out of her dress. God knows how much tissue paper she has in that thing. I don’t want to know, either. “I’m just a little confused.” “You broke into Norma-Jean’s apartment to steal her pot brownies?” Zeke asks, looking at my grandmother. She offers him yet another smile. “Yes, dear. Why wouldn’t we?” “Did you get the brownies?” Grandma’s smile swiftly changed to a

mischievous grin. “All three trays,” she whispers. Zeke glances me with a smirk curving his lips. “Mrs. Porter, forgive my oversight before, but can I buy you a drink?” Well, aren’t we posh this evening? Grandma looks at me. Her bright red lips are pursed and her eyebrows have raised so high her eyes are wide open, and there’s a sparkle in them. A sparkle that says I’m in trouble now. Help. Is there anywhere I can send up an S.O.S? Maybe if I climb to the roof? “That would be lovely, Ezekiel.” Grandma waits for him to stand. He does and— Oh my shitty hell. He offers her his arm. I. Will. Not. Swoon. I roll my eyes instead. It works. I avoid the hearts-in-eyes swoony idiot look in favor of my preferred resting-bitch-face look. “And call me Jeanette.” Grandma leans into him and winks at me.

“Help,” I murmur, pressing my face into my

hand. This is a disaster. I was supposed to bring cocky, asshole Zeke to this shindig. Not this apparent gentleman who has more manners than an entire English Etiquette Class. Who is this Zeke and where did he come from? Can I put in a request to get the old one back? “Who’s that?” Mom sits in the seat Zeke just evacuated. I turn to her. I’m going to ignore her sixties, tye-dye shirt-dress. “Zeke.” She blinks at me, looking much the same way I imagine I just did when Grandma told me about the brownies. “Zeke? Elliott?” With a grimace, I nod. “What’s he doing here?” My grimace doesn’t disappear. “Zeke’s your date?” I nod again. “Why is Zeke your date?”

“God, Mom, if you like questions so much, just

go on a TV show.” I stop. “I’m sorry, that was mean of me.” She raises her eyebrows in the way only moms can. “Happenstance,” I say. “I had a date a couple days ago and the guy didn’t match his online profile.” “I have warned you about the dangers of online dating,” she admonishes. “You just don’t know who these people are, sweetheart. They could be murderers or garbage men.” “How are murderers and garbage man remotely similar?” “You have to consider the possibility that the garbage man is a murderer. He has the tools to get rid of your body very easily.” “I think I need to talk to Dad about how much TV you’re watching,” I say slowly. Never mind that she does have a point. Note to self: Never date a garbage man. “Kill me.” Brooke takes the seat to my left. “If

Grandpa wears his loincloth to one more freaking party, I’m going to throw myself into the Atlantic.” And I thought Grandma being Jessica Rabbit was bad. “Please tell me he’s wearing a t-shirt this year,” Mom says weakly. Brooke’s answer is clear: A slow, regretful shake of her head. She, like me, is dressed normally. Although I suppose we’re actually representing the twenty-teens or whatever it is they call this decade. “Why has nobody broken into his apartment to burn his loincloth?” she asks after a moment. “Because he doesn’t have pot brownies.” The words escape me before I can stop them. Both Brooke and my mom stop and stare me. Thankfully, Alexander’s grand entrance stops me having to explain myself. And he’s not just wearing his hot pants. “Well, shit,” Brooke whispers. “I guess that answers that,” I whisper back. No. Alexander, dear, ninety-one-year-old

Alexander, is in full drag. I’m talking long, deep-auburn wig, awkwardly applied false eyelashes, and hot pink lipstick. He’s wearing a slinky, black camisole top, and his boobs are bigger than mine. And, yes, he’s wearing his famed hot pants. And knee-high, latex, black boots. “Oh dear god,” Mom exhales. Silence. Apart from Mom’s barely-heard mutter, there’s complete silence in the room. “Jeanette, darling,” Alexander says from the front of the room in a low, husky voice. “Happy seventieth birthday!” He throws an arm up in the air, making his fake left boob bounce vigorously. I wince. This can’t be ending well. “I called some friends, and I have a show for you!” He—she?—winks excitedly. “Take a seat, dear.” “I’m scared.” Cain slips into the chair next to Brooke, and that’s when I notice Mom’s disappeared.

Hopefully she’s running far, far away. Like I want to right now. “You don’t think there’s a group of drag queen pensioners, do you?” Brooke’s bottom lip actually wobbles. “I’m not sure I can cope with that.” “Alexander! Yoohoo!” Grandma waves her hand high in the air. She has a dirty martini in the other, and she sashayes her way through the hall from the make-shift bar toward the also make-shift stage. “What do you have for me, sugarplum?” “Kill me.” I press my face into my hand. Zeke’s familiar, low chuckle sounds next to me. “Here.” I peel my fingers from my face and look at the tiny glass he’s put in front of me. “I don’t see how a shot of whatever that is can help with this.” “I’ll have it.” Brooke snatches it up and throws it back. “Ouch. That tequila burned.” “Tequila?” I perk up. Zeke smirks and slides another in front of me. “I know her too well.” “Hey,” Brooke protests.

I throw back the shot. “Hit the lights!” Alexander yells from the front of the room. The entire room plunges into darkness. “Hurry up, hurry up,” he mutters from the front. Into the mic. If the hot pants didn’t make it obvious, subtlety doesn’t exactly fit into his personality. There’s some more screwing around from the front, so I hit the Home button on my phone. It lights up our table barely, but it’s noticed. “Turn out the light!” I flip my phone over. Zeke coughs into his hand. “All right, Barley Cross Retirement Home, let’s get this party started! Hit those lights again!” Nothing happens. I lie. There’s a click, but nothing else happens. No lights. No music. Nothing. “God damn it, Gregory!” Grandma cries. “Did you kill the power?” There’s a big scuffle at the front of the room,

and after a few more clicks and shouts and blaming, the power sparks back to life. And I’m officially traumatized. “Oh no,” Brooke says. “Oh. No!” Because Grandpa James is in the middle of the stage, in a loincloth, and judging by the fact his back is to us…not a lot else. “Oh god no,” I breathe. He’s not the only one. There are five elderly men on the stage. Two are dressed in drag, and the other three are stripper-like. That’s the only way to describe it. None of them are wearing much. Much is an overstatement. Apart from Grandpa James in his loincloth, two men I don’t recognize are in ripped jeans and nothing else except some lipstick. The drag queens are clad in skin-tight dresses that are not made for elderly men judging by the fact one has a tiny rip in the side of his. And the shoes—dear god, the shoes. Every single one of them is wearing boots to match Alexander’s. Granted, they’re all kitten heels, but still.

I’m scared. I’m scarred. I’m never going to sleep again. “And that’s our cue to leave,” Zeke mutters. If only I could move. He solves that problem for me by grabbing my hand and yanking me out of my chair. He even grabs my stuff from the table before he pulls me back through the room and outside into the hallway. I vaguely hear Cain trying to do the same for Brooke, but I don’t stop. Zeke started this, and I don’t finish it until I leave the building entirely and the fresh air is hitting my face. Then, I stop and lean against the wall. Deep breaths, Carly. Deep. Breaths. “Are you okay?” I clutch my hand to my neck. “Do I look okay?” “At least it wasn’t your grandparent wearing a loincloth,” Zeke reasons. “I think Brooke is messed up now.”

“Okay, for her to be messed up now, is

ridiculous. She’s never been not messed up.” “All right, so she’s always been slightly wacky, but this is legit.” “I don’t care if it’s legit.” I drop my hand. “Zeke, in the last fifteen minutes, my grandmother has almost shown you her boobs, five elderly men have taken to the stage in either women’s clothing or their sweet nothings, and I have discovered that there are some things that tequila can’t fix.” “There are a lot of things tequila can’t fix. You’re just usually drunk when you think it can fix stuff.” He laughs. “I bet you want it right now.” “If I pour it into my eyes, will it bleach them?” “I wouldn’t recommend it.” “My eyes!” Brooke explodes from the building. “My eyes! Someone make it stop!” Cain follows her with a heavy sigh. “I can’t unsee that.” “There are a lot of things that need to be unseen tonight,” Zeke adds. “Including Jeanette’s breasts.” “Oh god.” I bend right forward and bury my

face in both of my hands. “Why is my grandmother such a child? Someone needs to remind her that she’s seventy and not seventeen. Hell, who am I kidding? This crap isn’t okay for a seventeen-yearold.” “Your grandma almost got her boobs out, my grandpa almost got his pet snake out…” Brooke trails off. When I look up, she’s staring into nothing. “I think I need therapy,” I finish for her. “I have a plan,” Cain says. “The nearest bar?” Zeke asks. “I agree.”

CHAPTER NINE Life Goal #9: Bleach my eyeballs. My third—fourth?—tequila shot of the night burns my throat as it goes down. If I can’t bleach my eyes with it, I hope I can bleach my memory. I probably should have started this a few hours ago, but whatever. I dip a nacho into the cheese sauce the waitress set out on our table…after our food. Apparently, we look like we’re staying after our food. “I don’t know if I can ever recover from this.” “It is pretty alarming,” Zeke agrees. “I wasn’t expecting it to go that way.” The look he gives me is pointed. “Hey.” I hold up another nacho. “If I knew that would happen, I wouldn’t have gone, much less taken someone else. Although the idea that you’re traumatized pleases me somewhat.” “Why? Because I’m going to dream about elderly men in drag for the next three years of my

life?” “Pretty much, yeah.” My phone pings at the moment, and I light up the screen. Grandma: Where r u? I shake my head. Not only at the text-speak, but because it’s taken her over an hour to realize I’m gone. “What?” Zeke asks. “Grandma,” I answer, picking up my phone. Me: Far, far away. Grandma: Carly. Me: No. I’m not coming back. Grandma: Yes u r. Me: I showed up. I brought a date. I don’t need to come back. Grandma: Yes u do. Me: If I come back, you’re paying for my therapy. Grandma: Will call u 2moro Me: Stop texting like that.

I put my phone face-down on the table so I don’t have to deal with her response. Tonight has been way too much. I’m not sure how anyone is supposed to be able to cope with the sights I have tonight. I’m beyond traumatized or scared. I’m quite simply alarmed. Cain grabs the back of the chair opposite me. “Brooke’s in the truck. Apparently the drunk picture Billie sent her has sent her over the edge. Alexander is giving lap dances.” I blink. “Who knew old people were so horny?” Zeke shudders. “I don’t think they are…Not normally.” “You think there’s anything normal about them?” I raise an eyebrow. “They’ve turned the retirement home into an adult Kindergarten class. It’s x-rated. Grandma is Jessica Rabbit for fun, Alexander wears drag, and Grandpa James sends his online lovers dick pics. Nothing about that place is within touching distance of normal.” “Don’t forget the pot brownies.”

“I’d rather not remember that my grandma gets

high on brownies.” “I’m missing something,” Cain interjects. “Or the fact you bought her a drink after knowing that,” I say to Zeke. I grab my glass and finish my margarita. Then, I signal for the bill. He rolls his eyes. “What else was I supposed to do? I appreciate a little spunk in a woman.” “Oh, I bet you do.” His oceanic-colored eyes linger on me for a moment, and then his lips twitch. He’s clearly fighting an internal battle not to laugh at my twisting of his words, and god, I want to laugh, too. Impatient? Sure. Ridiculous? Surely. Funny? Sure as the surest shit. I glance up as the bill is brought over. I barely have a chance to take it before Zeke’s hand snatches it away from me. I snap my head around, but he’s already got his face buried in the little leather booklet.

“Um, hello?” I say.

He ignores me as he puts it down and reaches into his pocket. “How much?” Cain asks, doing the same. “Thirty…Thirty-five,” Zeke tells him. Cain passes two bills. Zeke drops three down and stands. “Let’s go.” I don’t move. “How much was my share?” Cain chuckles, hovering by the table. He knows me too well. No way is his brother getting away with paying for my dinner. “Covered it,” Zeke answers simply. “How much was my share?” “Covered it.” “How much, Ezekiel?” I’m much firmer this time. Cain laughs again. “She’s not gonna give it up.” “I told you,” Zeke says to me, pinning me with his gaze. “I covered it.” “And I’m asking you, how much is my share?” “Sugartits, you’re starting to piss me off.”

More laughter from my so-called-best-friend. “Good.” I meet his gaze with the same ferocity he’s holding mine. “Because thank you for the offer, but this isn’t a real date, so I’m going to pay my share.” “She’s not gonna give it up,” Brooke says from beside Cain. “Just tell her. She’s got me beat in the stubborn charts.” I nod in her direction. “She’s not wrong. I’ll sit here all night.” Zeke’s lips twitch again. “Don’t make threats you can’t carry out.” “Cute. You think I won’t.” I flag down a server. “Excuse me, can I get a bill split? Whatever the three of them had, and then what I did?” “She’s good,” Zeke says, stepping toward me. “Ignore her. She’s PMSing.” My jaw drops. “You jerk.” “It’s all covered right there for you.” Zeke taps the booklet and tugs me up. Despite my best fight, he’s so much stronger than I can ever hope to be, so he pulls me up with ease. For the second time

tonight, he collects my purse and my phone and leads me out a building I don’t want to be in. When we get outside, he pulls me to the side of the building, into the darkness, and pins me to the wall. I glare at him as he puts my phone inside my purse and sets it by my feet. The corner of the parking lot is dimly lit by a yellow light, and the barest glints of that play across the side of his face. “Goddamn it, Carly,” he says in a low voice. “Do you have to fight everything?” “Yes.” My answer is firm. “Please, tell me how much my share is.” “No. My treat.” “With all due respect, I don’t want your treat, Zeke.” “With all due respect is the most insulting thing you can say to a person.” His lips curve. “Consider it me forgiving you for the scars from tonight.” I sigh. “This isn’t a date. It never was. Humor me and let me pay my way, okay?” “No.”

“Goddamn it, Ezekiel,” I say, throwing his

words back at him. “Do you have to fight everything?” “Yes,” he says back, his voice lower and huskier than a moment ago. “So, let it go, sugartits.” “No.” He glides his fingertips along the side of my face and pushes my hair back behind my ear. “I’m not askin’ you, Carly. Drop it. I don’t care what you do or don’t want me to do. You traumatized me, and I bought you dinner. I’m a gentleman like that.” I hate the way my skin tingles at his touch. “Then, be a gentleman and let me pay,” I say softly. “How about you be a lady and accept that someone bought you dinner?” I purse my lips. Shit. “Touche.” He dips his head, his smile slow and easy, sexy yet slight. “Thank you. Do I win this round?” “Ceasefire,” I reply. “No winners and no

losers.” “Would you have won if I’d let you pay?” “Obviously.” His low chuckle sends shivers up my arms. “Of course you would have. How ridiculous of me to question it.” “It’s so nice when we find things to agree upon.” I peer up at him. Shouldn’t have. I shouldn’t have done that. God had a field day when he created this man. It’s like he made several drafts and Zeke Elliott was the final product. I swallow as my gaze lingers on his. The hairs on my arms are already standing on end from his seemingly never-ending laughter, so I really don’t need another reason to be reacting to this guy. Least of all his eyes. I’m a sucker for eyes. Cats, dogs, babies…Zeke. I’m so screwed. And not the fun way. His eyes flit to side to side across my face before he says, “Come on. Let me take you home.”

“What about Brooke and Cain?”

Zeke picks up my purse and presses it against my stomach. “D’ya see them?” “No.” “Then, let’s go.” He pushes back from me and stalks toward where his truck is parked in the corner of the lot. I follow him. The fact I’ve managed to stay on my feet without them killing me in these shoes so far is a miracle, although the lack of pain could be down to the tequila. That and the margaritas have probably helped an awful lot. “How am I supposed to get into this thing?” I look at the apparently monstrous vehicle in front of me. Did it grow since he picked me up? Zeke eyes me across the cab. “You do this thing where you put one foot on that little step there, then you grab the sides of the doorway, and you pull yourself up. Although that might be a bit too sensible for those shoes after alcohol.” “Nothing is sensible after alcohol, much less

anything done in four-inch heels.” “Sage advice from Carly Porter.” He winks, laughing. “Hold tight, sugartits.” Have I mentioned that I really, really hate that nickname? ‘Cause I do. And, for the record, it is excellent advice. “Thank you,” I say as he rounds the front of the truck. “The advice thing, not the holding tight thing.” He shakes his head as he comes up behind me. “I’m just warning you that I might touch your ass as I lift you up, and I promise you it’s entirely intentional.” I pause. “I think I can do this by myself.” I reach down and pull off one shoe. I’ve hardly thrown it onto the floor of the cab when Zeke wraps his large hand around my calf. He lifts my foot, securely planting my foot on the step thingy, and then, he grabs my waist. His rough, strong grip heaves me upward, and I quietly squeal as he launches me into the cab and pushes me so I’m bending over the seat. “Clean-shaven. I thought this wasn’t a date?”

“Fuck you!” I tug my dress over my butt as I

twist and align myself with the seat. I fail, and instead of sitting on the seat, I sit on the floor with my legs over the edge of the truck. “I hate you.” “I know, but you’re still clean-shaven on your non-date.” He smirks. “You shouldn’t be looking!” “You should wear bigger panties when you’re wearing a dress that short.” I want to argue that my dress isn’t that short, but actually, it kinda is. “You shouldn’t be looking, Ezekiel Elliott, and that’s the end of it. Now, get your pervy little ass over to the driver’s side before I impale your little friend with my heel.” “There’s nothing little about my friend,” he says, moving back. “And right now, he’s my fucking enemy.” I don’t know if I was supposed to hear that, but, god…I grin. I grin hard. Go, me. Look—I don’t have to like the guy to delight in torturing him. In fact, the fact I don’t like him is more than enough reason for the fact I love

torturing him. Boners that can’t be solved with anything but the inside of his hand in the shower are immensely pleasing to me. If I have to use a battery-operated friend, he can use a blood-operated one. Wait. That didn’t sound right. “Are you getting in anytime soon, or should I be driving without you?” Zeke looks across the cab at me. Right. I’m still half-out of the truck. I pull off my other shoe, put it on the floor, and scramble up to the seat. I’m only reassured that he didn’t see my panties by the fact my ass never faced him, but this is a relatively busy restaurant so, yeah… “I’m ready.” I slam the door and grab my belt. “Let’s go!” “I’m still thinking about the fact you shaved.” He puts the truck into drive. “I’m still thinking about the fact you’re a pig.” I put my shoes on my lap. “It might surprise you to

learn that we don’t all shave for men. Sometimes we do it because we want to. Because it’s annoying but makes us feel good.” “Who is ‘we’ and ‘us’?” “Me and my vagina.” “You’re separate entities?” I turn in my seat and stare at the side of his head. “If you can tell me straight up that you’ve never named your dick, you can take this discussion further.” Zeke opens and closes his mouth. His lips slowly flatten into a thin line. “Exactly. Now, tell me what you called it.” His solemn expression disappears in an instant and is replaced by a hard laugh. “Why do you think I’d tell you that?” “I’ll tell you what I named my boobs.” “Clearly, tequila is your friend.” “Only when I can open the bottle.” “What?” “Never mind.” He doesn’t need to know that I’m liquor bottle challenged. “Tell me what you

called your dick and I’ll tell you what I call my boobs.” He slides his gaze toward me. “You tell me first.” “Only because tequila is my friend.” He smirks as we pull up to a red light. “It’s apparently my friend, too.” “Ben and Jerry.” Zeke stares at me, his eyes dancing with amusement. “You named your tits Ben and Jerry?” “What? You think these things are only comforting to men? They’re the ultimate comfort to me too. Just like the ice cream.” “I’m not arguing with you on that, sugartits.” I lick my lips. “I should shut up, shouldn’t I?” He laughs quietly. “You are talking a lot. Is that the tequila?” “Probably,” I muse. “But you never told me what you call your dick.” “Nothing.” “Nothing? You never named it?” He pulls into the parking lot of my apartment.

“Why would I name it? My cock isn’t my pet. If it was, I’d be telling it get down right now.” “Why? Is it up when it shouldn’t be?” I ask innocently. “Usually,” he starts, turning to look at me. “I’d humor you, but it’s pushing against my belt and is less than humorous right now.” I snort, unclipping my belt. “And men still think they’re the superior species.” “What does that mean?” I hop out onto the tarmac. Ouch. Hard. “I mean that my genitals don’t try to maim me whenever I get turned on, yet yours do. More to the point: Yours are so obvious. Like, oh, hi, I know that isn’t your phone in your pocket.” “You spend too much time on the internet.” I look at his crotch and his obvious boner and say, “Is that your phone in your pocket?” Zeke looks down, too. “Yes.” “Funny. Your phone is in the center console.” “Shit.” I grin and get out of the car. I grab my shoes

and purse and bump the door shut with my shoulder. “Thanks for dinner and the ride home, Mr. Gentleman, but in the interest of history not repeating itself—we all know bad that is—you should maybe stay here,” I say when I reach his side of the truck. “I’m sorry the elderly traumatized you tonight.” Zeke’s lips curve to the side. “Don’t sweat it, sugartits. Your grandma’s a hoot.” Wonderful. I tap the side of his truck. “Night, Zeke. Thanks for being an all right non-date.” He winks. “Night, Carly.” I smile and turn around. I’m barefoot as I walk across the parking lot and past my car, but I’m still smiling. Fuck this stupid fucking smile. It has no place here—it doesn’t deserve to be here, yet it is. Here it is curling my lips and holding them in place. As much as I want to blame tequila, and I will to anyone who asks, I have to admit that he isn’t so bad. He’s a total pain in the ass, but he scrubs up well, his manners aren’t half bad, and well…his

smile is dangerous. Wait. Scratch that. Totally the tequila. No, I think as I hit the button on the elevator. I’m pretty damn glad Zeke was my non-date tonight. It was fun to have dinner with Brooke and Cain and even if I couldn’t pay for myself, it was nice to not do that. Maybe my standards on guys I date aren’t too high after all. The elevator sweeps to a stop. The doors ding open at my floor, the lights flickering slightly as they slide open. I walk out before they close again and turn right down to my front door. With my eyes on it, I pull my keys out of my purse. I don’t notice him until it’s too late. The keys clatter out of my grasp and onto the floor as Zeke pushes me against the door. I don’t know what slams harder against the wood—my back or his hand. Or his mouth onto mine. I grip whatever fabric I can get my fingers around as he flattens his body against mine. His

lips sweep across mine in a deadly assault that tugs at every part of me. He grasps the back of my neck, his thumb resting against the back of my ear, dangerously close to that tender spot that always makes me shiver. My heartbeat picks up. I fist his shirt tighter as a dull ache forms between my legs. Zeke’s mouth is like fucking magic as he kisses me. His tongue is his weapon as he teases it across my lower lip before flicking it against mine. If this kiss is a battle and tongue is his weapon, then his passion is his army. And he’s winning the fight. Right now, he is, and I don’t even care. Zeke stops, resting his hand on the side of my face. I daren’t open my eyes, so I stand with my face slightly tilted down just in case they open of their own will. I don’t want to see him or the expression on his face. I can already feel the way his erection is pressing against my stomach. That’s enough to weaken my resolve to not sleep with him again—

his eyes would be my undoing. He rests his chin on top of my head. I squeeze my eyes tight shut. My heart is still beating crazy fast and it’s taking everything I have not to breathe as wildly as I want to. I don’t want him to know just how much that kiss has affected me—how it’s made me feel. Dangerous. It’s dangerous, and so is he. Zeke kisses the top of my head, then, without a word, releases me. One. Two. Three. He sighs. Four. Five. Six. The elevator doors open. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. I open my eyes to see the moment the doors close on him. The glimpse I get of his face is only a snapshot in time, but the wide, raw way he stared at me makes my stomach flip, even when I turn around and pick up my things. Shit.

CHAPTER TEN Life Goal #10: Be kissed. But not just any kiss. A face-grabby, hair-twisting, desperate, gonna-die-without-you kiss. “Crap.” I rub my hands down my face.

Today isn’t my day. I don’t know if it’s the memory of the kiss playing on loop or the fact I barely slept because of said kiss, but this Saturday sucks big time. Seriously. A studio full of porn stars couldn’t suck this hard. They’d look like amateur cocksuckers in comparison to this day. Because that’s what I’d tell this day to do if I had a cock. I’d tell it to suck it and suck it good. I also have the worst headache known to man, but I don’t know if that’s because I’m actually getting sick, I didn’t sleep well, or the tequila is to blame. The only good thing to come out of yesterday is that I didn’t have to experience my grandma’s old person strip party. Which I am so very thankful

for. I don’t even think I can adequately express that in words. The closest I can get is “Oh, fuck yeah.” Actually, never mind. The word ‘fuck’ is adequate is every situation. Except possibly funerals. Unless you’re saying, “Fuck, I’m sorry.” Even there. Never mind. It’s the best sentence enhancer. I need to use the word ‘fuck’ more. Specifically before the word ‘off.’ To other people. I pick my purse up from the floor and set it on the staffroom table. I’m glad it’s quiet back here for my lunch break, although I haven’t actually eaten a thing. I pushed my salad around the bowl before throwing it into the trash because I don’t have any kind of appetite. Maybe I am getting sick. I’ll know soon enough. Which, of course, will be perfect timing since I’m about to have a week off. But doesn’t it always work that way? Hey, you’re about to have a fun, relaxing week? Oh, no, kidding. Be sick instead!

I pull my phone out of my purse and rest my chin on my hand. My screen shows a message from Brooke. Brooke: Zeke kissed you???? News travels fast around here. Me: Mhmm. How do you know about that? Her response comes in a few seconds. Brooke: He was talking to Cain and I happened to hear. Well, now I have to call her, don’t I? So, I do just that. “What do you mean he was talking to Cain?” I say before she can speak. “What was he saying?” “He was pretty frustrated,” she answers. “I didn’t hear a whole lot, just the end of it. They were working in the kitchen with the back door open as I was going out to my office. I literally

showed up a few minutes before the end.” “So, what did he say? Dear god, why do I feel like I’m back in high school with this conversation?” “Because we are.” She snorts. “All I heard was that after you left the restaurant, he took you home, and then you actually got along. Then, he kissed you.” I groan and cover my eyes. “Why did he kiss you?” “I don’t know. I didn’t exactly take a moment to ask him.” “You should have. That would have made this situation a lot simpler to understand.” She was right, but still. “When was I supposed to do that? Was it before I saw him coming, when his tongue was in my mouth, or when he’d left?” “I imagine that, if you’d tried to talk with his tongue in your mouth, you probably would have choked.” “Exactly.” I’m not going to bring up the fact there was time for me to ask, that I’d wanted to,

and now I really wished I had. “That’s also gross, but whatever. What else did he say?” “I thought you hated Zeke.” “I do hate Zeke…Most of the time.” Like when he’s not kissing me. “So, you like him when he kisses you? Obviously you more than liked him at least once…” “You’re being an asshole.” She snorts. “I’m always an asshole. I’m just saying that maybe your non-date was a real date.” “My non-date was not a real date,” I argue. “I don’t care what you say. Nothing about that was planned. He didn’t even walk me in. He literally appeared out of nowhere, shoved me against my door, and kissed me.” Brooke’s silent for a moment, then a heavy sigh crackles down the line. “That’s kinda hot.” Damn it, it’s hard to argue with the truth. “That’s not the point.” “Then what is the point?” “I have to get back to work. That’s the point.” I

hang up and shove my phone back into my purse, because I know she’ll call me right back. I didn’t answer her question after all, because I don’t know what’s happening right now. I don’t want to know, if I’m honest. Last night was fun until he had to go ruin it by kissing me. Why did he kiss me? Does he feel like we have unfinished business? Because I don’t. It doesn’t get much more final than screaming your way through an orgasm. Oh god. What if he didn’t orgasm? Is that it? Do I owe him an orgasm? That’s not good. That’s disastrous. I can’t even remember if he came or not. I think I was too busy coming to notice if he was. I’m a selfish comer. Oh my god. I’m a teenaged boy trapped in an adult woman’s body. I snatch my phone up. Ignoring Brooke’s two missed calls—ten points for Carly—I open my messages and hit Zeke’s name. Me: Did you come when we hooked up?????

I put it down. Stare at it. Tap my nails against the table. My phone buzzes. Zeke: Should I be offended that you can’t remember? Me: Answer the question, Ezekiel. Zeke: Yes. I did. Me: Oh thank fuck. Zeke: ??????????? I hesitate. Do I ask? I shouldn’t. I should. I shouldn’t. I should. I’m going to. Me: Why did you kiss me last night? He doesn’t reply instantly. Ten minutes later, when my break ends, I still don’t have a response. ***

At exactly five-fifteen p.m., I walk out of the bank. Zeke still hasn’t replied. It’s been four hours since I sent that message and he hasn’t replied to me. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. What did I think I’d gain by sending that message? I wanted an answer, but all his silence is doing is confirming that it’s not an answer I actually want. If he thought I’d want to hear it, he’d have told me already. This makes it worse. Ten times worse. More than that. I don’t know how to process it. So, I won’t. I’m going to ignore it and pretend it never happened, because if he doesn’t, can’t, or won’t answer my question, then I’m going to forget about it. Easier said than done, I know, but still. Props to me for trying, right? I get into my car and chuck my things onto the passenger side. My phone buzzes, and I grab it

before I start the engine. It’s an email from the dating website, one of the stupid ones that I always delete without reading because all it does is tell me that I have a new match and message. My finger hovers over the delete button. Maybe I should read this one. Just because I can. There’s no coincidence this has come right after I’ve decided to forget Zeke and his stupid kiss. Never mind that I’m still desperate for his answer. Never mind that I don’t want to care because caring is dumb. I open the email. I read the email. And I reply to the guy telling me he lives in the next town over and would like to meet tonight. I tell him yes. And I drive home, not giving a shit about anything. Especially not how wrong it feels to go out with someone tonight. ***

“You’re going on a date.” Brooke was waiting

for me inside my apartment when I got home an hour ago, flour still dusting the ends of her hair. She smells exactly like the sweet goodies she’s probably spent hours baking today. “Yes.” I pass her a glass of wine and climb up onto the arm of the sofa, cradling my own glass in my hands. “You’re going on a date—with another guy from that dumb dating website—the day after Zeke kissed you?” “Don’t make me tell you yes again, or I’m gonna hit you with my book.” She rolls her eyes. “No, you’re not. I’m sorry, I just don’t understand.” I pull my brows together in confusion. “What is there to not understand?” “Why you’re going on a date the day after Zeke kissed you.” She sips her wine. “Why wouldn’t I? He kissed me, Brooke. That’s it. Why does that mean I can’t go on a date?

I don’t have a relationship worth measuring with Zeke Elliott. I’m not interested in a relationship with him, either, so get that out of your head.” Or am I? No. No, I’m not. “I think you’re fooling yourself.” “I think you’re fooling yourself,” I shoot back at her. “We both know Zeke’s stance on relationships. Becky screwed him over really bad when he caught her cheating, and I don’t know if he’s ever really recovered from that. No, in fact, I know he hasn’t.” “He’s got trust issues, sure, but that’s because he doesn’t want to be fucked over again. You can’t blame him for that, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t want a relationship.” “So, don’t think that I’m going to consider asking him if he does or not. I don’t want a relationship with him and that’s as far as it goes. Having sex with him was a fluke. Like when you win at poker for the first time. You never expect it to happen again because you have no idea how you did it in the first place.”

“You don’t know how slept with him? It’s

pretty simple. You got naked and he put his doodaa in your woohoo.” “That’s alarmingly vague,” I tell her, resting my wine glass against my chin. “Look, I know you have this ideal little world inside your crazy, little head, but he changed after Becky. He became a bit of a different person. He didn’t believe in the shit he did before—” “Car, that was almost two years ago.” Brooke sits right up and swings her legs around. “That was a long, long time ago.” “Not really.” “Long enough. He’s over it right now, he’s just using it as an excuse because he should be settling down according to everyone over the age of fifty. Don’t forget that Gabe’s wedding is next week. After that, everyone will expect it to be Zeke next because of the age thing. He’s milking it, sure, but that doesn’t mean he still has trust issues.” “She cheated on him two weeks before their wedding. Of course he has trust issues. He’s never

going to get married again, and no matter what you think, even if I did want to be with him, I still wouldn’t want half the fairytale. I’m not the wicked freaking stepmother.” “You ain’t no princess, either.” “Shut up.” I shook my head. “Whatever Zeke is doing, I don’t want to know about it. I texted him earlier and asked him why he kissed me and he still hasn’t replied.” She pauses. “Maybe he hasn’t seen the message yet.” Her excuse is weak at best. Totally bullshit at worst. “Brooke.” I slide down to the cushion and hug my legs to my chest. “We were talking right before that. He was replying instantly, then he just stopped.” She pulls her lips into a tight smile. “I know you think you don’t want to be with him, Car, but you’re way too bothered about him for someone who doesn’t care.” “I never said I didn’t care.” My voice is getting louder, and I press my fingertips to my forehead. A

deep breath fills my lungs, and I let it go slowly. “I don’t want to think about all of this right now. I have to leave for my date in forty-five minutes. I’m going to get ready.” I put my glass on the coffee table and walk to my room. I love my best friend, god, I do, but sometimes I really want to ram her head into a toaster and turn it on. It’s not that I don’t appreciate her input, because I do. This situation is confusing and almost distressing because it’s totally nonsensical, because I shouldn’t be feeling the way I’m feeling. I shouldn’t care whether or not Zeke texts me back. I shouldn’t care why he kissed me. I shouldn’t care why I’m sitting on the edge of my bed, staring at my blank TV screen instead of looking through my closet. I shouldn’t care a damn nipple’s length about Zeke or this situation, but I do. The worst part is that I don’t know what I care more or less about because I can’t seperate the two of them. They’re

so intricately intertwined. Relationships and emotions are like French braids. They look easy and pretty, but in reality, they’re the opposite. They’re stress and false excitement and annoyance and a delicate clusterfuck that can implode at any wrong move. The fact I couldn’t French braid my way out of an execution isn’t reassuring to my ability to handle relationships. “I’m sorry.” I turn to my bedroom door. Brooke’s standing there, a sheepish smile on her face, both glasses of wine in her hands. “I just want you both to be happy, but you’re right. Zeke has trust issues, and you, well, you have so many issues Vogue wishes it were you.” “All right, that’s not the greatest apology in the world, but it’s not entirely wrong.” “Hey, I’m one of your issues. In fact, I’m probably, like, six of them.” “Only fucking six?” She grins. “Sixty. All right, whatever. Here’s

your wine. I thought I’d help you get ready for your date.” I take my wine from her with a wry smile. “All right, you can help me.” “Excellent! Where are you going?” She beelines for my closet, almost tripping over my rug in the process. Of course… “Santiagos. The bar not far from the cemetery.” She salutes and opens my closet doors. “Right. Let’s dress you.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN Life Goal #11: Start thinking shit through. Like spanx and jumpsuits… And best friends. If I could give one piece of advice, it’d be don’t listen to your best friend’s advice about wearing a short jumpsuit with spanx. Seriously. My date isn’t even here yet and I’ve already peed once—it felt like unpeeling an airshrunk banana. Or when you order clothes from eBay and they come shrink-wrapped and you get all sweaty trying to figure out if you can get into the packaging without making your new t-shirt look like a bobcat got hold of it. Thank god for roll-on deodorant, that’s all I’m saying. Not that it matters, because my ass is sweating like fuck in these layers in this hot bar, and my date is late. If he isn’t Chris Hemsworth level hot, I’m gonna be so pissed off. I sip at my drink from my corner of the bar and

cast my eyes over the crowd. I don’t know why I agreed to come to a bar. I hate bars. It’s noisy and there are tons of people, and honestly, I’ve had more than my fair share of excitement this week. Plus, my headache is still kinda lingering. The booming music isn’t exactly making it any better. “Carly?” someone shouts behind me. I turn and look at a man not quite Chris Hemsworth level hot, but hot enough. Dark, wavy hair that’s pushed back from his face—a little messy, but kept enough that it looks more windswept than he just got out of bed. Dark, brown eyes. Sharp jaw. Nice smile. “Jake?” I smile and stand. He touches my shoulders and kisses my cheek. “I’m so sorry I’m late. I work with my father and he needed something before I could leave.” Hmm. “Don’t worry. I just got here five or so minutes ago,” I offer the standard response to such a statement. He eyes my almost-empty glass. “Really?” “Sorry. I work in the bank. The elderly population of Barley Cross are struggling with the

recent advancements in technology.” “Recent advancements?” “Card machines.” My lips quirk to the side. His do, too, and it’s genuine. “My grandmother is similar. She insists on cash or check for everything. Before we go further—can I buy you a drink?” “A glass of wine would be lovely, thank you.” “White?” He motions toward my glass. “Chardonnay.” I smile and watch as he flags down the bartender and places his order. He orders the fancy bottle of Chardonnay. Hmm. Who is this Jake and why is he on a dating website? Within two minutes, we have the bottle between us and fresh glasses poured after testing it’s right. I don’t get that smell-and-sip thing. Just chug it from the bottle. You’ll soon know if it’s good or bad by whether or not you throw it up.

“So, Carly, you said you work at the bank.

What do you do?” I tuck my hair behind my ear. “I’m just a teller. It was a temporary job after I graduated college, and I’m still there, unfortunately.” “What’s your degree in?” “Accounting,” I answer. “I’m a numbers chick.” “Me, too. A numbers guy, I mean. Not a chick.” He laughs awkwardly. “Sorry, that came out a little wrong.” Aw. “I got what you meant, don’t worry.” I smile to reassure him. “You said you work with your father. What do you do?” “Well, like I said, I’m a numbers guy. I actually have two degrees—accounting, like yourself, and a second in marketing and business management.” It’s at that moment a familiar head comes into my line of sight. Dark, unruly hair that makes Jake’s look like it’s been styled professionally. Bright, oceanic-colored eyes that illuminate when the light bounces off them.

A five o’clock shadow dusting a strong, square jaw with perfectly plumped lips set just above the chin. I nod along to Jake, but I’m staring at Zeke. He orders. One drink. He doesn’t even look at me. He takes his drink. Pays. Goes. Like he doesn’t know I’m here, but I know otherwise. Of course he does. This is no coincidence. I’m going to kill Brooke. “Carly?” I blink and pull my full attention back to Jake. “I’m so sorry, I thought I saw my cousin. I missed that last thing you said.” Asshole. Carly Porter, you’re an asshole. Luckily for me, Jake laughs. “I said I was going to the restroom. Do you mind?” “Oh!” I laugh, too. “No, of course not.” He grins lopsidedly and gets up.

No sooner has he disappeared into the darkness than my suspicions are confirmed. “Jake Kensington? Really?” Zeke says into my ear from behind me. “He’s your date?” “That’s none of your business,” I say tightly. I’m not going to look at him. He doesn’t respond to my text, yet here he is, judging me on my date? I don’t think so, buddy. I don’t fucking think so. “He’s a daddy’s boy,” he continues into my ear. “Lives a pretty life working for his daddy and using dating websites as fuck buddy websites.” “Do you mind? You’re being rude.” “Rude? I’m not even close to rude right now, sugartits.” “Zeke. Get lost.” His thumb brushes the side of my ass as he puts his hand on the stool. “He’s coming back. Kiss him when he does. Then, if you like it, I’ll go.” “Go and fuck yourself,” I hiss. Now, I’m annoyed. I’m so fucking pissed off. How dare he show up at my date and talk to me

like that? God—he’s not a jealous teenager. He’s an adult man who should be able to control himself. I don’t want him here, interrupting my life, when he can’t even bother to text me back. I’m fixating on it too much, I know, but his audacity is dick-punch-worthy. Jake comes back to join me, and at some point in the last fifteen seconds, Zeke has faded into the crowd. I know he’s watching me. I can feel it. It’s a sweet, jealous heat that crawls over my skin and into my consciousness. It’s the smug burn of the ultimate fuck you as I lean in to Jake, close enough that I could kiss him, but far away enough that I don’t. “At the risk of being cliche,” I say, wrapping my fingers around the stem of my wine glass. “What do you do for fun?” His lips curve—and I see it. The predatory glint. He’s the guy who uses Facebook as Fuckbook. Tinder as Tapped-er. “I play tennis, watch movies, the usual stuff.”

Ah, he’s not only a fuckbooker, he’s a vaguebooker, too. Awesome. Everybody loves a fucking vaguebooker. Like a cactus in the ass. “What movies do you like?” I push my hair back again and trail my fingertips down to the neckline of my jumpsuit. “Thrillers. They fascinate me.” “Serial killers?” “Not so much,” he says slowly. “They disturb me more than anything, actually.” Well, there goes my theory. Serial killer obsessives are apparently highly intelligent, after all. Not saying that people who don’t like them aren’t, but yeah. So close. “What are your favorite movies?” I ask. God, I hope he gives me something I know. He reels off five or six movies I’ve never heard of in my life. “What’s yours?” he asks when he’s done.

I blink at him. “Mean Girls and The Notebook. Oh, and The Last Song. And How To Be Single.” He pauses. Maybe shouldn’t have included that last one… “Mopey movies, right?” he asks. “My sister likes those, too.” Mopey movies my ass… So what if two of them made me cry the first—and fifth—time I watched them? “Not all mopey, they’re just the ones that stuck out. Hey, do you want to dance?” I finish my wine and look at him expectantly. He glances at the crowd. “Sure. Why not?” Why not, indeed? I lead him into the middle of the crowd of people dancing on the open area of the bar. My jumpsuit might be a dark fuchsia, but I feel as though I blend into the darkness perfectly thanks to the black lace on the waistband, leg hems, and neckline. I sweep easily into the crowd of people. Jake follows me, much more reluctantly. Great.

So much for this being an easy date. I blame Zeke. Irrational but not unwarranted. He deserves the blame. He’s the reason I’m in a short, snappy mood. Jake reaches for me and pulls me toward him. I let myself fall into his arms, because he grasps my hips lightly and moves with me. For a guy so reluctant a moment ago, he’s getting into it. I force myself to block out everything else. I don’t want to think about the strobe lighting or the half-bottle of wine we left on the bar that he already paid for or the people who keep bumping into us. We move easily and simply together. His body brushes mine. His eyes meet mine every few seconds. His hands move the barest amount. Just when I’m about to tell him to fucking touch my butt, his left leg vibrates. More specifically, his phone in his left pocket vibrates. He releases me to pull it out and peer at the screen. He shows it to me—it reads ‘Dad.’ Jake pulls me close and leans in. “I’m sorry,” he says

into my ear. “Do you mind if I take this?” Yes, actually. I do. A lot. “No.” I smile tightly in a way that I’m sure belies my agreement. “I’ll go to the bar.” He gives me a thumbs up. A thumbs up. Then disappears. I stop, deadly still in the middle of the floor, and stare after him. I really don’t have any kind of good luck, do I? No. The answer is no. I already know that. A dead man could tell you that. Fuck. “Told you.” Zeke’s voice is low but loud against my ear. He grabs my hips and tugs me back, pulling me through the crowd. I’m too dejected to fight it. I let him drag me through the people until we’re in an entirely different spot to where I just was. He slides one of his strong hands to my stomach and presses down firmly. My ass presses against his hips, his body hard against me. His grip

is solid—too solid. “He’ll fuck you and go,” he breathes into my ear. I shove at his hand. “Not your business.” He holds me tighter. “You’re my business.” “Your business my ass!” I snap, wriggling against his hold. “I’m nothing to you, Ezekiel, so get used to it.” He wraps his other arm around my shoulders. I’m held firmly in place, unable to move in the slightest. Our bodies are inseparable in the darkness. All I can feel is his arms and his body as his breath across the top of my head until he dips his head and that same breath dances across my ear, sending chills down my spine. “Nothing?” he says into my ear. “Is that why you’re here right now, against me? Why I won’t let you? You’re nothing all right, Carly. You’re nothing but fucking temptation. If you don’t believe me, shut your damn mouth and dance through this song with me.” “I’m on a date.”

“Yet it’s my cock against you.” “You’re a pig!” “Oink fucking oink,” he drawls. “One song.

Three minutes. He’s off talking to his daddy anyway. If his fucking mundane bullshit at the bar beats this, go back to that stuck-up prick.” “Get off me.” “Three minutes.” “Go to hell, asshole.” “I already am—you’re it.” He kisses me beneath the ear. The shiver that rocks my spine takes my whole body too. Fuck. I’m in trouble. “Dance with me,” Zeke murmurs. “Go ahead. Dance with me like you would him.” I take a deep breath and close my eyes. God, this is all so ridiculous and stupid. I don’t even know why he’s here, much less why he’s all up in my business. None of this has anything to do with him, so as much as the little bitch inside me wants

to play his game, the sane part of me has no intentions of doing it. Maybe that’s why I turn around, grab his shirt, and yank him toward me. Yeah, Carly. That’s it. The fact you don’t want to do it is exactly why you’re doing it. This is ridiculous and I know it. I’m playing with fire, and I can’t even light matches without trying for several minutes each time. Yeah, I know. Can’t open liquor bottles, can’t light matches…I’m a real catch. Zeke stills at my touch, so I do the same. I expect him to move to pull me in closer, to grab my ass or make a move or something, but he doesn’t. He stands with his hands at his sides, and mine are still wound in his shirt. His eyes are bright, the strobe lighting from the bulbs above the dance floor glancing over his gaze every few seconds. I lean in. I tilt my head up. My breasts brush against his chest as I push up onto my tiptoes so my mouth can get close to his ear. Then I say, “Bye, Zeke,” and push off of him.

He doesn’t move this time, either. Not as I walk away, clutching my purse to my stomach. Not as I turn around, hating myself because I did it. Nope. He just stands there, watching me go, his gaze intense. I feel it until the moment I step outside the bar and take a deep breath as the mild, late evening air wraps itself around me. Glancing around, my gaze takes seconds to find Jake Kensington’s body—wrapped around another woman’s. I roll my eyes. Of course.

CHAPTER TWELVE Life Goal #12: Stop fucking online dating. Maybe find a modern nunnery where vibrators are allowed. Masturbation at the very least. “Drop it.”

Delilah blinks at me. “Delilah, drop it,” I repeat, this time much

more firmly. I even give the ball a tug side-to-side. Her head shakes with my attempt. “Drop. It.” I give the ball one really hard pull, and this time, she releases it. I’ve hardly grabbed it properly to throw it when she’s bouncing around like she’s a kitten on catnip, waiting for me. “Yo.” I squeal and throw the ball as a large hunk of male drops to the ground next to me. “Brooke’s right. That’s really fucking annoying.” Cain grins, bending his knees and looping his arms around them. “That’s why it’s so fun.” “What are you doing here?” He shrugs. “I was going to work and saw your

car parked just off the road. Wondered what you were doing in the park at eight on a Sunday morning. That’s early, even for you.” “Week off,” I answer. “Just getting some fresh air.” “So much fresh air that you drove.” “Don’t judge me. Why are you working on a Sunday anyway?” “The house. The kitchen is almost in, and I wanted to get it finished today. We can start moving in when that’s done.” Slowly, I nod and hold out my hand for Delilah. She ignores me and drops her back onto Cain’s lap. Yes, the little wench just drops it for him. “Such a traitor,” I mutter. Cain laughs and gives the ball a good, hard throw. Delilah shoots off after it like a little bullet, which makes him laugh again. “Brooke told me what happened at your super successful date last night.”

I pluck a daisy from the grass and twirl the stem between my fingers. “Can we not talk about it? I don’t feel like it.” “Why? Because my brother is a fucking mercurial asshole?” “That’s possibly one reason. Mostly that he’s really pissed me off.” “Did you consider the reason he’s a mercurial asshole is why you’re pissed off?” “Oh, I don’t need to.” I glance at him. “I already know that’s why.” Seriously. It isn’t even that he changes his mind, because I never know what he’s thinking. It was that his most recent behavior is so unlike him and so opposite to everything I know about him. Everything he’s claimed for the last two years. “He’s…weird, lately. So is Brooke, actually,” he muses. “Brooke’s always weird, but weirder than normal.” I’m glad he amended that. “That’s pretty weird. Did you call the aliens yet? Do they want her home?”

He chuckles. “No, although I’m considering it.” Delilah chooses this moment to make her return with her soggy tennis ball. Cain dutifully throws it again before sighing. “Damn it, she’s gonna kill me if I tell you this.” I turn toward him. “Tell me what?” He hesitates. “Cain Elliott, you tell me right now.” He grimaces. “Shit. She called Zeke last night when she got back. In private.” I blink at him, and the moment he warily turns his green gaze to mine, it hits me. She went from nonchalant about my date to suddenly interested…And she asked me where I was going. “That bitch,” I breathe. “She told him about my date!” Cain’s eyebrows shoot up. “Why would she do that? Is something going on with you two? I thought you were finally being nice to each other.” Of course. She’s involved but she didn’t tell him.

I purse my lips. “We…did a thing after your birthday. I was a little drunk and pretty lonely and it just happened. Now, he’s suddenly all up in my business and so is she. My last two dates have ended with him involved in some way, and although I’m pretty sure the first is just a coincidence, now I know that last night wasn’t.” “I’m going to come back to that first part,” he says slowly. “But the first date? Where you climbed out of the window?” “Yes. That one.” “Oh, shit. Car, that wasn’t a coincidence he was in the restaurant with you. The girl he was with that night had been bugging him, so he wanted to go out with her to get her off his back. Brooke booked his table because we had a ton of work on last week.” “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” I don’t even know what to say. How much more involved can she be? “I thought you knew that.” “Why would I possibly know that? Jesus

Christ, Cain. The only way she could be any more involved in my dating life is if she were fucking me herself!” He snorts at that, but disguises it quickly. “There are people who’d pay to see that.” “Are you one of them?” He pauses. “Is that one of those questions where I’m wrong no matter what I say?” “Does it sound like that?” “I’m gonna plead the Fifth,” he says after a second, picking up Delilah’s ball. “Look, if I had any idea she was being, well, annoying—” “That’s a nice way of putting it,” I mutter. “—I’d have told her to back off, okay? I’ll speak to her later and tell her to put her nose where it belongs—out of your business and back on her face.” “Thank you.” Although I planned to tell her that myself, but whatever. “I don’t even know why she cares.” Cain slowly looks back at me. “Why would you say that?”

Shit. “Doesn’t matter. I’m tired and frustrated and probably saying stuff I don’t mean.” I flick the daisy away from me and onto the grass. “You always mean what you say. In fact, not once in eleven years have you ever not meant what you said.” He has a point. “Well, some things I don’t want to say and mean. I’m capable of keeping things to myself, you know. Unlike Brooke.” “She just forgets to shut up,” he reasons. “A lot. More than you’d think.” “I lived with her during freshman year of college, remember? I know she talks in her sleep.” He laughs quietly. “Every night. It’s endless.” That’s true, too. “Car, just because Brooke and I are together now doesn’t mean you can’t talk to me if she’s done something to upset you. You guys have bitchy moments all the time. How many times have I talked you both down since we’ve known each other?”

Damn it. I hate it when he’s right. “That is true.” “That hasn’t changed just because our relationship has.” “That’s where you’re wrong. It has.” I drop my attention back to the grass again. “I just don’t know how to say that without being a giant asshole.” How am I supposed to be honest without hurting his—or her—feelings? Do I even have a right to be annoyed that I only see Brooke when he’s busy, yet she’s telling Zeke everything? “Hypothetically,” Cain says, nudging me. “You’re asking for a friend, right?” I smile sadly at him. “Right. For a friend.” “Go ahead. Ask me for your friend.” I sigh and put my chin in my hand again. “So, I have this friend, and she watched her two best friends dance around like idiots for years until they finally got together. As happy as my friend is for her friends, everything has changed. The girl she’s known forever only has time for her when her boyfriend is busy, but she has a really horrible

habit of apparently getting involved in my friend’s love life when she shouldn’t be. So, now my friend is feeling pretty pissed off.” Cain leans back on his hands and stretches his legs out. “Ah.” “See? My friend is a giant asshole.” I tuck my hair behind my ear and look back at him. He smiles. “You’re not an asshole, Carly. Well, you are, but that’s more of a general thing than specifically right now.” I punch his leg. “Oh no, my leg.” He laughs. “You really don’t hang out much anymore?” “You practically live together. You didn’t realize?” He frowns. “I guess not.” I shrug a shoulder and look down. “I get it, you know? It’s changed, and I love that you’re together and happy, but sometimes I’m too much like the third wheel.” “So, that’s why you slept with my brother? I understand the sex thing, but Zeke? I thought you

had better taste than that.” I roll my eyes. “Bite me, Elliott. No, I just felt lonely, and yeah.” “You make it sound like you don’t have any other friends.” He snorts. “As a rule, I severely dislike people. In fact, my tolerance for you is running pretty low right now.” He lightly knocks his fist into my arm. “See? Asshole is your default mode.” Whatever. “I’ll talk to Brooke, all right?” He stops to get Delilah’s ball and throw it again. I don’t know where that dog gets her energy from. “I’ll tell her to back off of the Zeke thing at the very least,” Cain continues. “And, Car? For what it’s worth, I don’t think you need to feel bad for being pissed off at her. Shit, I’m kind of annoyed she’s been meddling where she doesn’t need to.” I laugh quietly and shake my head. “It’s fine. Well, it’s not, but it is what it is. I know what she’s

like.” “Which is why I’m surprised you’re taking her shit.” “I’m not taking anything. It’s more that I’m being forced to deal with stuff when I’d rather, oh, I don’t know. Not deal with it.” Cain takes the ball from Delilah’s mouth and looks at it. “Do you like Zeke?” “Remember that stuff I just said I’d rather not deal with?” I raise my eyebrows. “That’s one of those things.” He throws the ball and gives me a thumbs up. “Got it. Look, I’ve gotta get to work. I’ll text you later when I’ve talked to Brooke. And, hey,” he says, getting to his feet. “If you need to talk about all this, call me, all right?” I force and smile. “All right. Thanks, Cain.” “Don’t mention it.” He bends over and kisses the top of my head. “Try not to slip and fall into bed with my brother again.” “I was just about to thank you for being nice to me, but never mind. See ya.” I flip him the bird.

It only makes him laugh. After a few seconds, I can’t hear it anymore, but I bet he laughs the whole way back to his car. Such a pain in the ass. *** It takes me two hours to finally leave the park. Even Delilah found herself sick of playing catch and settled in to sleep off her mammoth ballchasing session. She only woke up five minutes ago, and she was awake for a grand total of three of those five, because she jumped into the passenger seat of my car—where she is now—and promptly fell back to sleep. Fifty bucks says she’ll be bouncing around like she’s high the second we walk through the apartment door. It’s a good thing I didn’t actually bet that money with anyone, because I’m right. The second I carry her through the doorway and into the apartment, she wakes up and throws herself out of my arms. Immediately, she finds her favorite rope

toy, snatches it up, and runs around growling. That dog is insane. Literally insane. After shutting the door and dumping my keys and Delilah’s things, I head into the kitchen. My phone is flashing from the counter, but I ignore that to grab a bottle of water. Only when I’ve taken a drink do I pick up my phone and check the messages. Annoyingly, the moment my eyes land on his name, my heart skips a beat. Zeke: I’m sorry I crashed your date last night. I stare at the screen. I don’t believe him in the slightest. He’s not sorry—he’s sorry it didn’t work out the way he wanted it to. Me: Don’t worry about it. What else am I supposed to say? If I’m honest and tear into him like I really want to, it’ll go right over his head like it always does. It’s like telling a

child that candy is bad for their teeth—they don’t care, because they want it anyway. Zeke doesn’t care, because he’s gonna do what he wants to. Everyone else be damned. Nope. Not gonna bother. Zeke: You don’t believe me, do you? Me: It’s so much easier when you figure this stuff out by yourself. Zeke: Brooke called me earlier. Me: Oh? Is that so you can discuss another way to insert yourselves into things that are none of your damn business? Welp…Looks like that whole ‘not gonna bother’ thing changed pretty damn quickly. Zeke: Ouch. Me: That truth is a sharp little bitch, isn’t she? Zeke: Kind of like you’re being now. I blink at my phone screen.

I take a deep breath. And I dial his number. “Carly, I’m sor—” “I told myself I wasn’t going to do this because it’ll make it look like I give more fucks than I actually do, which, for the record, is a big fat none,” I cut him off. “If I am being a bitch, then good. I deserve to be a bitch. My dating life is none of Brooke’s business and it’s most definitely none of your business. We had sex once and that’s how it’s staying. Stop turning up to save me from bad dates, stop turning up and ruining my dates, and dear god, stop fucking kissing me, okay? I hate that. I really fucking hate it a lot. On that note, goodbye and have a nice day, douchebag.” I hang up and put my phone face-down on the counter. Then, I scream. The little ball of annoyance that coiled in my chest explodes out of me. Releasing your anger is like having an orgasm. It builds up and up and up and then—boom. Instant satisfaction.

Physically, it feels kind of the same. Hot flush, racing heart, clenched fists. Just as good. I mean, orgasms are better because they’re orgasms and anger isn’t good for your blood pressure or whatever, but same thing. Plus, you know. Orgasms take a lot more work than anger. Anger can happen from just mentioning someone’s name. Zeke. See? Done. My anger levels just went from zero to nothero. Although I could probably do some of that superhero lifting shit from the adrenaline rush. Who am I kidding? I can’t open a liquor bottle, never mind lift anything heavier than my dog. Two knocks rattle my front door. “There’s nobody home!” I shout. “Then who just yelled at me?” Brooke calls back. “Artificial intelligence.” “Like you can control artificial intelligence.

You can just about handle your real intelligence.” A heavy sigh escapes from between my lips. Brooke knocks again, and the second time riles Delilah. She skids across the wooden floor, yapping at the door, and slides into the side of the sofa. “Fine, fine.” I cross my apartment and open the front door. “And you’re right about the artificial intelligence. If I owned a robot, it’d probably start an uprising against me.” Brooke’s lips twitch into a tiny smile. “Probably? Most definitely would.” She pauses. “Can I come in and talk?” “No, you can stand in silence in the hallway. That’s what I get most of the people who show up at my front door to do.” “Me and silence don’t really work well together.” “Really? Twenty-five years of friendship and I’ve never noticed.” She rolls her eyes and scoots past me. “Delilah, go sit.”

Delilah growls at her. Brooke flips her the bird. That’s the appropriate answer, to be honest. I shut the door. “What do you want to talk about? How to take over the world?” “That’s on the agenda for later.” She holds up a finger, and unusually, all traces of joy and playfulness disappear from her expression. “Cain called me a little while ago.” So much for talking to her tonight. “I’m sorry.” She wrings her hands in front of her. “I’ve been an ass.” I raise my eyebrows. “More so than normal,” she corrects herself. “I didn’t realize that I’d been spending so much more time with Cain, and I didn’t think that me booking Zeke into Italia’s or telling him about your date with Jake would be such a big deal.” I sigh. “You booked his date before I told you about mine.” “Yeah, but I knew you were going on one, and where else would anyone in this town go?”

“Exactly. There is nowhere else to go.” I pause.

“And yeah, him knowing where I was with Jake was and is a big deal to me. I don’t know what’s going on inside Zeke’s head right now. All I know is we really hated each other, then we slept together, and now he’s everywhere I turn. This situation is complicated enough without anything else.” “Things I’d know if I hadn’t been such a shitty friend.” “You’ve been a busy friend. A shitty one, sure, but a busy one too.” “I know. But I checked my messages on my phone and on Facebook and there are some from you that I ignored when I should have replied.” She hugs herself. “I just…I’m sorry.” It’s hard to be mad at her. I don’t know if it’s because she’s cute or because she genuinely looks sorry, but any annoyance I had disappears. “It happens. You’ve had a lot to adjust to in the last year.” I smile. “Like not blowing myself up every time I use an

oven.” She sits on a stool at my kitchen island and holds up her hand. “My latest injury. I’m lucky it’s my left one.” I frown at the bandage around two fingers. “What the hell did you do?” Brooke purses her lips. “Rumor has it that I got in a fight with a big knife last night. I was cutting a cake to shape it into a My Little Pony for a seven-year-old’s party and my knife didn’t like my finger very much. Thankfully Cain is better at First Aid than I am and sorted me out.” “You tried to wrap it in a towel, didn’t you?” “Dishcloth.” She looks at her hand then at me. “In my defense, I panicked. I mean, I screamed. A lot. And it bled quite heavily, so it looked much worse than it is.” “How bad is it?” “About two inches long and just shallow enough to avoid stitches.” I shake my head. “Jesus, Brooke. Who let you have your own business?” “You.”

“Yeah, well, I’m a stupid idiot.”

She laughs. “Yes, you are, but you’re also a very good one. Which brings me to point two on my agenda of discussion and leads in to us taking over the world.” I look at her bandaged hand and say flatly, “Perhaps you should master knives first.” “I’ll do it on the way.” She grins. “So, you know the little coffee shop on the seafront?” When I nod, she continues. “The owner passed away a few weeks ago and her kids want to close the shop. I talked to Billie about it, and we’ve decided we’re going to buy it.” “You’re going to buy it.” What? “Well, technically, I think she’s going to buy it.” Brooke pauses. “Marcus admitted to more than one affair in the last three years and has told her he won’t fight her for the house or car or the money she’s entitled to as long as he gets access to the kids. She agreed, obviously, because unlike him, she’s not an unreasonable little shit.” I think he’s being pretty reasonable here, but

whatever. “So, we’re going to go into business together. She thinks that Brooke’s Bites should have a store, because the house is pretty out of the way. The kitchen will need remodeling and so will the front, but she’s going to be there to manage it. I’ll still be mostly at my kitchen at the house, but I’ll go there a couple of days a week to bake and run it and take meetings and stuff.” “Okay, that sounds really cool. But where do I come into this?” She grimaces. “I broke my numbers.” I blink at her. “You broke your numbers.” She nods. “I know I’m okay, so don’t get, like, freaky worried, because I know I’m not spending more than I’m making, but I just don’t know exactly how much money I’ve got, and I need to know.” “You want me to actually use my degree and tidy up your numerical mess,” I say. I could ask, but I already know that’s what she’s asking. “Mess is a strong word.” “Does disaster fit better?”

“Major disaster pretty much sums it up.”

Of course it does. What else would? This is Brooke. Brooke can barely track her period accurately. I never should have let her do this without me. “All right. Get me all your stuff and I’ll start it this week since I’m off work.” What else am I going to tell her? No? “But I’m going to come and sit in your kitchen while I do it, so clear me a side, and make my favorite cakes.” “Carly, I’ll bake you anything you want. Pie. Cake. Pastries.” I point at her. “You gather the money stuff, I’ll gather a food list. Then we can discuss taking over the world.” “Deal.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN Life Goal #13: Never agree to sort out Brooke’s finances. Ever. I’d rather wipe shit off a donkey with my bare hands than do this any longer today. Brooke is a mess. I knew this anyway, but this is a whole other level of mess. None of these receipts are date organized. It’s a wonder there’s anything here at all. “How in the hell did you file your taxes in January?” Brooke dips her pinky finger into a bowl full of batter and glances up at me. “I paid someone, like normal people do.” “But why is none of this organized?” “Well, I do it all online, so I just sent him all of that.” “Why can’t I look at the stuff online?” “Because you hate Gmail.” That’s a hard point to argue. That email provider just doesn’t like me. “Okay, but

presumably you printed them off in date order, didn’t you?” She nods and licks the batter off her finger as the kitchen door opens. “Yum.” “Then why aren’t they in date order now?” “Because she tripped over her own feet, dropped the papers, and couldn’t be bothered to re-order them.” Cain puts a cup of coffee in front of me. “Of course she did.” I sigh. What else would it be? “Hey.” A cake pan clangs when Brooke puts it on the counter. “First, I didn’t trip over my own feet, there was a wire there. And second, it wasn’t that I couldn’t be bothered, I just…” she trails off. “Couldn’t be bothered,” Cain says for her, smirking at me. “Okay, fine!” She groans. “I couldn’t be bothered. I’m sorry. I’m lazy. Hate me.” “I don’t hate you,” I reassure her. Then, I look at the three stacks of receipts and invoices that need sorting. “Well, not yet, at least.”

She smiles at me sweetly. “This is a strawberry and chocolate chip batter mix.” I lean up and peer forward at the bowl. Yep. It’s filled with light pink batter dotted with chocolate chips. “Can I lick the bowl out?” Cain grabs a receipt, rolls it up, and hits the back of my head with it. “Where is your resolve, Carly? Are you going to let her get away with it just because she’s baking your favorite cake?” Brooke, currently filling the cake pan with the world’s best cake mixture, doesn’t even look up as she says, “Lemon and orange muffins are in the oven.” Cain jerks his head around, and his eyes flit from left to right across the two ovens that are switched on. I stare at him. “Now who has no resolve?” “She didn’t do anything to me.” “Yeah, I did. I broke a glass this morning and you almost cut your foot on it,” Brooke chimes in. Cain blinks. “Yeah. So you did. Huh.” I rest my hand on his arm. “Where is your resolve, Cain? Are you going to let her get away

with it just because she’s baking your favorite cake?” He peers down first at my hand, and then meets my eyes. “Shut up.” I grin. He should have known the second he showed interest in those muffins that I’d turn his words back around onto him. Wait. Muffins? “Why is she making you muffins?” I ask him. “Because I like muffins?” Cain replies, his brows pulling together into a frown. “But muffins don’t have frosting.” “What’s your point?” I sigh and prop my head up on my head. “Ah, muffins. Sad, little, unambitious cupcakes.” Brooke snorts so hard she induces a coughing fit. She thumps her fist against her chest, and all I can do is watch her as she slowly regains control over her body. “Why are they unambitious cupcakes? What does that even mean?” Cain pulls out the stool next to me and sits on it when he sees that Brooke isn’t,

in fact, going to choke herself into unconsciousness. It’s happened before. I know. You’re surprised, right? “Muffins are cupcakes that never got to grow up. You can’t expect cakes to exist without frosting, Cain. That’s like telling your eighteen year old daughter she’s not allowed to date and locking her in a cage or something.” “I’m pretty sure that last one is illegal,” Zeke drawls from somewhere behind me. “And all I’m saying is that the first one should be,” I shoot back, dropping my attention back to the papers. I snatch one up and look at the company. “Why do you have a receipt for Victoria Secret in your work invoices?” She freezes. “Whoops. I’ll just…take that.” I hand it to her, fighting a smile. “Again—who let you run a business?” “You,” Zeke answers, walking over to the small fridge. Brooke glances at me and shrugs a shoulder.

“What are you doing here?” Cain asks him,

nudging me. “Dad’s doing paperwork. The tiles for Felicity’s bathroom haven’t arrived yet, so I can’t do anything. You’re not the only one he can give a day of to.” Zeke pulls a bottle of water from the fridge. “Jesus,” Brooke says, leaning against the island counter. “What termite is chewing on your balls?” Zeke swings his gaze toward me. It lingers only for a second, but the hot intensity makes me take a deep breath in. It’s the kind of glance that sucks the air out of the room. “Well, shit, that’s not obvious at all,” I snap, grabbing my pen. I click the end of it a little too hard and it hurts my thumb. “She asked. I answered.” I slam the pen down on top of the invoice I just pulled. “No, answering implied you talked, and you didn’t. You just looked at me like I’m the root of your issues, and I’m not. I’m just the person

who called you on your shit.” Cain breathes out slowly through pursed lips. “Oh, you mean the person who called me, talked shit, and then hung up?” Zeke slams the fridge door shut. “Yeah, I can see how you’re not an issue.” “Yeah, well, I never wanted to be anyone’s subscription to fucking Vogue. And if telling the truth means ‘talking shit,’ then I hope you liked hearing my crap.” “Hated it.” “Then why are you here?” “It’s my best friend’s kitchen.” “On my brother’s property.” I glare at him. He glares right back. I’m at a crossroads. I can roll my eyes, ignore him, and go back to work. I can take a bathroom break. I can say “Whatever, I’m not arguing anymore.” Or, I can argue. Obviously, I pick the latter. “You’re acting like a twelve-year-old, you know that?” I tell him.

He puts his water bottle on the island counter. “I’d tell you the same, but I don’t want to insult twelve-year-olds.” Oh my god. “You are such an ass!” I stand up, kicking my stool behind me. The clatter echoes around the kitchen. “Are you seriously mad at me because you were a jerk?” He stares at me—in fact, everyone is staring at me. But his gaze burns the most. “Oh my god.” I laugh, but it’s anything but humorous. This is fucking ridiculous. “You’re mad at me because you were a jerk and I called you on it? And now you’re arguing with me instead of talking to me? Newsflash, Zeke. Texting the words “I’m sorry” doesn’t make a fucking decent apology. You didn’t break my lamp, for god’s sake. I’m sorry if me not taking your shit hurts your precious little feelings, but unless you’re going to talk to me like the adult you are, I have zero interest in being around you right now. I’m going to get some fresh air.”

I shove the stool out of my way. It actually clatters against the floor, but I leave it there and yank open the door. It swings shut behind me, slamming so loudly I’d flinch if I weren’t so mad. I don’t even know why I’m so mad. I don’t want to care about the fact Zeke is mad at me, but I do. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be so annoyed that he is mad at me. It’s not even that he’s mad at it. It’s why. He has no right to be mad at me for his actions, even if he’s not used to be called on his shit. He’s gotten away with too much of that ridiculous shit for too long. I stop in the middle of the yard. I’m surrounded by a few building materials, and the huge skip is where the driveway will eventually be. It’s almost overflowing with trash and surplus supplies they haven’t been able to use or save. As I stare at it, I take a deep breath. My anger is so stupid. I don’t know what it is about Zeke—what it’s always been about him. The way I feel about him flips so much it’s like my feelings are attached to a freaking yo-yo string.

“Carly.” “What?” I don’t turn around at the sound of his

voice. I don’t want to see him—hell, I don’t want to talk to him, but if he’s going to actually talk instead of be a jerk, then I suppose I can listen to him. “I’m sorry.” Zeke draws level with me. “Are you?” “I’m capable of being apologetic. Apparently, you’re incapable of accepting it.” I sigh and stick my hands into the pockets of my jeans. “Well, after the way you just spoke to me…” “Carly…I apologized to you, then you called and ripped me a new asshole. You expect me not to be pissed after that?” “I never said that.” Still not looking at him. “Be pissed all you want, but you’re only pissed off because you know I’m right. If I was wrong, you’d have called me right back and told me to shut up.” Zeke pauses. “Know what? You’re right.” He puts his hands in his pockets too, nudging me with

his elbow a little. “I’m fucking pissed at you because you’re right.” “Are you being sarcastic?” “If you’d look at me, you’d know I’m not.” Damn it. I peer at him sideways. He’s looking straight ahead, probably focused on the skip like I was, and his expression is almost completely blank. He’s not smirking like I expected him to be, and there’s no hint of mischief in his eyes. Not that I can see. “What exactly am I right about? That you were wrong to mess with me on my date? Wrong to even show up? Wrong to kiss me whenever you feel like you want to? Wrong to text me to apologize for something that needed more than two poxy little words?” “All of it.” He shrugs his shoulders and looks at me. “You are right. Your dating life is none of my business. It never has been, and one fuck doesn’t suddenly make it my business now.” At least we’re agreed on something.” “I just can’t help wanting your dating life to be

my business.” I swallow and look away. “What does that mean?” “That I care about who you’re fucking more than I should.” “Well, if you really do care, you should be worried. He’s six and half inches long, bright purple, and needs new batteries. Oh, and he doesn’t argue with me, either.” I glance at Zeke in enough time to see his lips quirk up. He drops his eyes to the ground, and I know him well enough to know that he’s trying not to laugh at me. I’m kinda glad. This fighting shit is stupid. It solves nothing. “I’m shaking in my boots,” he mutters. Yep. He’s definitely trying not to laugh. I nudge him with my elbow. “Shut up.” “No, for real. That no arguing part might be hard to compete with.” “Might be? Only might be?” “All right, definitely hard to compete with. I bet

he doesn’t show up when he’s not wanted, either, huh?” I snort. “Yeah, well, unless I replace his batteries, he won’t be showing up when he is wanted.” “Call me. I’ll solve the problem.” “I’m not calling you to have sex with me if I forget to change the batteries in my vibrator.” “I was going to offer to bring you batteries.” “Yeah, and what’s the catch? Batteries in exchange for being able to watch?” “That sounds like an offer.” I pull my hand out of my pocket and smack his arm. “This conversation has entered pointless territory.” Zeke glances over his shoulder. “And it’s no longer private.” “What?” “Shut the fucking window, Brooke!” I turn around just as the window slams and Brooke’s head drops from view. Unreal. Of course she was listening. “Ah well,” I say, turning back to

face the dumpster. “At least I won’t have to give her a play-by-play of the entire conversation.” “Follow me.” Zeke walks across the grass to Cain’s workshop. I’m going to regret this, but fuck it. I follow him inside. He flicks on the light. The door bobs shut behind me as the bright, white light from the ceiling bathes the room. It’s clean, to say it’s a workshop. There’s a half-built table in the middle of the room—at least I think it’s a table— and my mind flashes back to all the times Cain complained about Ikea. Sure. He doesn’t like building flat-pack furniture, yet here he is, building a table from scratch. And they women are hard to understand. “You wanted me to talk to you like an adult,” Zeke says quietly, leaning against a work table. He folds his arms across his chest and looks at me. “If I do, you gotta listen like one.” I mime zipping my lips. Probably not the right way to agree to listen… “You scare me.”

“I’m the least terrifying person I know.” Almost

as soon as ‘know’ has left my mouth, I clap my hand over it. “Sorry,” I mumble into my palm. Zeke fights a smile. “You’re not monster scary, Carly. Everything about you—the person you are— is.” I tilt my head to the side, lowering my hand to rest on my chest. I don’t know what he means, and since I already broke my promise to listen once, I don’t want to ask why and do it again. He takes a deep breath and glances at the ceiling. “This is why I don’t talk like an adult. It’s easier to be an asshole.” He’s preaching to the choir. After a moment, he meets my eyes again. “Carly, you scare me. You scare me because I want you, and I shouldn’t. I have no right to want my brother’s best friend.” My heart thumps. There—he just said it, outright. The one thing I didn’t want him to say. I’d rather he tell me I’m scary because I’m mouthy or have no filter or have a little too much attitude for being a relatively small person.

Goddamn it, Zeke. Don’t tell me you want me, because now I might have to face up the fact that I maybe want you right back. I’m glad that thought stays inside my head. “And that’s why I can’t fucking stay away from you, even though I know better.” He rubs one hand across the back of his neck. “You don’t need a guy with trust issues.” I push myself up onto the granite counter next to the sink and let me legs swing into the empty storage area beneath it. “You don’t trust me?” I ask him quietly. “I don’t trust many people. Betrayal knocks that out of you.” Why does that kinda hurt? He doesn’t trust me? What have I ever done for him not to trust me? “I would have thought after eleven years I’d be someone you can trust.” I look down at my feet. “I do trust you. Just…not enough to justify wanting you as badly as I do.” “I’m not a fucking cream cake, Zeke. Why

would you tell me you want me if you’re just going to tell me right after that you can’t have me? That’s like waving a damn box of chocolates in front of a dieting person and eating them in front of them.” “Why do you care?” His voice breaks halfway through, and he coughs. “Why do you care if I trust you or not?” That’s a great question. Why do I care? Is it because I want him to trust me? Because although I’ve hated him for as long as I can remember, I don’t anymore? Because I want him? Because I hate that I know that he wants me? “Because I’m not Becky,” I say softly, lifting my gaze back up to his. “You think I don’t remember the day you found her screwing your friend? I was sitting in your mom’s freaking kitchen when you walked in and put a hole in the kitchen door because you were so mad you needed to get rid of it.” His nostrils flare as he takes a deep breath in. “I remember how much she hurt you. But, you know what? Fine.” I smile sadly and jump down.

“If you want to lump me in with the woman who cheated on you, then you’re right. You don’t get to justify wanting me. You don’t get to tell me anything unless it’s to get out of your life.” I walk to the door, but before I open it, I stop and look back at him over my shoulder. “I don’t want to play games, Zeke. You might, but I don’t. You’re not the only person who’s feeling things they shouldn’t be, okay? But I’m not going to play along with whatever this is. I don’t have the time for it. I’d rather go back to hating each other than this.” “I don’t hate you. I never did.” I squeeze my eyes shut. “Disliked you, sure. A helluva lot. You piss me off more than anyone I know, but I’ve never hated you, Carly. Anyone who hates you needs professional help.” I turn around fully and look at him. “See? Games, Ezekiel. It’s all games with you, all the time.” “That’s not me playin’, sugartits. That’s me being honest.”

“Honest? You want honest?” I raise my

eyebrows. “Here’s honest: I hate the way I feel about you. I hate the way you make me laugh and the way you make me not so serious without realizing it. I hate the way I feel when you smile at me the way you do, and I hate how easy it is to be around you. Most of all, I really, really hate that I want you. Not because you’re cocky and annoying and a jerk, but because you’re so closed off that you’re the worst kind of person to want. Because if it came down to it, I’d trust you with my life if I had to, yet it sounds like you wouldn’t trust me not to poison your cup of coffee. So, there you go. There’s honest. Game, set, match, checkmate, touchdown, home run, whatever. Game’s over. I’m done.” This time, I yank open the door and storm through it. I’m not even going back into the kitchen. I don’t care that my things are there or that I can’t get into my car without my— Shit. I can’t get into my car without my keys. I make an about-turn to Brooke’s little

outbuilding and shove the kitchen door open. Cain is eating a muffin at the island, and Brooke stops when she sees me. Frosting drips out of her piping bag and onto the counter, but she ignores the splat when I grab my things. “Car? What’s wrong?” “I’m gonna take this home, okay?” I shove all the invoices together. They’re a mess with sheets bending and crumpling, but I don’t care. “It’ll take me a couple days.” “Carly.” Cain wipes his mouth and stands up. “What the hell did you two say to each other?” “Home truths. Doesn’t matter. I’m an ass. He’s a jerk. Easy.” I shake my head and slap my laptop shut. I don’t know if my program saved the data or if I’ll have to start over. Does it autosave? I don’t know. I’ve never looked. I don’t care. Anything to think about something other than that ass. Honest. Why did I have to be honest? Carly, you dick. You complete dick. You could literally suck your thumb right now and be sucking dick.

The door to the kitchen opens again, slamming against the wall. “Why does everyone keep slamming my door today?” Brooke asks. I can’t answer. Zeke grabs me. Spins me. Kisses me. Hard. With one arm around my waist and the other wound into my hair, Zeke kisses me so hard it’s almost bruising. His grip is so tight there’ll be finger marks when he lets me go, but I don’t want him to let me go. Because this kiss isn’t a game. It’s raw and angry. Impulsive. Dangerous. Scary. It’s the realest touch we’ve ever shared. It feels like it means something. Like it actually reflects the way he feels rather than the way he wants to feel. There’s no chase or tease or messing with me. It’s straight to the point, clear-cut in its desperation. In his neediness.

He releases me, and I can’t open my eyes. Because that, probably the best damn kiss of my life, had an audience. “Whoa,” Brooke breathes from the opposite side of the room. “That was kind of hot.” I can’t even laugh like I want to. If I laugh, I’ll probably end up crying, because I have emotional overload right now. Anger and pain and sadness and lust. Goddamn that lust. I press my hand against my face, keeping my eyes tight shut. “Give me a chance to trust you,” Zeke says softly to me. “Stop messing around with those idiots off that stupid website and give me a chance. Just one.” “What, so you can decide you can’t trust me?” I ask right back, dropping my hand. “I don’t think so.” “Then, let me give you a reason to give me a chance.” I look into his eyes. They have that serious glint, the one I don’t see often. The one that is so

piercing it could forge a path through a cliff. “I’m not playing around. I mean it.” “Is that a yes?” “That’s an ‘apologize for putting me in the same breath as your bitch of an ex and promise it’ll never happen again.’” “Damn,” Brooke mutters. Zeke smiles. “I’m sorry. It’ll never happen again.” “Fine. One chance. Make it worth it, Ezekiel.” I look at him pointedly. “And remember, no games. Not even Snakes and Ladders.” He holds up his hands. “Understood. I’ll make it worth it.” I hold his gaze for one more moment, but my own little smile breaks free. “Well, good. Now I have work to do.” I turn back to where the papers are and open my laptop. Cain stares at me. “What the hell did I just see?” “You’re like my own personal porn, do you know that?” Brooke asks, still holding her frosting-

covered spatula. “Can you skip that date thing and just go fuck somewhere so you stop bothering the rest of us.” I throw my pen at her head—and I hit her. “Nice,” Zeke mutters. “Thanks.” Cain looks between us a little more. “I don’t know if I’m more disturbed about my brother and best friend kissing or that my girlfriend finds it hot.” I roll my eyes. “There’s porn about guys fucking their stepmothers. If you want to be disturbed, spend a little more time on the internet.” “Join a dating site when you do. Some of those profiles are scary,” Zeke agrees. “True.” I nod. “I got an email with a new match last night. In his bio, he described himself as “one horny little pocket rocket.” I’m sill traumatized.” Brooke laughs. “Do you think he’d expect you to count down to lift-off in bed?” I collapse forward onto the counter and giggle. “Seriously,” Zeke says. “That’s the kind of guys

they match you with? And you just put up a huge fight with me?” I turn my head toward him and grin. “Yeah. Pretty much.” “I’d be offended if I didn’t already know that there’s nothing little about my pocket rocket.” “All right, you don’t need a microscope for it, but it’s no anaconda. Don’t get cocky now.” Zeke smirks. “Don’t get cocky. Don’t worry, I’ll tell my friend to keep it down.” Bad choice of words there, Carly. I narrow my eyes. “Don’t you have work to do?”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN Life Goal #14: Take more risks. Like leaving the kitchen window open, not skydiving or something. Zeke: Two things. Me: What? Zeke: Pack an overnight bag. Me: Why? Zeke: Epic date. Me: I can’t just leave my dog. Zeke: Mom is going to keep her until tomorrow. Me: Do I have a choice? Zeke: No, I already bought the plane tickets. Me: PLANE TICKETS???? Zeke: Pack a bag, sugartits. Me: …What’s the second thing? Zeke: There are batteries in your mailbox downstairs. I look at my phone and then at my door. I know

he said it, but would he really? No. He wouldn’t. Would he? He would. He totally would. I jump up off the sofa, startling Delilah, and grab my front door key. I keep a tight grip on my phone as I head downstairs, barefoot, to check my mailbox. The first thing I see when I open it is, in fact, two packs of batteries in different sizes. Me: Two different sizes? Zeke: I didn’t know what size your boyfriend likes. I bite the inside of my lip. He’s something else. Me: He likes the bigger size. Zeke: So do you. Me: … Zeke: Too far?

Yes and no. I don’t actually know what to respond to that. Me: I told you not to get cocky. Zeke: So, you like me. Me: Don’t twist my words. Zeke: I’m coming to get you in 30. Be ready. This has disaster written all over it. It’s not even twenty-four hours since we had our argumentslash-conversation at Brooke and Cain’s. I have no idea what he could have possibly thought up in that time, much less booked plane tickets for. What the hell would we need plane tickets for? He’s crazy—really crazy. I don’t even know what to do with this information. Damn it, I have questions. What am I supposed to pack when I don’t know where I’m packing for? Is it just carry-on luggage? Do I need fancy clothes as well as casual? Flats or heels?

Pants or dress? Hairdryer or flat iron? Real shampoo or dry shampoo? Waterproof mascara or normal? Sweater or zip-through hoodie? Light jacket or heavy coat? See? He thought up lots but not enough. So, I do the only thing a woman can, and I text him every single one of those questions. Ten minutes later, after staring in my closet, I get my answer. Zeke: Clothes. Yes. Yes. Both. Both. Flat iron. I don’t care. I don’t care. I don’t care. I don’t care. Well, that was freaking informative. I’m so thankful I asked. Gosh, I know exactly what to pack now. I pull a ton of clothes out of my closet and throw them on the bed with six pairs of shoes. Then, I snap a picture and attach it to a message. Me: This isn’t going well.

Zeke: I don’t own that many clothes. Or shoes. Me: It would be easier if you’d tell me where you’re taking me. Zeke: Nice try, sugartits. Me: If you don’t tell me, I’m going to scream at the gate. Zeke: If you scream, I’ll throw you over my shoulder and spank you. Me: All things considered, this is starting out pretty mixed. Zeke: Spanking. Noted. Me: Shit. Zeke: 20 mins. Pack your shit. I look at the pile on my bed and sigh. It was worth it for the picture, but now… Damn it. *** Knocks at my door distract me from the mess that’s still my bed. I’m only half-packed. Honestly,

I don’t know who told this guy that thirty minutes was an acceptable time for a woman to pack, but they were wrong. “It’s open!” I shout. The door opens, and Delilah barks like crazy. “Whoa,” Zeke says. “Delilah, calm down. Delil— damn it, dog.” I poke my head out of my bedroom door. She’s clamped onto his leg again. “Strange,” I say, tilting my head to the side. “She only does that with you.” “If only her owner liked me as much,” he replies, staring down at the little Jack Russell humping his leg. “Well, only one of us can be perfect, so I guess I took that part of the relationship.” I turn around. “Are you just gonna leave her here on my leg?” he calls, his voice a little higher than normal. I roll my eyes. Oh, lord. The man can handle a woman, but a dog? No. Apparently that time in the park was not a fluke. It’s a permanent thing. “What do you want me to do?” I ask him, walking out of my room. “If I pull her off, she’s

just going to do it again. Besides, it’s kind of funny.” He looks down at Delilah, still going crazy on his leg. Then, he turns his attention to me. “Um?” He waves his hands down at my dog. “How is this remotely funny?” “To be blunt,” I start. “You’re six-foot-three and built like someone chiseled you from marble. My dog that barely weighs ten pounds soaking wet is getting busy on your leg…And you can’t get her off of you. You see where I’m going with this?” “Yes and no. But I have a question.” “Hmm?” “Do female dogs…you know.” I stare at him. He blinks back at me. “You know what I’m talking about.” “No, I really don’t.” “Goddamn it, Carly. Is your dog going to jizz on my leg?” Oh. Oh.

“I have no idea,” I answer honestly. “She

doesn’t play with mine. In fact, I’m pretty sure she hates me.” “Wonderful. There are probably three billion people in this world, and I have to find myself ridiculously attracted to the one whose dog wants to have puppies with my shinbone.” He smacks his hand to his face. “Carly, make her stop. Please. I’m getting alarmed now.” I dive into my room to grab my phone. Then, I snap a photo of him facepalming with my dog humping his leg. That’ll be useful one day…Like a birthday card or something. I suppose I can help him now. “Delilah,” I say sharply. “Delilah, no.” She doesn’t even look at me. I wrap my hands around her tiny body and physically pull her away. I tuck her beneath my arm and tap two fingers against her wet nose. “No. Bad girl. We don’t hump people randomly.” “Didn’t you hump me randomly?” Zeke asks.

I cut my eyes to him. “I’ll put her down.” He holds his hands up and steps back. That’s what I thought. I put Delilah in the bathroom and shut the door to keep her in there. She whines, but I really don’t want to listen to Zeke complaining that she won’t leave him alone. “Are you going to tell me where you’re taking me?” I ask him, walking back to my bedroom. “No.” He follows me and leans against the door frame. His eyes twinkle with mischief as he crosses his arms. “I don’t know what to pack.” “No offense, sugartits, but I could have told you that.” I see I’m not ever getting rid of that stupid nickname. “Those questions I texted you earlier were legit,” I tell him, grabbing a light-gray duster sweater. “Will I need this? A heavier knit sweater? Florida or Alaska? Come on, Zeke.” “Why would I take you to Alaska for one night?

That’s like an eight hour flight. Think it through, woman.” “Shut up.” I stare at the sweater I’m holding. “Do I need this?” Zeke blinks at it. “Yes. No. I don’t fucking know.” “You’re not helping.” “Just pack everything.” “It won’t fit,” I mutter, folding a shirt. “So, I’ll buy you a checked bag. Fucking hell.” “Or just tell me!” I shove a pair of jeans into— or onto—my carry-on sized case. “I can’t decide a thing!” “NOLA!” explodes out of him. “Fucking New Orleans, okay?” I grip the same jeans tightly and look at him. “New Orleans?” “New Orleans,” he confirms with a tight smile. I drop the jeans and throw myself on top of him. “Unf,” Zeke grunts, wrapping his arms around my waist. “I think you just elbowed me in the

chest.” I bite the inside of my cheek. “I think I did. Sorry.” He shifts and drops me onto the bed next to me. He moves with me, rolling onto his side, still holding onto me. His gaze flits across my face, and it’s probably because of the stupid, little smile stretching across my face. I’ve never been to NOLA. I’ve always wanted to go to NOLA. If I threw words around like they were nothing, I’d say I love this guy. But I don’t, so I won’t. Because I don’t. “Ever been?” Zeke rubs his thumb across the base of my spine. “No,” I reply. “I’ve always wanted to go, though.” A slow grin curves his lips. “Well, now you get to go.” I draw in a deep breath. The urge to meet his smile with my own is overwhelming, so I give in to the urge and let my mouth tug up at the sides. Am I too excited? Does he need to know how

excited I am? “Awesome,” I say quietly. “Awesome? Is that it? Are you not blown away? You should have made a dent in that wall over there.” I roll my eyes. Zeke pinches my chin and lifts his face to mine. “You can be as nonchalant as you want, sugartits. Your excitement is in your eyes. So is the fact you want to jump my bones right now.” One of my eyebrows quirks up. “Why don’t you just read me a love story from my eyes?” “I will. But first, pack. Or we’re gonna miss our flight.” I’ve never moved so fast in my life. *** “How did you manage to get tickets and a room on such short notice?” I turn to Zeke in the back of the cab. He leans his head on the back of the seat and

smacks his lips together. “A friend manages a hotel on the Quarter. The owner is a bit of a dick and it’s fallen into a bit of disarray. Melly’s tried to keep it going, but until someone else buys it…” He shrugs. “This week was ‘almost’ booked. We got lucky.” “Fair enough.” Who was Melly? A friend? What kind of friend? Why do I care so much? Oh, wait. I know why. Because I care about him. But this jealousy thing? That’s new. Surprise anal kind of new. “Why are you looking at me like that?” I blink and pull myself out of my head. “What am I looking at you like?” “All frowny and stuff.” He pauses when the cab comes to a stop. “We’re here.” Thank god. It feels like we’ve been in this cab for an hour, and a glance at my phone tells me I’m not far off in my guess. It has been almost an hour. This country girl is not used to such crazy city traffic. I open my mouth to tell Zeke I’ll pay for the cab, but he’s already whipped out his wallet and is

pressing money into the guy’s hand. I snap my lips back together without saying anything and slide across the seat after him to get out on the sidewalk. The atmosphere is positively electric—alive with touristy wonder, rich with the smell of southern and cajun food. Laughter from groups of people with drinks in their hands travels through the air as they bypass the sidewalk altogether and walk up the middle of the street. Our cab driver has to wait to avoid a group of girls as they pass a little too close to where he wants to open his door. Zeke helps him pull our cases from the trunk and deposit them on the cracked, uneven sidewalk. One case tips, and only Zeke’s lightning-fast reflexes stops it from tipping over. I grab the handle and wheel it onto more even ground. It’s not an easy task. Especially when I catch myself on a cracked slab on the sidewalk and only just manage to right myself. Please say he didn’t see that. Turning, I see his smirk. It all but confirms that he did. Crap.

A flush rises up my cheeks, and I dip my head to hide it. “Come on,” Zeke says, wrapping one arm around my waist and leaning in. “Let’s go in.” Les Bon Temps hotel in the corner of the Quarter is the very thing you imagine when you go to visit New Orleans. The gorgeous French architecture is present in every inch. Cracks in the cream, outer walls lend character to the building, and my attention is drawn from those to the classic, metal balconies that are present on all four floors. A mixture of flowers and purple, green, and yellow decorations adorn those balconies. It’s the decorations that me pause. “I thought they only decorated during Mardi Gras?” I say to Zeke as he grabs the cases. He laughs. “This is New Orleans. They’re a law unto themselves here. But, you would be right. Check the date, sugartits. It’s just over a week until Mardi Gras.” I frown, much to his amusement. But he’s right —February. “Now my amazement for how you got this room has just gone up faster than a seventy-

year-old man in a strip club with a packet of Viagra.” He shudders. “I told you: Melly’s a friend. She did me a favor with the canceled room.” “Some favor,” I mutter. Everybody knows hotels books out way in advance, and I don’t believe the cancellation line. It just so happens to be on this day, huh? Regardless, I swallow down those feelings after a quick look from him and follow him into the hotel. It’s everything I expected it to be from the outside—quintessentially New Orleans from the flooring to the ceiling to the reception counter. There are modern touches too, like the little water fountains on the walls either side of the door. Yet, I can see what he means when he says it’s fallen into a little disrepair. The fountains aren’t running water, the flooring needs a good shining, and the details on the front of the reception counter could benefit from some TLC. Still, it isn’t hurting its charm. “Zeke!” A beautiful woman with thick, dark hair grins as she steps out from behind the

reception. “You made it,” she says in a deep, Louisiana drawl. “Generally when someone says they’re getting on a plane, you’ll find they make it to wherever it is they’re going.” He laughs and scoops her into a hug. Ugh. “I see growing up has kept you the same annoying child you’ve always been.” The woman who I’m now guessing is Melly steps back and rolls her eyes. They’ve barely rolled a full turn when her gaze lands on me. For the second time since we walked through the door only minutes ago, a wide smile stretches across her face. “And you must be Carly! Hi! I’m Melly!” The woman exudes excitement, and that’s a good thing, because she bounds over to me and wraps me in a big hug before I can do anything. “Hi,” I say, completely lamely, trying to hug her back with one arm. Awkward. She squeezes me before releasing me. “Now,

what are you doin’ here with this one? If trouble were a cupcake, he’d be every last bit including that damn cherry.” “Bribed her,” Zeke says, stuffing his hands in his pants. “Closer to blackmail, actually. How else would I convince her to come here with me?” “Well, damn, that must be somethin’ he’s got on you.” She winks at me and heads back behind the reception desk. “Let’s get y’all checked into your room. We had a cancellation, so I went ahead and upgraded you on the house.” I raise my eyebrows. Again—what kind of relationship did they have? Good god. If I carry on like this, I’m going to turn into a pile of green goop. “I also took the liberty to write down some places I thought y’all would want to visit while you’re here. Restaurants, bars…” “I know my way around the food in this city, Melly.” Zeke chuckles. “Ezekiel Elliott, I’ve got absolutely no doubt in

my mind that you could eat your way around the entire United States of America and not get lost.” She types at her computer without looking at him. “Besides, this ain’t about you. This is about your date for the night, so get your hand off that guide right this second.” She punctuates that with a smack to his hand. I have to hide my smile. Zeke sighs and looks at me. “You see the kind of shit I put up with from the women in my life? Wait—never mind. You’re the primary giver of shit in my life.” This time, there’s no hiding my smile. Actually, I laugh. He’s not far wrong. “You’re welcome.” I grip the handle of my case and drag it up to where he’s standing at the counter. His hand touches my lower back so instinctively I wonder if he even realizes it’s there. His thumb strokes across my spine in slow strokes, but he isn’t even looking at me. Why is this so comfortable? “There we go.” Melly reaches beneath the

counter and glances up. “One or two keys?” “Two,” Zeke answers, cutting me off before I can speak. “Carly’s not exactly…” He pauses. “Go ahead.” I look up at him. “Answer that question, Ezekiel.” He shifts. “Two will be fine.” Melly dips her head to laugh and produces two key cards. “You’re in room 302. The elevators are just across to your left and you need to hit level four. The restaurant is just behind me and to the right. Room service is from seven a.m. until eleven p.m.” She opens a small paper envelope and scribbles on it before putting the keys in. “The WiFi code is inside here, and here are your keys and the guide. If you need anything else, I’m here until eight tonight.” She smiles. “Have fun.” “Thanks, Melly.” Zeke snatches up the keys and guide before I have a chance to move and grabs the cases. I smile at Melly and follow Zeke. I’ve been doing a lot of that lately—following him. I feel a little like a stray puppy trying to find its owner.

The elevator doors ping open almost as soon as Zeke has pressed the button. He waits for me to step inside and then joins me right before hitting the button for floor four. Even though my eyes are trained on the now-closed doors, I know every time he glances toward me. I ignore every time, too, because I know there are questions in his eyes. The doors open again when we reach our floor, and wordlessly, Zeke leads me toward our room. He slips the key card into the slot and opens the door after it flashes green. I take my case through past him into the room. It’s not huge, but it’s bigger than a regular hotel room. As well as the bed, it has a sofa and desk next to the window that looks out onto Jackson Square. The window is cracked open a little, and already I can hear the faint sounds of jazz music from the performers on the street. Dumping my purse on the bed, I walk to the windows and peer out. Maybe fifteen feet from the hotel is a three man band, sitting on a bench, playing their hearts out. Even the vibrance of the street art pales momentarily in the relaxing sounds.

A smile touches my lips. That’s the crazy stuff you see in the movies that you’re sure you’ll never see, yet, here I am… seeing it. Zeke comes up behind me and wraps his arms around my shoulders. His solid body presses against mine, and he touches his lips to my ear. “What’s up with you? You’re pretty quiet for a girl who got surprised inadvertently with a bucket list trip.” “I…Um…” He waits. “How do you know Melly?”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN Life Goal #15: Learn when to shut my fat winehole. Zeke pauses, then he laughs, the low sound rumbling over my skin. “Is that why you’re barely talking to me?” “Never mind. Ignore it.” I wriggle in an attempt to get out of his hold, but all he does is tightens his grip a little. “Shush,” he says into my ear, his lips brushing the lobe. “I told you, she’s a friend. I met her two or three years ago when I came for Mardi Gras for Gabe’s birthday.” I vaguely remember the trip. All three of the Elliott boys went, along with a whole bunch of their friends. It wasn’t exactly a special birthday, but it was the first one that Cain was twenty-one and they wanted to party properly…Apparently. “Just…a friend?” I mumble. I feel his grin against my ear. “Carly Porter,” he says in a low voice. “Are you jealous?”

“Do I have something to be jealous of?”

Zeke spins me in his arms and looks down at me. There’s a half-smile on his handsome face, and his eyes are bright with amusement. “No. When I say friend, I really mean, friend. Do you think I’d have brought you here if she was ever more than that?” I don’t answer. Because I don’t know. Maybe he would have. He purses his lips. “I wouldn’t do that, Carly. That’s being an asshole to a whole other degree. She hooked up with Gabe. She and I just clicked and stayed in contact, that’s all. Besides, I wasn’t single when we took that trip.” I stare at him for a moment before my mouth forms a little ‘o’. That’s right—he was with Becky then. “Oh,” I mutter. “Wait, is Melly the person she used to get insecure about?” Zeke rolls his eyes. “Bitchy. She used to get bitchy. Call it what it is. But, yes. We talked a lot more back then, but only friendly. Then again, Becky didn’t like me talking to Brooke, and I was

never gonna go after my brother’s girl.” Right. He knew about Cain’s feelings before anyone else did. “Well, now I feel like a dick.” I sigh. His chuckle is low. “Maybe I should have elaborated, especially since this is my chance.” “Yes, you’re right. You should’ve.” “You’re never going to give me an inch, are you?” “I thought giving inches was your job.” My quick answer makes him still. Then, he bursts out laughing and pulls me right against his body. I loosely wrap my arms around his waist and press my face into his chest. Even I have to admit, that was a good one. “Well played,” he laughs into my hair. “I thought so.” I drop my head and back smile at him. Keeping one arm tight around my shoulders, he reaches onto my face and pulls a strand of hair away from my eyelashes. “You know,” he says quietly, “It was kind of hot when you were

jealous.” “It didn’t feel sexy. There are no hot, green, superheroes.” “You could be a hot, green superhero.” “I don’t look good in those catsuit thingys. They don’t do my ass any favors.” “Nothing you wear does your ass any favors.” I purse my lips. “Not like that,” he backtracks. “Your ass looks good in anything, but it’s better when you aren’t wearing anything. Not that it looks bad normally, but it’s better without. Shit, now I’m just repeating myself. You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” I have a hunch that my grin is giving that away. “Lil’ bit.” He takes a deep breath and huffs it out. “I walked into that, didn’t I?” I nod. “You didn’t just walk. You sprinted at it and then jumped in with two feet.” “Fuck it.” My smile is serene. “Come on. I’m sure you didn’t bring me here to hug me like a teddy bear

and talk yourself in circles.” “No, I didn’t. I came here to romance you, and as you can see, I’m doing a fucking fantastic job.” “I know, but you’re making me laugh, and funny guys are hot.” “I’m less of a funny guy and more of a fuck it guy.” “As long as you mean both your humor and me, we’re good.” “Did you just give me permission to fuck you?” “Maybe. Go romance me and I’ll let you know.” “In that case…” He slides his arm down to my waist and, cupping the back of my head with his other hand, says, “I should get started on that romancing thing. It’ll probably take a few tries, but for now, I’m going to kiss the shit out of you now, sugartits.” His lips descend on mine before I can speak, and before I know it, my fingers are wound in the soft fabric of his shirt and his kiss has my heart beating double-time. Lust and adrenaline mix into a

sweetly desperate heat that tingles across my skin, leaving goosebumps and forcing the hairs on my arms to stand on end. The pleasure one gets from kissing Zeke Elliott is not unlike the pleasure you get from pulling your thong out of your butt crack when it gets a little too wedgie-ish. That sweet ‘ahh’ of freedom and release—but mostly knowing you no longer have to walk like you need to use the bathroom. “Let’s go,” he murmurs, lips still touching mine. “You have no idea what kind of crazy you’re about to enter into.” I open my eyes and look up at him through my lashes. “I think you’re right.” *** It’s hot. And humid. Louisiana is a special kind of freaking hell. We’ve been outside all of twenty minutes and I can actually feel the sweat dripping down my back. I’ve never felt so gross in my entire life. I probably smell like a wet dog, too.

At least we found the daiquiri place. I’m no lush, but the frozen cocktail is definitely classed as a valid coping mechanism in this city. Not only is New Orleans ragingly hot and humid, there are people everywhere. I can’t skip a crack in the sidewalk without either coming too close to a horse and carriage or being bumped by people. And the drivers! Dear god—that is its own brand of crazy. The beeping is endless, but I suppose if half of Barley Cross was shut down for parades and I was stuck in gridlocked traffic, I’d be beeping my horn for people to get the fuck out of my way too. “Is there any shade in this place?” I ask Zeke, skipping out of the way of a woman walking a dog dressed in purple and gold tulle. Zeke’s gaze follows the dog as it walks past. “Do you think Delilah would ever let you do that?” “You want me to dress my dog up like a Mardi Gras mushroom?” Is he high? I’ve smelled enough pot on these streets that it’s entirely possible. “No. I didn’t say I want you to, I just wondered

if she’d let you.” “You’d have better luck getting Brooke to watch sports.” “Huh. Is that why she leaves whenever Cain puts it on?” I nod my head. “She hates all kinds of sports. So do I, actually. We tolerate baseball for the pants. Oh, and football, but only if the Patriots are playing. Actually, I’d watch whoever Julian Edelman plays for.” “Of course you would. I remember Brooke saying the same thing. I’d be annoyed if he weren’t so damn good.” “Aw, are you the jealous one now?” He slides his eyes toward me and guides me round some horse shit. Nice. “Are you telling me you were jealous earlier?” he asks. “No,” I reply a little too quickly. “I don’t get jealous. I get…interested.” “Interested.”

“Like Sherlock Holmes.” “Nobody died, Carly.” “I can arrange it.” I swing my gaze toward him

for a brief second. He breaks out into a grin. “You wouldn’t kill me. Who’d bring you batteries for your vibrator?” “There’s a reason I pay for Amazon Prime, y’know.” “Yeah,” he pulls me in close, “But Amazon Prime won’t throw it to the side and fuck you properly, will it?” “Are you promising?” “That’s the second time in less than an hour you’ve basically offered yourself to me. If you ask a third time, we’re gonna take a detour back to the hotel.” “If that was supposed to be a threat, I’ve had scarier bouts of diarrhea.” Zeke shakes his head. “You’re so hot, you know that?” I grin. “But I will keep your offer in mind.” “Strangely enough, I’m not feeling it right this

very second.” I can’t help but laugh. “I know how to turn you on and off now.” “Awesome. I’m practically your own personal light switch.” “Maybe. That depends if you’re gonna light up my world when you’re turned on.” Now, it’s his turn to laugh. That was the cheesiest thing I’ve ever said. What the hell do these bars put in these drinks? “That was both awkward and adorable.” Zeke rubs his thumb across the side of my neck and steers me around a group of scantily-dressed women. “And something I don’t need to answer, because you already know what I can do in the bedroom.” “This conversation is making it very hard not to sleep with someone on the first date,” I muse. “It’s a very long first date,” he points out. “And it’s not like we’ve never had sex.” “We’ve never had sober sex.” “Are you entirely sober?”

I look down at my giant, touristy daiquiri cup. It’s half empty, and the hurricane is kicking my ass. Zeke grabs the top of the cup and directs it toward himself. Then, to my horror, he closes his lips around the top of my straw and sucks. It serves him right when he shudders. “Hot damn, no, you are not sober.” He shakes his shoulders and drops his hand from my neck. “How can you drink that?” “I’m too hot to care,” I say honestly. “I must have misheard you when you said New Orleans, because we’re obviously in the pits of hell.” “Is that the smell because we’re in the middle of Bourbon Street or the heat?” “Both. Let’s go back to Jackson Square and come back here when I’m too drunk to care what it smells like.” He laughs and we turn back the way we just came. “What do you want to do? Do the psychic bullshit? Eat? Finish that death drink?” “I want to buy a voodoo doll.” “Should I be afraid?”

“Maybe.” I flash him a grin. “Is that how to

keep you in line?” “If it is, buy one that looks like Brooke.” A laugh escapes me. “Damn, I should have thought of that years ago. Okay—let’s eat. I’m hungry.” “You wanna sit somewhere or take-out?” “Hmm…Let’s take out.” He smiles and slips his fingers through mine. “I know the perfect place.” *** I wrinkle my nose up at the fried balls in front of me. “I’m not eating an alligator.” “It’s not an alligator,” Zeke says, picking one up. “Just alligator in general. And they call it gator here.” “Right. Because gator is entirely different.” I stare at the ball he’s holding. “What does it taste like?” “Chicken.” “Not everything can taste like chicken.”

He shrugs. “Maybe chicken tastes like gator. I don’t know, but I just know they taste the same.” He holds the gator ball out to me. “Just try it. Bite into it. It tastes like fresh fried chicken.” I pick the ball out of his hand with my finger and thumb. “Why does eating a gator feel so wrong?” “Anywhere else, it probably would be. But this is Louisiana. The gators don’t mind.” “That’s like me saying, “Oh, there are enough men in this world, they won’t mind if we eat them.”” He grins. Crap. “Don’t say it, Ezekiel.” “I wouldn’t mind it if you ate me.” I throw the gator at him. “I said don’t say it!” He holds his hands up, laughing. “You walked right into it, sugartits. What did you expect me to say?” I stare at him flatly and reach for my daiquiri. “Look, if you really want, I’ll eat you, too.” I blink at him. There’s nothing I can actually respond to him in this situation. He is right, after

all. I walked right into it, and now anything I say is only going to fuel the fire that is his filthy little mind. “All right, all right. I know that look. That’s your, “Shut up, Ezekiel,” look.” “I don’t have a “Shut up, Ezekiel,” look.” “Have you ever looked at yourself when you want me to shut up?” “No. I’m generally too busy glaring at…” I trail off. So, maybe I do have that look. Props to him for noticing it. Not that I’ll tell him that—male egos and all that jazz. “Never mind.” “Eat the gator.” He changes the direction back instantly to the food. I’m not even hungry, but I just know he won’t give up until I’ve tried the damn gator. I’m sorry, Mr. Alligator. I didn’t want this for you. I take the new bit of gator-tastes-like-chicken from his hand and look at it. He’s right. It does look like fried chicken, and if it tastes like it… Well.

I squeeze my eyes shut as I bite into it. Then, I chew. And quickly come to the realization that he’s completely right. Gator does taste like chicken. “Huh. How about that?” I say when I’ve swallowed it. “Gator tastes like chicken.” “No,” Zeke says flatly. “I don’t believe you.” I throw my bitten-into half at his head and lie down. He catches it in his hand and shoves it into his mouth with a grin. All I can do is shake my head at his antics, but as I do, he gets up and jumps over the food…and me. “What are you doing?” I ask him, holding my hand up to shield my eyes from the sun as it peeks out from behind a cloud. He flattens his hands either side of my head on the grass, bringing them level with where his knees are. His eyes glint in the sunlight until he drops his head, blocking it out from my view so I can drop my hand. “What are you doing?” I ask again, looking into his eyes.

“Being stupid,” he mutters, grinning lopsidedly. “You say that like it’s a rare occurrence.” “Don’t make me tickle you.” “I’m not really that ticklish.” Lies. All lies.

Tickle me once and I flail more than a spider in a wet sink. “So if I tickle you now,” he says, bringing one of his hands down to my side. “You won’t squeal like a bowl full of piglets?” “Why would you put piglets in a bowl?” “Why is that the part you’re focusing on?” “Because I have to know why you’d put piglets in a bowl.” I blink up at him innocently. “How tiny are these piglets and how big is the bowl?” “Irrelevant.” He shakes his head. “Then pick your words better next time, because now I’m just trying to imagine a bowl full of piglets.” “Woman, you’re crazy.” Huh. I thought that was public knowledge. “I like crazy.” He winks. I roll my eyes. “You have to. If you didn’t,

you’d never be able to live with yourself.” For that, I get tickled. And he’s right. I do squeal—probably like a bowl full of piglets, whatever that looks and sounds like. I imagine it to be very pink, very muddy, and very high-pitched. Also very cute. So, so cute. “Stopppp!” I wriggle as far away from Zeke as I can and push at him in an attempt to get his hands off me. He’s so much stronger than me that he simply grabs my hips and tugs me back beneath him. His eyes find my own, dancing with the very same laughter that’s falling from his lips. I stop wriggling. If he laughed long enough, I know he’d hypnotize me and I’d end up doing the funky chicken or something. He just has that kind of laugh. My lips part as if I’m going to speak. It’s completely ridiculous, because I have no idea what I’m going to say. Can I tell him how his laugh makes me want to

laugh, too? Or how his eyes give me butterflies? Or how the two things combined make me want to throw up in the nicest kind of way? No, I can’t. I can’t do any of those things. I don’t really know how I went from hating this guy to wanting him the way I do. And it’s dangerous…So very dangerous. Because despite this extravagant date being him asking for me to give him a chance, I still know that there are two ways this can end. Maybe I give him the chance and it works out. Or maybe I give him the chance and it doesn’t. Only one of us will get their heart broken. And despite what he says, I know that person will be me. So, why do I want to throw even more caution to the wind? I know the answer to that. It’s because I can. Because I want to. Because I want to be crazy again. Even if this date goes tits down, ass up, and I get fucked more ways than that, a dumb little part of me is okay with that. A dumb part of me is okay with it because a

bigger part of me is being driven wild by Ezekiel Elliott. By my best friend’s brother. By the guy I’ve hated longer than I can remember. This is so fucked up. So, so fucked up. “You’re looking at me like you’re confused again,” Zeke says quietly. “What did I do?” I inhale deeply through my nose and say the words I know are wrong and stupid and completely and utterly insane. “Take me back to the hotel.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN Life Goal #16: Remember to thank whoever created the culture of men keeping condoms in their wallet. Zeke blinks at me. He’s completely frozen. His knee is digging into the inside of my thigh, and I’m pretty sure his thumb is trapping a chunk of my hair to the grass. “What did you just say?” he asks quietly, his words barely more than a murmur breaking through the faint jazz music from the other side of the fencing. “Take me back to the hotel,” I repeat, just as softly as I just said it. “Has that daiquiri gone to your head?” “As a rule, yes. But don’t make me repeat it, Ezekiel. You said if I brought it up again you’d do something about it. Well, I’m waiting.” He doesn’t need me to say it again. Thank god, because I’ve already said it freaking twice.

Zeke gets up off of me and grabs our stuff from lunch into a big ball. He throws it into the trash can and, before I have a chance to even fully sit up, grabs my hands and yanks me to my feet in one smooth motion. His fingers close firmly around mine, and he holds me close him as he drags me out onto the busy street of Jackson Square. My own hand tightens around his as we have to divert around what looks like a tour group to make the street back to our hotel. He’s guiding us so fearlessly and certainly that it’s all I can do to keep pace with him. His legs are so much longer than mine. By the time we reach the end of the block, my heart is racing and I’m pretty much running to keep up with him. I hold my breath as we walk into the hotel, but there are no signs of Mellie anywhere in the lobby. We step into the elevator almost in perfect sync. I take a deep breath as the doors close and we’re pressed into the tiny space. He doesn’t move at all. His fingers stay linked through my own and

his palm pressed against mine. The doors open. He drags me from the elevator, leading me into the quiet hotel hallway. He releases my hand and fumbles with his wallet. He almost drops the key card as he slides it out from a card slot, but he manages to keep hold of it long enough to slide it into the key slot and unlock the door. I push the door handle down before the door locks again, and Zeke keeps the door open by wedging his foot between it and the frame. He doesn’t even bother putting the wallet back into his pocket. No, he shoves the door open fully, flings his wallet on top of the cupboard that houses the mini fridge, and drags me into the room. His lips are on mine before the door has slammed shut. I grab hold of his shirt and lean into him. His arms snake around my body, pulling me flush against him. I stumble when he leads me back to the bed, but his tight grip on me keeps me on my feet—only just. He stops kissing me and throws me back onto

the bed. I grasp the sheets and pull myself up the bed as he reaches for the hem of his shirt and tears it off over his head, revealing his firm, toned body. My eyes trace over the deep lines that run between every pack of muscle on his stomach. His body is so fucking perfectly formed and the muscle dents so deep that there are shadows running down the center of his stomach. Hell, even that goddamn V that’s teasing me with its disappearing act beneath his jeans is darkened when the sun doesn’t hit it. Zeke’s lips twitch into a tiny smirk. “Are you done staring?” “Did he buy you?” I ask his abs. “Because he can’t have gotten you naturally.” “Did you seriously just ask my abs if I bought them?” I drag my gaze up to his face. “Well, you’re not going to admit to it if you did.” “Carly, do me a favor?” “Mhmm?” “Shut the hell up.” With that, he climbs on top

of me and presses his mouth to mine again. My hands find the hot, smooth skin of his back easily. He deepens the kiss, running his tongue across the seam of my lips before slipping it between them. I arch my body into him and run my hands down the dips and dimples across his strong back. “Shirt off,” he says, running his mouth down my jaw, dipping his hand beneath the hem of my t-shirt and pulling it up my stomach. Zeke sits up and with both hands, removes my t-shirt. He throws it to the floor with his and leans back down. But instead of touching his lips to mine, they find my neck. He kisses a slow, lazy path down the side of my neck and across my collarbone. My heart thumps a little harder the closer his mouth comes to my breasts, and all serious thought has disappeared. If I look down, I can see the bulge of his cock pushing against the restraints of his jeans, and fuck the feelings. Fuck the goddamn feelings. Fuck the inevitable heartbreak. I just want him.

Right now. Zeke pops open my bra clasp in one smooth move. My skin tingles when he slides his hands inside my bra and cups my breasts, his rough palms flat against my hard nipples. A tiny gasp escapes me as he gently squeezes them, but it’s when he moves one hand to the bottom of my right breast and seals his mouth over my nipple that the hard bolt of pleasure shoots right down my spine. I’m wet already. I can feel it. I want to squirm from the lusty ache in my clit and the way he’s teasing his tongue across my sensitive nipple. What I do instead is arch my back, pushing my chest further into him. He drags his mouth across my skin to the other nipple, and he’s smiling as he takes it into his mouth. With every suck, he sends more desire shooting through my body. If his body weren’t between my legs, I’d be clenching them shut to stop this goddamn desperation. I can practically hear my clit begging with every throb.

More. More. More. And I’m still wearing fucking shorts. Hot kisses make my stomach burn. He’s working his way down my body, hooking his fingers into the waistband of my shorts, ready to pull them down. “Nope,” he says when I try to move away. He yanks me back toward him using just his grip on my shorts and leans over me. “What do you think you’re doing?” I bite down on my lip, momentarily mesmerized by the dark lust raging in his gorgeous eyes. His normally bright gaze is shadowed with need and promises of things to come. “Um,” I quietly start, sitting up. “That’s usually more stressful for me than enjoyable.” I try to close my legs, but his body is stopping me. “Oral is stressful for you?” “Well, yeah.” “That’s because you’re used to sleeping with

fuckboys. Luckily for you, I’ve mastered the art of licking pussy. Now lie back and get comfortable, because you’ll be coming in my mouth within five minutes.” I swallow and drop down onto my back. Untangling my bra strap from my wrist, I watch Zeke as he undoes my shorts and tugs them down over my ass. His calloused fingers send shivers across my skin as he drags my clothes down my legs. The second he drops the shorts to the floor, I press my thighs together. He laughs low and pulls my legs open again. His eyes zero in on my underwear. They’re so lacy they’re practically seethrough. His attention to them make me shift and bite the inside of my cheek. Should I have worn the slutty panties? Dear god, there’s a man with his face between my legs. Why do I care about this? Oh, that’s right. That’s because his face is between my legs. “Why are you staring at my panties?” I ask hoarsely.

He tilts his head to the side. “Trying to decide if you put these on deliberately or it’s a lucky coincidence.” I clear my throat. “Deliberately.” He snaps his gaze up to mine. “You know. Just in case.” His lips tug up on one side. He says nothing as he slips one finger beneath the lacy fabric and pushes it to the side. I draw in a sharp breath when he runs his finger across my wetness, just brushing over my clit. I shudder fully when he lowers his face there and replaces his finger with his tongue. Two licks. That’s all it takes for him to find my clit. Holy shit. The man has a GPS on my clitoris. I throw my arm over my eyes as he rolls his tongue over that tiny bundle of super sensitive nerves. It’s the tiniest spot ever, but he’s already working magic with it. I’m simultaneously trying to get away from the intense feelings running through my body and trying to get more—trying to get him

to lick it harder and suck it a little more vigorously. I don’t know what to do with these feelings. He’s right. It is an art form, and Zeke Elliott has it mastered. He should teach a fucking class on licking pussy. He flattens his hand on my stomach to hold me in place as an orgasm hovers on the brink of my consciousness. I know it’s there, I know it’s happening, and my entire body tightens in preparation for it. Zeke slides a finger into my pussy and presses his tongue down hard on my clit. Just like that, the extra pressure pushes the orgasm through my body lightning fast. I bite down on my hand to stop myself crying out. He reaches up and smacks my hand away from my face, his mouth still covering my pussy. Now his tongue is where his finger just was, and I look down.

Look down to see him looking up at me, a hot, satisfied glint gleaming in his eyes. He pulls back and undoes his jeans. He wipes his hand with his mouth, staring at me the entire time. Why is that so fucking hot? Zeke loses his jeans and his underwear, revealing his rock hard cock. I get a full shot of his tight ass as he turns to his wallet and picks it up. I wet my lips with my tongue, trying to control my breathing as he rips open the condom packet he just pulled out of his wallet. He turns around. My attention centers in on where he’s rolling it onto his cock, and I have to swallow again. What’s he doing to me? It doesn’t matter much as he leans over me and opens my legs wide. He has one hand on his cock between us, and he kisses me as the head of his cock brushes against my pussy. He slowly rubs himself through my wetness, kissing me deeply. I can taste myself on his tongue, but I don’t care. I grab the back of his neck and tilt my hips toward

him. For the love of god, I know what he’s doing to me. He’s killing me. “Zeke,” I whisper. “Don’t cover your mouth again,” he demands,

looking me dead in the eyes. “This time, I want to hear you moan for me.” Then, in one slow, torturous push, he’s inside me, and I’m gasping. He feels so damn good. I curl my body into his as he moves. His hand is cupping the back of my neck and mine are on his back, my nails digging into his skin. It’s better than I remember the first time being. That was a little awkward and clunky, but this is all smooth, deep thrusts and perfectly synced moving together. I wrap my legs around his waist as he goes deeper. The groan that escapes his mouth vibrates across my skin. I could listen to that over and over again. My own small moan fills the air, but I can’t be embarrassed as my sweat-coated skin slides

against his. My hands have moved from his back to his ass and I’m gripping him tightly, trying to keep him inside me where I want him. He meets my eyes. Kisses me. Buries himself deep inside me. I gasp into his kiss and arch my back. My head goes right back, exposing my neck to him, and he nips the base of my neck when he picks the pace back up. If I thought he was going hard before, I was wrong. These are short, hard thrusts. Each one pushes me closer and closer to the edge. Each one makes my moans louder. Each one makes my grip tighter. I hold my breath for a second as the orgasm teases before retreating, but one more deep thrust shoves me into the abyss of my own pleasure. It takes hold of my body and holds me hostage as Zeke finishes. I can feel his cock throbbing inside my clenched pussy. He buries his face in the side of my neck, breathing heavily and holding me tight.

We lie like this for a good minute, just catching our breath together. Slowly, he eases up so I’m not taking his body weight any longer. A sigh escapes my lips when he pulls out of me, and I roll to the side, closing my legs. And my eyes. I just need a minute. Or ten. A few seconds later, a fluffy towel lands on my body. Without opening my eyes, I grab hold of it and stuff it between my legs. Zeke’s laughter fills the room, prompting me to peer out of one eye. “What?” I mutter. “Comfy.” “Nothing,” he says, still laughing. Right. I believe him. I open my eyes and watch him holding the towel around his still-hard dick. “You can stand there hugging your cock with the towel but I can’t lie here and stuff one between my legs?” “You weren’t entirely clear on what you’re stuffing between your legs there, sugartits.” I grab my bra and throw it at him. “Obviously, I’m talking about the towel. You had your turn.” He releases his cock and, keeping hold of the

towel, bends over and kisses the corner of my mouth. “And a fucking awesome turn it was. You look like you need a nap.” Right on cue, I yawn. I do need a nap. Flying and sex is strangely exhausting. “Don’t flatter yourself. It’s the traveling.” “Not the fact you just got fucked into next week.” “Absolutely not.” “Is this you trying to keep my ego in check?” I smile lazily. “Maybe.” He tugs his boxers back on then hands me my bra. “You failed at that the moment you started moaning my name.” I sit up too quickly. I blink away the sudden dizziness. “I did not moan your name.” “You were obviously too busy coming to notice, but you absolutely did. I’m guessing you have clean underwear in your case?” He unzips it. “Yes. A few pairs.” Zeke eyes me before opening the case. He rifles through my things before he finds the small

bundle of my underwear. “Carly, there are eight pairs of panties here.” I peel my old ones off my legs and wipe. God, so classy. “Well, unlike you, I can’t put the same pair back on.” “But eight pairs?” “What can I say? I came prepared.” He plucks a bright red, satin thong from the bundle and throws it on the bed. “Now I don’t feel so bad for packing a pack of fifty condoms.” With the new panties in my hand, I freeze. “You packed fifty condoms?” “I came prepared.” He flashes me a grin. “There’s such a thing as too much preparation, you know. Fifty condoms for one night is that.” “I was slightly optimistic,” he admits. “Slightly?” “Hopeful, all right? I was really fucking hopeful.” He rolls his eyes as I re-clasp my bra. “Although, I admit, maybe fifty was a little too hopeful.” I take the towel into the bathroom. “I don’t

even think it’s possible to have sex fifty times in one night. Is it?” He shuts the curtains and glances over his shoulder. “You wanna find out?” “I hurt just thinking about it. You’re not the one taking a pounding.” “Speak for yourself. I can’t feel my ass.” I smile and untuck the covers of the bed. “My bad.” I slip into the bed. Zeke jumps in with me, and before I can get comfortable, he hooks one arm around my middle and pulls me back against him. “Lift your head.” I do as he says. He puts his other arm beneath my neck and wriggles until my ass is pressed right against his pelvis. “Are you comfortable?” I ask dryly. “Yes. Are you?” “Oddly. I didn’t take you for a spooner.” He laughs into my hair. “I’m a cuddler, baby. Get used to it.” “Zeke Elliott is a cuddler,” I murmur, fisting the

covers. “There’s something I never thought I’d find out.” “Master pussy licker and expert cuddler,” he corrects me. “You should put that on your CV.” “I’m not sure my dad would appreciate that information.” I yawn and close my eyes, snuggling back further into him. “No, but I sure do. Especially the licking part. No more fuckboys,” I say sleepily. “No more anybody,” he responds so quietly I’m not sure if he’s talking to himself or to me. “What?” “Go to sleep, sugartits.” He lightly squeezes me. Hmm. “’Kay. Night, Zeke.” Light laughter tickles my hair. “Afternoon, Carly.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN Life Goal #17: Do something easy. For once. “So, how did y’all meet?” Mellie dips a fry in

some sauce and nibbles on the end of it. Zeke glances at me. “She’s hated me for the past eleven years.” I roll my eyes. “I haven’t hated you. I’ve simply had strong negative feelings for you.” Mellie laughs. “All right, maybe a little bit,” I acquiesce. “But you totally deserved it.” “You tried to kill me once. Remember that?” He raises his eyebrows. “I’m suddenly re-thinking this trip.” “Oh my god. I did not try to kill you. I’m a bad baker, that’s all. It’s not my fault I got the ingredients wrong.” Mellie nods along sympathetically. “I’m not a baker, either. I can cook just about anything, but baking? Hell no. I’m with you there.” “Thank you.” I look pointedly at Zeke. “See?

Not poison. Not attempted murder. Just my best friend’s bad judgment.” “As opposed to her usually stellar decision making.” He snorts. “She’s dating Cain and I’m here with you. I’d say I drew the short straw here.” “Are you sure you don’t still hate me?” “It’s debatable. If you keep telling people I poisoned you, it might just become a self-fulfilling prophecy.” “That sounds like a threat.” “More of a promise, if I’m honest.” I shrug and sip my drink. “Y’all are like an old married couple,” Mellie laughs. “It’s so nice to know he’s found someone who won’t take his shit.” Zeke scratches behind his ear. “I’m usually the shit-getter in relationships, not the giver.” She points a sauce-dipped fry at him. “Don’t start on that woe-is-me shit, Zeke. I told you not to propose to that woman, but did you listen to me? Nah, you didn’t.”

“All right.” He puts his beer bottle down. “I’m

gonna go search for the bathroom. Drop this shit when I’m back, wouldja?” His stool squeaks against the floor as he gets up. When he’s out of earshot, I frown and say, “You know Becky?” Her eyebrows shoot up and she tucks her blond hair behind her ear. “Honey, I was her roommate in college. How do you think I met this one?” She nods toward Zeke’s retreating back. “Becky booked them all in here when I was the assistant manager. I got them a group rate, and when they showed up, I took one look at him and knew he was too dang good for her.” “You aren’t friends?” “Friends, sure. That don’t mean I have to like her.” She waves to the guy behind the bar for another round of drinks. “I know what she’s like, and I knew for sure she wasn’t ready to settle down. She said she was, but she wasn’t, not with a guy like Zeke. She wouldn’t last long in a small town like Barley Cross. She wouldn’t get enough

attention.” That much I knew was true. For most of their relationship, she drove in from Atlanta. Did she think he’d move if they got married? “Do you think she only got caught because she cheated in town and not in Atlanta?” I ask, staring in the direction Zeke just walked in. “No doubt. She never was and never will be good enough for him. Not like you. You fit with him.” I swing my attention back to her. “What does that mean?” Her lips curve up. “Girl, look at how he looks at you.” I shake my head and grab the new cocktail that’s put in front of me. “What does that matter if he’s still stuck on what she did to him?” She sighs and stirs her straw around her Bellini. “Because I think you might be different.” Swallowing hard, I look down into my glass. “I don’t know.” “If you don’t think you’re not different, why are

you here? Why are you even trying?” “Because he has no reason not to trust me,” I tell her, still looking down. “Apart from the time he insists I’ve tried to poison him, I’ve never done anything to him.” “Neither had Becky until she did.” Neither had Becky until she did. He’s never going to trust me, is he? Will he always be waiting for the screw up? Did she break his trust so badly that he’ll always hold a piece of himself back from me? Because if that’s true, I’d rather go home right now. I want it all. I want everything from someone. Shit, if I’m honest, I want everything from Zeke. Fighting it is now completely useless, so I’m not even gonna try. I’m going to accept it for what it is. I’m falling for the one guy I swore I’d never touch. I’m falling for my best friend’s brother. I’m afraid of what will happen when I hit the ground. Knowing my luck, a bruised ass will be

the best thing to happen to me. “Are you done now?” Zeke reappears, grabbing his bottle. Mellie holds her hands up. “We never got started.” “I’ll be right back.” I smile and grab my phone. “Bathroom,” I say to Zeke before he can ask. I weave through the tables in the hotel bar toward the restrooms, but not before I hear Zeke say, “What did you say to her?” I leave the area before I hear Mellie’s response. I just need a few minutes alone to take a deep breath. Thankfully, the bathroom is empty when I push the door open. I step inside and go to the sinks. Setting my phone on the countertop, I look at myself in the large mirror that stretches across the entire wall. I run my fingers through my dark hair. My eyes are bright and my lips are lightly flushed, but my lips are turned down. Great guy. Great day. Great food. Great…sex.

So why do I feel this way? Easy. Because his past is hanging over us. He knows it and I know it. Hell, even Mellie, who I’d never even heard of until we checked in a few hours ago, knows it. This is why women shouldn’t be able to think about stuff. We over think and over analyze and put too much into everything. If someone took away my ability to think into this situation too much, I’d be just fine. I can’t think about this anymore. I don’t want to back myself into a corner—damn it, New Orleans doesn’t have Becky in it. That’s home. Home is where that shit is. Fuck my silly brain. I run my hands back through my hair, fluffing it up around my shoulders. A deep breath makes my shoulders heave, but one thought runs through my mind despite the fact I literally just told myself to shut up. Is Zeke worth the risk? My phone buzzes on the countertop. A glance at the screen tells me it’s Brooke texting, and the

message preview makes me swallow hard. Brooke: Zeke said you’re hiding in the bathroom I pick up my phone and open the message. Me: Not hiding. Peeing. Brooke: Hold please I frown at my screen, but I don’t have to wait long for my answer. Or, rather, her arrival. She bursts through the bathroom door and stares at me flatly. “One, you’re so hiding. And two, I don’t want to be here.” I blink at my best friend. “Why are you here?” Still with the same, flat expression, she says, “Because my boyfriend is a terrible copycat and called the chick at the bar and got us your old room. That and I had a feeling something would go wrong, and obviously, I’m right.” I roll my eyes. “Nothing has gone wrong.” Has

it? “I was peeing.” “No, you weren’t. What went wrong?” “Nothing.” She raises her eyebrows. “You slept with him, didn’t you?” “No.” “Lies. I can smell it.” “What are you, a police dog?” She grins. “Knew it. If you hadn’t done the naked hokey-pokey with him, you’d have rolled your eyes again and told me to shut up.” Shit. “Fuck yourself,” I tell her, holding my phone to my chest. “It was a moment of weakness. Like chocolate on a diet.” “You generally eat the chocolate because you need the sugar. You just needed Zeke.” She smirks. “Are you here to make me feel better or make me hurt you?” “If you hurt me, can I go home? There are too many people here.” She pauses. “You know what I like in a date? Nobody else around me. Not the

million people that are currently crammed into the damn French Quarter.” “You’re so ungrateful.” “You’re the one hiding in the bathroom because you obviously met someone Zeke knew before who knew Becky and now you’re doubting yourself.” I stare at her. “How did you know that?” She waves her hand. “You’ve been in here ten minutes. I asked him before I came in.” “So, why did you ask me?” “Because I wanted to see if you’d tell me or not.” She steps past me and pulls herself up onto the countertop where the sinks are. Her feet dangle several inches above the ground. “I’m being awkward, duh.” Of course. Duh. “I’m not doubting myself,” I tell her quietly. “I’m doubting the entire situation. The whole point of him bringing me here was to see if this could work. But he brings me to a place where a friend knows his ex, and just like that, his insecurities are smacking me in the face once again.”

Brooke tilts her head to the side just like a puppy does. She even gives me the same, wideeyed, almost-vacant stare. “His insecurities aren’t your problem.” I stare at her. “Oh.” She opens and closes her mouth. Now she’s doing her best fish impression. “Are you in love with him?” If I answer, does that make my feelings really real? Because I’m not in love, in love. But it would be easy. Like slipping on a banana peel. One step and then…fallen. “We’re in denial,” she muses. “Okay.” “We’re not in denial. I’m not in denial. Stop putting words in my mouth.” I sigh and sweep my hand through my hair again. Ugh, my god. All I’m doing by doing that is giving myself a headache. “I’m just not acknowledging anything with words, because if I do that, then it becomes real.” “So, you’re ignoring.” “Much more accurate. Thanks.” “You’re welcome.” Brooke purses her lips.

“What happens next?” I look toward the door and shrug my shoulder. “I really have no idea. How many times can two people have the same conversation over and over?” “Several times a day. Cain asks me what food there is in the fridge at least four times.” “Serious conversations.” “You’ve obviously never seen him through a bitch fit because I ate the last Twinkie.” She grins. “But I do understand your point. I heard every bit of your…discussion…outside my kitchen, after all. How many times can y’all have that talk before it becomes redundant and everything is a waste of your time?” “Exactly.” “Have you considered patience?” “It briefly flitted through my mind.” “I think you should be patient. I think he’s doing the best he can with the way he feels. He is like an ape trying to communicate sometimes.” She taps her finger against her chin. “Actually, I think he’s

got real feelings for you. He’s just more afraid of the way he feels than anything else.” “You would know. You’re the one who actually likes him.” I lean against the wall. “I bet you liked him a few hours ago, didn’t you?” My lips pull up before I can stop them, and a knowing smile creeps onto her face in response. Goddamn it. *** When we go back out to the bar, Mellie is nowhere to be seen. Zeke and Cain have taken up residence on a table away from the bar, and there are only three chairs. Two of which their asses are in. Apparently, Brooke spots this at the same time, because she squeezes past me and drops her ass onto the remaining empty chair with a grin in my direction. Ugh. I cast my gaze over the three of them. “Nobody

thought to get a fourth chair?” Cain grimaces. “Couldn’t find one. Sorry, Car.” “Where am I supposed to sit?” “On my face.” Zeke grins. Brooke chokes on her drink. Good. Serves her right. Turning my attention to Zeke, I raise my eyebrows. “I think that’s illegal in public places, even in New Orleans.” “Sit on my lap then.” He scoots his chair back a few inches and waves his hand over his thighs. “I’m not sitting on your lap, Zeke.” “Then take the floor. Either way, I’m getting a good deal out of it.” “How could you possibly be getting a good deal out of that?” “On my face for obvious reasons.” He smirks. “On my lap for further obvious reasons. And, if you sit on the floor, I get a great view down your shirt.” He finishes on a shrug and swigs from his beer.

Brooke leans forward, around me, and stares at him. “You’re a pig.” Zeke puts down his bottle with a clink. “But at least I’m honest about being a pig.” If he didn’t have the skills—wink wink—to back up his pigishness, I’d find it hard to agree that he’s right. But he does have the skills—nudge nudge—so I find myself nodding in agreement. Then, I huff. I have to sit down somewhere, and his lap seems like the best option until a chair gets free. “Fine,” I grumble. “I’ll sit on your damn knee.” “Ho, ho, ho.” He smirks again. I narrow my eyes at him. This is awkward. Obviously Cain thinks so, too, because he’s not looking at me. In fact, he’s looking anywhere but at the table as I sit on his brother’s lap. Zeke snakes one arm around my waist and pulls me back until my ass is right against his cock and he’s comfortable. I’m glad he’s comfortable. I feel like I’m inappropriately visiting Santa or something.

Brooke’s phone rings on the table just as I put mine down. “Shit. I have to take this.” She stands, then pauses and points at me. “Take my chair and I’ll cut you.” I smile sweetly, and the moment her back is turned, shove Zeke’s arm off me and sit down in her seat. “Thank god,” Cain mutters. Zeke raises an eyebrow. “What’s thank god?” I hold up my hands. “That awkwardness could have been avoided if you just made Brooke sit on your knee. You know, since you’re actually dating.” “You thought that was awkward?” Zeke asks Cain. “Have you ever tried to make Brooke do anything?” Cain shoots at me. “Yes, and she usually does it, because I’m smart enough to keep dirt on her to blackmail her with.” I grab my drink and take a long suck on the straw. “You have dirt on Brooke?”

“Of course I have dirt on Brooke. You should

hear some of the things she said about your dumb ass before you grew a pair and told her how you feel.” He fights a smile. “Oh, I know. I hear her say them about him now.” Her nods his head in Zeke’s direction. “What does she say?” Zeke asks at the same time I say, “What would she be saying about him?” Cain blinks and looks between us. “You two are dumb.” “Do I have to tell her that you still have her sweater from the time you were all seventeen and stayed the night at our place?” Zeke threatens. I turn to Cain. “You stole her sweater?” “I did not steal her sweater,” he argues. “She left it behind and I just never got to give it to her.” “Pretty sure I saw you hug it once.” Zeke picks up his beer bottle again. Cain turns to him with a sharp look. “You know that’s bullshit, and if you carry on, I won’t tell you what she says, but I will tell Carly what

you say.” “What does he say?” I ask Cain, then turn to Zeke. “What do you say? Why are you people even talking about me?” “Because you’re my best friend,” Cain answers. “Because I hated you but wanted to fuck you?” Zeke responds. “You already did that,” I point out, pulling the orange slice from the rim of my glass. Cain shudders. Zeke winks at me. “Twice.” “Do we have to discuss this right here?” Cain asks, looking at us both. “As lovely as it is that you two are doing…whatever this is…I don’t want to hear about…what you do in your spare time.” Whatever this is. That sums this situation up pretty damn well, actually. “Actually, in my spare time, I mostly look after a rogue Jack Russell who has an unhealthy crush on your brother.” I put my straw between my lips and purse them. “And attempt to look after myself.”

“Do you have an unhealthy crush on me now,

too?” Zeke flashes me a panty-melting grin. I simply swing my attention in his direction as I drink. He holds my gaze for a few seconds, but it seems so much longer. There’s a brightness in his eyes that is both addictive and terrifying—the kind of glimmer that makes your head tell you to run while your heart wants you to stay. I have no idea what it means, but I know that my stomach is flipping around like there’s a elephant on a trampoline in there. “Unhealthy would be a gross exaggeration,” I finally reply, still holding his gaze. “Actually, so would ‘crush.’ Right now, the way I feel about you is more a lukewarm tolerance with a good dose of appreciation for your bedroom skills.” His eyebrows shoot up. “I can handle that. Would more time in the presence of said bedroom skills level your tolerance up to a crush?” “Unlikely, but you’re welcome to try.” “And I’m going to see where my girlfriend is,” Cain interrupts, standing up with his beer.

Zeke bursts out laughing as his brother leaves. Blood rushes to my cheeks and makes them burn. Sunshine and shitballs—how could I have forgotten that he was right there? How could I have forgotten and gone on to talk about sex with Zeke? Life is killing me. Literally and figuratively. Zeke leans in and grabs my hand. With his mouth really close to my ear, he says, “Come with me.” He tugs me up before I can do or say a thing. He likes doing that, I’ve noticed. He also grins each and every time, like he knows his quickness beats me to arguing with him. One day, I’m going to curl my feel around the chair legs so that when he drags me, the chair comes, too. Just to teach him a lesson. “Where are you taking me?” “Shush.” He links his fingers through mine and pulls me close. I’m barely hanging on to my phone, and now I’m really glad I didn’t bring my purse down to the bar. There’s no way I would have been able to grab it in time.

“Put this in your pocket,” I tell him, shoving my

phone at him. He takes it and does as I ask before he pulls me through the front doors of the hotel. No sooner have we stepped outside into the dark, lively street of the Quarter than he stops us and looks both ways. One jerk of his finger in the direction of the right, and he’s dragging me yet again. He’s damn lucky I’m in flats, that’s all I’m saying. Mostly because if I were wearing heels, I’d have rammed one up his ass by now for this shit. “Now will you tell me where you’re taking me?” I ask, skipping to fall back next to him. He looks down at me and grins. “We’re going to get beignets.” “It’s ten o’clock.” “So?” “Nothing. I was just saying. I like carbs and sugar.” His smile widens and he releases my hand. He loops his arm around my shoulders and pulls me

into his side, lowering his mouth to my ear. “I know. That’s why we’re going to get carbs and sugar.” We sidestep another couple who aren’t quite as sober as we are. “Then we’re going to take it back to the room and—” “Sleep?” I offer, turning my face toward his. He brushes his nose across mine, a sly smile replacing his wide grin. “Eventually.” “Eventually?” I lean back and raise my eyebrows. “How long is eventually?” “Depends how quickly you come,” he murmurs against my lips before kissing me quickly. “Let’s go.” “Is this debatable?” “No.” “Okay, but you have to beat your time earlier. I like sleep, too.” “Done. Now move your hot ass.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN Life Goal #18: Remind my grandmother to get her ears tested. “Yes, I’m dating,” does not equal, “I’m pregnant with triplets.” “Not. Pregnant,” I say firmly. “Nowhere near

pregnant.” Thank you, Implant and condoms. “Time is ticking, darling.” Her needles click together as she knits. She’s not even looking at me. “I’m twenty-five. Not seventy-five. It might be ticking, but it’s ticking slowly.” She peers at me over the top of her half-moon glasses. Like she’s freaking Dumbledore or something. “Some people’s tickers run out at twenty-five.” “My ovaries are not a cuckoo clock, Grandma. They’re not ticking.” “I can hear them from here.” “That’s your inner Doomsday clock. It’s warning you I’m close to murderous tendencies.” She grins at me and pushes her glasses up her

nose with her pinky finger. “And I can hear your womb, once a month, crying. It’s doing it right now in fact.” Yes. We got home from New Orleans late last night, and my body had a little pre-period present for me—warning cramps. It’s delightful. If having a crab clamp onto your clitoris and twist is delightful. “It will be crying in about two days. Except they’ll be tears of joy,” I say. “My uterus will once again be happy that the Porter vein of crazy is currently halted with myself.” “That’s your mother’s crazy.” Grandma goes back to her knitting. Click, click. “I warned your father.” “Grandma.” Click, click. “What?” “One week ago you had elderly strippers at your birthday party. Don’t tell me you’re completely right in the head.” “They would have been younger whippersnapping hottie mctotties.” Click, click.

“But my friends are cheap.” She sniffs. I raise an eyebrow. “You’re sitting next to a basket of coupons.” “I’m thrifty. They’re cheap.” “If you say so.” “Would you have bought me a young piece of hotcake for my birthday?” My lips purse. “Like a warm slice of Victoria sponge or something?” She sighs and, rolling her eyes, slams her knitting needles down onto her lap. “No, Carly. A young stripper.” I wet my lips. How do I tell her ‘fuck no’ nicely? “It wouldn’t be my first choice,” I say slowly. “Well, a single granddaughter with no real romantic prospects at the age of twenty-five isn’t my choice.” She clicks her tongue in a tick-tock rhythm. “That noise is ridiculous. You sound like a horse with timing issues in the dressage.” I grab my bottle of water and unscrew the cap. “And I do

have romantic prospects.” “Do your prospects vibrate and get delivered in an unmarked box?” That’s more information than I needed to know about her knowledge of sex toy delivery. “No, and no.” “Does it have a heartbeat?” “Yes, he has a heartbeat.” “It’s obviously not a very strong one, or you wouldn’t have danced off to New Orleans for a night.” Give me strength. The woman is on a roll today. “The heartbeat took me to New Orleans, Grandma. He did. Him. Not the heartbeat. Goddamn it.” She stops mid-knit-stitch-loop whatever and stares at me. Her glasses slip down her nose, hooking onto the tip of it, but she doesn’t pay it any attention. “A boy took you to another state?” “I’m not in middle school anymore.” “Fine, a man. Honey, if he’s younger than fifty, he’s a boy to me.” She reaches over and pats my

knee. “Who’d you go with?” “Zeke.” She puts her knitting down next to her on the sofa. Well, shit. I’ve done it now. “Zeke?” She finally pushes her glasses back up. “As in Ezekiel Elliott?” See? Done it. “You know any other Zekes?” “He took you to New Orleans?” “Yes, Grandma. Ezekiel Elliott took me to New Orleans.” “And here I thought you just brought him to my birthday party last week just so you could have a date.” I tuck my hair behind my ear with a smile. “I did. Apparently he got ideas.” She leans forward and waggles her eyebrows. “Did he give you the big easy in the Big Easy?” Help. Someone help me. This is not right. I grab my things and jump up. “Thanks for the

coffee and cake, Grandma. It was nice to hang out with you, but something just came up, so you know. Gotta go.” “Was it Zeke’s penis?” “Bye!” I run out of the apartment. Her cackling laughter follows me to the front door where I open it to…Brooke’s grandfather. He’s wearing a bow tie and he’s holding six red roses. Aww. All right, so he’s wearing pajama pants with raccoons on, but it’s still cute. It might be even cuter because of his Homer Simpson slippers. “Grandpa James,” I say, calling him what I always have. “What are you doing here?” He holds up the flowers and a wolfish grin appears on his face. “I’m here to see your grandma.” “Yoohoo, James!” Grandma calls from inside the apartment. “Is your penis up like Zeke’s?” My eyes widen. “She’s all yours.” Grandpa James chuckles as I dart past him and

literally run down the hallway to the stairs. I’m not even going to wait for the elevator. This is a serious situation. Seriously screwed. I burst outside into the sunshine and make a break for my car. Only when I’m inside of it and I’ve locked the doors do I pluck my phone from my purse and bring up Brooke’s number. Me: I think our grandparents are bumping uglies. Then, for the hell of it, I text Zeke, too. Me: I think my grandma is having sex with Brooke’s grandpa Zeke gets back to me first. Zeke: Can he even get it up? Doesn’t it stop working? I briefly relay the conversation. All two lines

of it. Zeke: As alarming as that is, why does think I have a hard-on? Me: Long story. Zeke: I’m on lunch. Me: She wanted to know if you gave me the big easy in the Big Easy. Zeke: Wtf? Me: Exactly. Then I had to leave. Zeke: So you didn’t tell her? Me: That you made me come like seven times? Oh, yeah, that’s a conversation to have over cake with my grandma. Zeke: Just as well. It sounds like it could be dangerous information in her hands. He isn’t wrong. She is offended nobody got her young strippers. Me: I solemnly swear never to tell my grandmother about the orgasms you give me. Zeke: Mischief managed.

Me: Did you just quote Harry Potter? Zeke: ;) Me: Kinda turned on right now. All right, so I’m not, but whatever. That was kind of hot. Admittedly, he’s probably never read the books, but still. It is what it is. Zeke: Where are you? Still got 45 mins left. Me: Nice try. Zeke: What are you doing tonight? Me: Painting my bathroom. Zeke: What color? Me: Orange. Zeke: Orange? Me: Yes. I like orange. I’m lying. I have no idea why I’m painting my bathroom orange except for the fact I’m bored of the white and found some cute accessories that would match orange. Zeke: Want a hand?

Hmm. He is kind of a pro. Me: Do I have to pay you? Zeke: Paint in your panties and we’ll call it even. Me: That just seems like a plan to stare at me in my underwear all evening. Zeke: It is. At least he admits it. Me: Fine…but leave your shirt at home. Zeke: You’re playing dirty, sugartits… Me: I’ll wear sweatpants… Zeke: See you at 6. *** I tuck the old bathroom rug under my arm just as Zeke knocks at my door. “It’s open!” I yell, dumping the rug onto the sofa. I really should have done this earlier, but I

took a nap. Apparently that’s the most productive thing I’m going to do during the day this week. But, in my defense, when you suddenly have nothing to do, naps are a really great idea. Actually, they’re a great idea all the time. “You didn’t clear the bathroom yet?” Zeke shuts the door. I look up. He listened to me. Holy shit, he’s shirtless. “You didn’t decide to wear a shirt over here?” I ask. His abs. I ask the question to his abs. He twists his hips to the side and pats his butt. His t-shirt is sticking out of his back pocket. “Of course I did. I just thought I’d walk through the door without it.” His eyes drop to my legs. “You’re overdressed.” I glance down. He’s right. I’m still in my yoga pants. I didn’t exactly expect him to wander in like this now, did I? “Sorry. I’ll take them off in a minute.” “What painting stuff do you have here?” He wanders past me into the bathroom, grabbing his tshirt to stop it swinging off his ass. “Two

brushes?” he asks, poking his head through the door. “Seriously, Carly?” “What’s wrong with my brushes? They’re the big ones.” He walks back down the hall and stops right in front of me. My eyes drop to his stomach. Again. Goddamn it, he’s so pretty. “Painting your bathroom is going to take forever using those.” “Oh,” I tell his top two abs. “Not to mention it won’t be even and the paint won’t sit right on the walls.” “Ohh,” I tell the middle two abs. “The brushes are good for edging, but not so much the main painting.” “Ahh,” I tell the bottom two abs. “Carly! Focus!” He snaps his fingers. I snap my eyes up to his face and step back. “I’m sorry! I can’t focus on your words when you’ve got your weapons of mass distraction on show!” I flap my hands at his stomach and then

cover my eyes. “Put them away, Ezekiel! Your abs make me feel like a cat with a laser pen.” “Do you want to touch them before I put them away?” “Just get rid of them!” I squeeze my eyes shut and flap my hands in his direction again. He laughs and, a few seconds later, grabs my hands. “They’re gonna fall off if you keep doing that.” “Did you get dressed?” He pulls one of my hands toward his stomach. Bare stomach. “No, no, no!” I yank my hands away from him and fall back onto the sofa. “Oomph!” Zeke bursts out laughing. So hard, in fact, that I open my eyes and glare at him. He’s doubled over with his hands on his knees…And his freaking shirt on. “You little pile of rat shit!” I throw an old bathroom sponge at him. “How did you get your shirt on so fast?” “I had it on,” he chuckles. “I just lifted it up.”

“You’re such a child.” “You’re the one who just referred to yourself as

a cat where my abs are concerned.” “Cat and laser pen. That’s a whole other level of distraction.” “Well, now you know how I feel about your ass.” He snorts. “I’m gonna go get my roller and tray from the car, all right? Somehow I knew you’d just buy brushes.” I give him a thumbs up. More fool him. I didn’t even buy them. I stole them from my dad. Who never mentioned a roller…Hmm. My front door closes behind Zeke and I scramble up. I’m going to pay his stupid ass back for what he just did with his shirt. If he wants me in panties, I’m going to be in panties. I’m also going to let my dog free to hump his leg. I never said I was going to play fair. “Delilah. Ssh,” I tell her as I slip into my room. I head right for my underwear drawer and pull out two pairs of lacy thongs, almost exactly like the

one I wore two days ago when we went to New Orleans. He liked that sucker a lot…And I’m not saying I rush ordered more, but there might have been a delivery to my house this morning. What? It’s like I knew I’d need them. “Black or pink?” I ask Delilah. She wags her tail. “Helpful, thanks.” I drop the black ones back into the drawer and then change out of my yoga pants and old underwear. If only my period will stay away until tomorrow, we’ll all be happy. You know. Just in case. I’ve already had more sex in the past forty-eight hours than I have in the last six months, but still. A girl can hope, right? And this is totally a race against the clock. I run my thumbs along the strings to make sure they’re flat and run back out of the room. This time, Delilah comes with me. She’s only been in my room for a few minutes—I only started clearing out the bathroom, like, five minutes ago—but he doesn’t need to know that. “Here. I didn’t bother bringi—fucking hell!”

He’s not even through the front door yet and Delilah is on him like a bat out of hell. She jumps up at his legs, her tiny feet pawing desperately at his shins. Each attempt to climb up his leg is joined with a high-pitched yap that’s going to smash a glass one day. Then, just like I knew she would, she wraps her front legs around his ankle and gets her jig on. Zeke stands there, his shirt back in his ass pocket, a roller in one hand, and the tray tucked under his other arm. He sighs as he looks at her. “Gotta say, sugartits, this creature could make or —” he stops right as he looks up at me. “Never mind. Forget I said anything.” I smirk. “Delilah. Enough.” I walk to him and pull her off of his foot. “We talked about this. We can’t just go around humping people’s legs without asking. It’s not polite.” She stares at me. I carry her back to my room. I’m fully aware of Zeke’s eyes on me as I do, and I won’t lie—I blush. “I’d let you hump my leg without asking,” Zeke

says the moment I come back into the front room. His eyes are fixed solely on my crotch. “Shit, you can do whatever you want to me without asking as long as you wear that thong.” I laugh and take the roller from him. “You told me to wear panties. You didn’t say which ones.” “I knew you’d play dirty,” he mutters, walking past me to the bathroom. He doubles back to snatch the roller right back, which makes me roll my eyes. “Don’t roll your eyes at me,” he throws over his shoulder. “How the fuck do you expect me to paint your bathroom when my cock is trying to perform this century’s greatest prison break?” “Hire more guards?” I lean against the door frame and fold my arms over my chest. “Got a chastity cage around here?” “No. Surprising given that I have a drawer for sex toys. Mind you, putting a vibrator in a chastity cage would go against the point of owning a vibrator.” “Then no more guards.” He drops the tray into the bathroom and adjusts his jeans. “Fuck. This

backfired.” “Ya think?” He lifts up the tin of paint and rests it on the edge of the bathtub. Slowly, he peers at me out of the corner of his eye. “You ain’t even gonna help me, are you?” I smile sweetly. “You’re shirtless.” “Motherfucker,” he whispers, dropping his head back with a sigh. “Motherfucking whipped.” He rights his head and shakes it, pulling a multitool—a legit multi-tool, not his own tool—from his pocket. “You’re pretty,” I say, my smile still in place. He pops open the paint tin lid and stares at me. “And you’re damn lucky you’re fucking gorgeous or I’d be tipping this shit over your head.” I sidle up to him and kiss his cheek. “Why don’t I get you a beer?” I turn and quickly skip away. “You’re placating me, aren’t you?” he yells. I giggle-snort into my hand. “I’m in my panties

and I’m offering you beer!” “A beer sounds great.” Yeah. That’s what I thought. Even if I am totally placating him.

CHAPTER NINETEEN Life Goal #19: Write a letter of thanks to the creator of panties. And everyone who ever wrote a movie on how to tease a guy with them. I have a confession. I’ve never painted a wall in my life. I’ve never needed to. My dad painted my apartment when I moved in, and aside from some mandatory YouTube video research—people make tutorials for the most random shit—I don’t even know how to paint a wall. You see where I’m going with this? Because it begs the question as to why I’m standing in my underwear, in the middle of my bathroom, with a glass of wine in my left hand and a paintbrush in my right. “This is a bad, bad idea.” I glance over my shoulder at Zeke. He’s sitting on the toilet with the seat down. Both seats. And the bastard is grinning at me. “You said you wanted to paint.” He shrugs. “No, I didn’t say I wanted to paint. The wine said it. The wine is dumb. Wait, no.” I lift my glass up. “Ssh, wine. I didn’t mean that. I was just saying it. I’m sorry. Don’t leave me.” “Did you seriously just apologize to your wine?”

“You spent ten minutes explaining to your cock why he had to settle down and stay in your pants. Don’t judge me.” Zeke points to his groin with both hands. “Yeah, and he didn’t fucking listen to me.” “That’s because he doesn’t have ears.” I smile. “Neither does your wine.” “Yet it can probably still hear me clearer than a man.” He glances from the glass to me. “Would you like me to leave you alone with your wine so you can continue your romantic evening?” I purse my lips. “You’re considering it, aren’t you?” I open my mouth to argue. “Well, kinda. Me and wine have been in a very serious relationship for a while now.” “So have me and my dick. That’s why I had to apologize to it when you decided to torture it.” “I’m not doing anything.” I put my wine glass down on the unit in the middle of the bathroom. “I’m just gonna do this painting thing, okay?” “Given the fact you look terrified, I’m not sure you should.” “No, no. I said I was going to, so I am. I don’t know what I’m doing, but I’ll try.” I bend over and dip my brush in the paint. Zeke groans. “What did I do?” I ask, grinning and biting my tongue.

Oh, yeah. He’s right behind me. Woopsie. Not. “You know exactly what you’re doing. Stand the hell up.” I can’t hide my laughter as I do just that, bringing the paint-covered brush with me. “Now, what do I do with this?” I spin and… Um, shit. Zeke blinks at me. “Please tell me you didn’t just throw paint at me.” “Technically,” I eke out, “I didn’t throw paint at you. It threw itself.” He closes his eyes. “Now you have to wipe it off.” I stare at the bright orange streak on his stomach. “You should probably do that yourself.” The black towel I throw at him hits him in the face. He scrubs it across his stomach. A lingering, faint streak of it is still on his skin when he pulls the towel away. I shrug. “Win some, lose some.” I turn back to the wall and poise the brush ready to paint. I still have no idea what I’m doing. “Fuck me,” Zeke mutters. There’s a clunk as he stands and comes up behind me. “Look.” He points at the part where the wall meets the tiles. “Just paint there. I’ve got the damn tape in place so you can’t go over it.”

“That’s a lot of faith you have in me there.” “Carly, not even you can mess that up.” “What does ‘not even you’ mean?” “Nothing.” He slides one hand down and grabs my butt. I squeal and flick paint on the wall. At the tiles. “For gods sake, Zeke! Look what you made me do!” I slap him…with the hand holding the paintbrush. A huge orange smear of paint is right down his right bicep thanks to my idiocy. Slowly, he looks down at his arm. “I take it back. You can mess it up.” “What? The wall was your fault! Your arm is mine, but you made me forget I was holding the brush.” He raises one eyebrow and meets my eyes. “You were about to yell at me for making you splash paint so you hit me with the brush you just used to splash paint?” “You’re confusing me.” Zeke runs one finger through the paint on his arm and touches it to the top of my nose. I pout. “Stop it,” he says, flicking my lip with his thumb. “It’s just paint. It’ll come right off the tiles. I’ll sort the grout if it stains.” I have to cross my eyes to see the orange splodge on the end of my nose. “I can’t believe you just got paint on

my face.” He takes one step back and motions to his body with his unpainted hand. “Look at me, Carly. Look how much paint you’ve got on me.” There’s only one way to respond to that, really. I run the paintbrush right down his stomach. It dips and rises with each bump of his abs, and I stop the brush right above his waistband. “Bet you’re regretting agreeing to this now, huh?” “Maybe. Maybe not.” He rubs his hand down his arm— then grabs my left ass cheek. My jaw drops. “If you got paint on my panties, you’re placing them.” “I planned on ripping them off you anyway.” He grins as he releases my butt. I twist my body until I can see over my shoulder at the orange hand print on my ass. I can tell he’s practically holding his breath and waiting for me to get annoyed, but how can I get annoyed? He’s covered in paint. I warned him I’m a disaster. And now I have his hand print on my ass in paint. This could have gone worse ways. I shrug and bend back down. “All right. That’s fair.” Zeke moves to the side of me as I put the brush to the wall. “And here I thought you’d be annoyed.”

“Nope. It’s just paint, right? It’ll come off. Now, if you’d put paint in my wine… Wait, did you get it on my panties?” He grabs the hem of my shirt and lifts it up. “I can’t see any. I need a minute to make sure.” I bat his hand away with a shake of my head. “No, you just wanna stare at my ass. Grab a brush and make yourself useful.” He does as I said and grabs the second brush. Since he’s taller than me—or he’s just trying to make a point—he lifts his brush right above my head and slaps the paint on the wall. Droplets splatter out at me, getting in my hair, and I freeze. “Oops.” A glance up shows me a smile that proves he doesn’t mean that ‘oops’ at all. “Liar,” I mutter, carrying on. Zeke grabs the edge of the drawers with one hand and leans forward to paint. His body presses against mine. I would say it’s an accident if it weren’t for the fact he has one hell of an erection pushing against his jeans…and my back. I swallow hard and focus on the painting. It’s not easy. My shirt has ridden up as I stretch, and the roughness of the zip is rubbing against my skin. My mouth is dry, and I suck my lower lip into my mouth as he leans forward just a little too much.

“I need more paint,” I whisper. “So get some.” That would mean bending down and…goddamn it. “Here.” He takes the brush from my hand and bends down to the tin. His exhale tickles across my bare ass as his face draws level with it. His rough fingers trail down the side of my thigh and back up, his thumb brushing across the underside of my ass cheek. I take a deep breath. He kisses me, right where the top of my butt meets the string of my thong. My breath shudders out of me, and I close my eyes as he slowly stands and puts the brush back into my hand. “There,” he murmurs right into my ear. “More paint on your brush.” The brush handle is smooth against my palm as I tighten my grip on it. Goosebumps prickle across my skin when he leans forward again. I don’t want to be painting, damn it. I want to do the wrong thing—the thing that will plunge whatever this is further into the unknown. I turn around to face Zeke. My eyes meet his just as I throw the paint-covered brush behind him into the bathtub. Then, I lean into him, and I kiss him. It’s the first time I have ever kissed him. And it feels different than when he kisses me. Mine is

lighter, more hesitant. Even though he’s snaking his arms around my waist having apparently discarded his roller, this kiss is still gentler than the others. “Does this mean we’re doing painting?” he asks against my lips. I nod. He slides his hands down my back to cup my ass, then lifts me up. Shock fizzles through me, and I grip his shoulders tightly. I don’t need to, because his grip on me is so strong and steady that there’s no way he’s dropping me. “Where’s Delilah?” he asks, pausing outside my room. I wrap one arm around his neck and point to my door. “Why?” “The only person I want humping me tonight is you.” I giggle and wriggle out of his hold. “Hold on,” I tell him when my feet touch the floor. I open the door, much to Delilah’s delight. Then, I pick her up—something she’s not so happy about. I shut her in the spare-slash-storage room, something that only annoys her more, but hey…I need my bed. Grabbing Zeke’s hand, I yank him into my room and shove the door closed. Once again, I kiss him, winding my arm around his neck. The barest thought about what the freaking hell I’m doing doing this again flits through my mind, but his large hands clasping my waist and pushing me back toward the bed wipes it away.

We fall back together, and my fingers find his hair as he crawls over me. Right now, there’s nothing but Zeke— nothing but his hands on my body and his mouth exploring mine. My skin is on fire, and the ache between my legs is getting more intense with every sweep of his tongue across my lips. I want him—more than I have before. I slide my hands down to his waistband and unbutton his jeans. He groans when I shove at them to push them down and brush my fingers across his erection in the process. There’s nothing I want more than to slip my fingers inside the tight waistband of his boxers. So, I do. I slide my hand inside his boxers and gently take hold of his cock. His hips jerk, pushing him further into my light grip. He tries to move back from me, breaking the kiss, but I shake my head and tighten my hold on him. Slowly, he raises one eyebrow in question. “Don’t mess around,” I whisper, my throat dry. “I don’t want you to play. I just want you to fuck me, okay?” “No arguments here.” He kisses me once again, reaching into his pocket, and pulls out his wallet. It thuds against the bed as Zeke drops it. Letting go of him to grab it is a no-brainer, mostly because I know that’s where the condoms were.

I scoot up the bed, grabbing the wallet, and then I pull out a condom. Meeting his eyes, I slap it against his chest. “Put this on. Now.” “You know,” he says, plucking the small, foil package from my fingers, “You’re really hot when you’re bossy.” I drop my eyes to his cock. Now free of the constraints of his boxers, it’s standing free, thick and hard. “Waiting.” He coughs back what sounds suspiciously like a laugh, but even as he does, he pulls the rubber free from the packet and rolls it on over his cock. Then, slowly, he leans over me, grasping one of my thighs with his hand and hooking it around his waist. My hands slide up his neck to cup his face and pull his lips to mine. As Zeke eases his cock through my wetness and inside me, he drags my lower lip between his teeth with the lightest touch. He’s barely released it before he kisses me, taking away the sting. The shiver that rockets down my spine at feeling him buried inside me, completely still, hits me in all the right places. Twenty minutes ago, in the bathroom, with his cock pressing against my back, I wanted something simple. Quick. Dirty. Easy. Now? Now, I want a whole lot more from something that is,

essentially, the exact same thing. Sex. Except I don’t want it simple or quick or dirty or easy. And it isn’t. It’s everything but simple and quick and dirty. It’s complicated and slow and smooth. The only thing that remains is how easy it is—how easy it is to be with him, to feel my skin on his, his lips on mine, his five 0’clock shadow rubbing against my chin. Yet, despite the ease, I know this is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Because this is real sex. Emotions. Feelings. It’s not hard lust. It’s nothing more or less than sweet, slow desire. And it burns.

CHAPTER TWENTY Life Goal #20: Be more prepared for Mama Nature to stop by. At some point in every woman’s life, she will wake up with an odd, wet feeling between her legs. And I’m not talking about an orgasm because of a wet dream. No, no. We are cursed with the ability to bleed for seven days straight each month. Of course, this is also a blessing, because what else can do that? That’s right, men. Fear us. Right now, though, lying in my bed, butt naked next to Ezekiel Elliott is not a great time to wake up and feel this odd, wet feeling between my legs. Because I know without checking that there’s a stain on my sheets I need to deal with. Usually I’d get up, waddle to the bathroom, and go deal with myself. Not today. I’m against the wall. Trapped. And he’s lightly snoring next to me. I huff. This is awkward. We’re still whatever we are despite the sweet sex last night, and I’m pretty sure that most people don’t have to deal with period this early in…

whatever this is. Still. Trapped. I don’t have a choice. I sit up, clenching my legs together, and hold the covers over my chest. I prod his shoulder. “Zeke.” He munches in his sleep. That’s kinda cute. “Zeke,” I say a little louder, poking him with two fingers this time. He shrugs his shoulder, dislodging my grabby fingertips. “Zeke…” This one comes out with a groan, but it still does nothing. So I go for the jackpot. “Zeke!” I shout, this time, ramming the heel of my hand into his shoulder. “What?” He jolts, opening his eyes. He blinks a few times before he focuses on my face. “What the hell was that for? Why did you wake me up? Is the building burning?” “No, but it’s about to be,” I hiss. “Oh shit,” he mutters, glancing down quickly. “I know that look.” “What look? How many looks do I have?” “You’re annoyed. What did I do?” I swallow. Crap. “I need you to…like, get up and hide for a minute.” One of his dark eyebrows quirks. “Why? Is your mom

here or something?” “No…” I pause. “My aunt is.” Not a lie. “Your aunt. Have I met her?” Oh my god, he’s dense. “No, no. But I see her regularly.” “So, why do I have to hide?” He shuffles so he’s sitting up against my headboard. “My period, Zeke!” The words snap out of me. “I’m on my freaking period! Aunt Flow! Regular! Period!” His eyes widen as if I just told him I have to cut off his dick. “That’s right. And I’m in this bed, without any panties, and you’re in the way of the bathroom.” “Your period?” He lifts up the sheets and looks down at his cock. “Not last night, you tool! Goddamn it, move!” I flap my hand at him while still holding onto the covers. He scrambles out of the bed, his feet hitting the floor with a thud. He’s completely freaking naked, just like I am, but he looks way more panicked than I’ve ever seen him. He looks around the room until he obviously finds what he was looking for. “Here. Do these help?” He thrusts a pocket-sized packet of tissues at me. I glare at him and snatch the packet.

Thirty seconds later, I have three tissues wadded between my legs and I’m getting out of bed. “This is the worst day of my life!” I yell, yanking open my door. “It’s kind of traumatic for me, too,” he calls after me. I spin. “Are you bleeding from your genitals?” “Well, no. But you’re bleeding from yours, and since I was just there…” “Ten hours ago, Zeke! Ten. Hours. Ago!” I slam the bedroom door behind me and run through my apartment. It’s like the most awkward walk of shame ever, mostly because I have to hold the tissues in place. This is my fault. I knew better than to sleep naked. I shouldn’t even be shouting at him, but hello, I’m bleeding from my genitals. I’m done in the bathroom a few minutes later, but I still have to deal with the stress of going back into my bedroom with a string hanging between my legs. Why do we get the shit end of the deal? I feel like an oversized fucking mouse with a tail here. Thankfully, when I get back into the room, Zeke is wearing his jeans and has his nose in his phone. It gives me enough time to grab my granny pants and my sweats and pull them on before reaching for a tank top. No bra zone in this apartment today. I don’t care who shows up.

The President could show up and I would answer the door like his. Ain’t nobody worth a bra today. “So,” Zeke says, backing away from me. “Google says the answer is sugar.” I blink at him for a moment. “What was the question?” “What to do when a woman gets PMS.” Very slowly and very deliberately, I raise my eyebrows in my very best, “What the fuck?” expression. He swallows, leaning back on the windowsill. That just so happens to be another foot away from me. “I asked Google what to do with a woman with PMS.” “What to do with one? What am I, a stray cat? “That didn’t come out right.” “You think?” His phone clunks against the nightstand when he puts it down. With a scratch to his neck, he looks up at me. “Obviously I meant how to help you deal with this traumatic time of the month.” I put my hands on my hips. “Are you messing with me?” “You know what else was on that list? Shutting up. I should do that, huh?” I nod. That would be advisable right now. He’s only digging himself a hole. His phone vibrates on the nightstand. He glances at me

quickly before picking it up, but he only looks at the screen for a second before he hits the volume button and puts the phone down. The question is on the tip of my tongue, but I don’t answer it. “I have an idea,” he says. “Why don’t I shower then go find you sugar? Or coffee? Or carbs or whatever it is that will make you feel better?” “Coffee and donuts and carbs and cheese and chocolate and chips.” His lips pull to one side, and he finally closes the distance between us. His fingers are rough against my chin when he grabs it, making me pout. “See, you scare me, then you say crap like that and I remember why I’m here.” “Because I like coffee and donuts and carbs and cheese and chocolate and chips?” “Exactly that.” He lowers his mouth to mine and slowly, oh-so-freaking-fucking-slowly, brushes a kiss over my pouting lips. “I’m gonna go shower, okay? I have to work at ten, but I have enough time to run out for breakfast.” I nod and step away from him. “Sounds good. I need to take Delilah outside and feed her.” He smiles, taps my nose, and heads out of my room. Leaving his phone on my nightstand. My eyes hone in on it.

I shouldn’t. I really, really shouldn’t look. The bathroom door closes. Quickly, I leave the room, retrieve Delilah, and take her downstairs. She does her business, and when I bring her back upstairs, the shower is still running. She follows me into the bedroom and curls into a ball in front of my closet. Who would call him that he wouldn’t answer the phone to? Why am I so paranoid? Have my insecurities about his insecurities finally kicked my ass? The shower starts. No. I’m not going to look. I’m not going to be that person. He’s not my boyfriend. He’s my best friend’s brother who I happen to be having sex with and getting kinda scary feelings for. Not my business. Not my circus. Not my monkeys. Not my fire-spitting lunatics. So why are my fingers itching? Why does the need to know who called him burn? Because it does. Like a horrid, rabid fire. It’s licking at every part of me, nibbling away at my common sense and my sense of self-righteousness. Not my fucking business. Obviously, that’s why I give in to my basic instincts.

Pick up the phone. Hit the ‘home’ button. And see the notification. Hell. I put the phone face down, exactly where it was before I picked it up. Then I grab my own and send him a quick text message. Me: Had to run. Brooke texted. I gotta finish her stuff, so I’ll get some breakfast on the way. There’s a key in the cutlery drawer. Can you lock up and post it back through? Thanks. X I barely take the time to take my dirty sheet from my bed and set it in the washer before I slip my feet into my tennies, grab my shit, and get out of my own apartment. Me: Are you in the kitchen? Brooke replies quickly. Brooke: Yep… 60th cake to decorate. Me: I need chocolate. Brooke: Give me 20… ***

I heave open the door to Brooke’s kitchen with a heavy sigh. I’m cramping, I need something sweet, and I feel so bloated not even my sweats are completely comfortable around my stomach. It’s like my uterus is quickly berating me for looking at Zeke’s phone. I sit down at the counter in front of the spread that is Brooke’s bullshit attempt at accounting. No sooner have my butt cheeks touched the stool than she sweeps a plate and mug in front of me. The scent of coffee and rich, dark chocolate mixing together is intoxicating. I grab the muffin and bite into the top without pulling down the paper. The chocolate cake tastes as good as I knew it would, and for bonus best friend points: it’s still freaking warm. This is like heaven in my hand. Better than masturbation. Although even that’s taken a back seat lately. Mostly to Zeke’s tongue. “Talk.” Brooke sits opposite me with her own muffin— blueberry—and cup of coffee. I swallow. “Zeke came to my place last night to paint my bathroom and we had sex then this morning I started my period and it sucks and I hurt and before he got in the shower his phone rang and he silenced it and because I’m a

terrible person with no self control I looked at his phone to see who it was.” I finish on a wheeze because, you know. I didn’t breathe through that. “Did you get your bathroom finished?” Brooke asks. “Taking one thing at a time.” “No.” “Was the sex good?” “As a rule, yes.” “Do you need another muffin for your period?” “Probably. Just in case.” She picks one off the cooling rack behind her and sets it in front of me. “You’re not a terrible person, you’re a human being. Plus, you’re kinda nosy, so I’m not entirely surprised.” She pops a crumb-covered blueberry into her mouth. “Who was it?” I slump forward, shoving my hand into my hair. I didn’t even brush it, so my thumb gets tangled in a knot I have to work out. “Do you need me to answer it? Would I be here looking like a homeless person if you didn’t already know?” “Shut the fuck up.” She blinks at me. “No way.” I run my hand right around the back of my hair and nod. “Yep. Becky called him.” “And you were so mature about the situation, you ran.” “Accurate.” “Why didn’t you just ask him why he didn’t answer it?”

“Because,” I say quietly. “Then, he’d know I looked.” She rolls her eyes so hard she’s probably given herself a headache. “Is this how you felt before Cain and I got together?” “Pretty much.” “Goddamn it, Carly!” She flicks my upper arm. “She has no reason to be calling him. She’s probably only doing it because she somehow heard he’s seeing you.” “He’s not doing anything with me.” “He’s fucking you pretty regularly.” I open my mouth to respond to that, but…Yeah. She made her point well there. She smirks. “Look, the only reason she’s calling him is because the gossip trail has made its way back to her, one way or another. I know for a fact he hasn’t spoken to her since he put that dye in her conditioner and broke up with her. Whatever feelings he had for her are long gone. If you can’t see that, you’re dumber than I was.” “It’s not about the feelings.” I cross my arms on the counter and slump down so I’m resting my head on them. “It’s about the other stuff—the things he can’t control. It’s different for you and Cain, B. You guys were literally meant to be together. You clicked from the moment we met him. Zeke and I have always been polar opposites and we’ve never gotten along until recently. And now it’s like we’ve gone from zero to one hundred miles an hour without being

ready for it. He has issues with commitment. I don’t. I want that freaking commitment.” “Do you want him?” The lump in my throat is impossible to swallow. “Yeah. Yeah, I do. But I want commitment more. I want what you have. I’m afraid I’ll always be scared of what he’s thinking.” She rests her chin on her hand. “I get that,” she says softly. “He’s more complicated than Cain, but running away isn’t gonna solve it. That’s what you told me. I couldn’t ignore the way I feel just because I didn’t want to face up to it.” “I know. I know all that. This is too complicated for me. I just wanna meet a great guy, have great sex, then fall in love.” “I think you already did.” That’s too real for me to think about. Maybe she’s right. Fuck a duck on horseback, I know she’s right. I am. I’m a little too much in love with Zeke Elliott. There’s no way on hell this can end any way other than bad. “Are you ignoring me because you’re still in denial or because you’re trying to figure out how to admit that I’m right?” If I thought I had a lump in my throat before, I was

wrong. I have one now. It’s thick and ugly and it tastes like the truth. “I am,” I say so softly I can barely hear my own words. Brooke leans forward. “Am what?” I spin my chocolate muffin in a full circle. “I think I love him.” She gets up, walks around the counter, and takes the stool next to me. Her hand is warm when she links it through my arm and then taps her shoulder. I lean over and rest my head on her. There’s no use denying it anymore. I’ve done it for too long. Regardless of what happens, admitting to myself that I’m in love with Zeke is the only way any kind of moving forward can happen. The only person who can handle this situation is me, so handling is what I have to do. The first key to that is admission of the reality, and I just turned that key. I love the way he makes me laugh and the way he laughs. I love how his smile pulls one from me every single time. I love how his eyes twinkle when he’s fighting the amusement that makes him so him. I love how I feel when he laughs. I love how I feel when he smiles. I love how I feel when he looks at me. I love how I feel when he tugs me against his body and holds me as if I’ll blow away at any second.

But I hate that I love him. I hate that I feel all of these things. It doesn’t matter if it feels right or if it makes my heart want to fucking sing a goddamn opera. I hate it. Every day. Every hour. Every minute. Every goddamn excruciating long second. Love sucks more dicks than a house party full of hookers. The door to the kitchen opens. Brooke and I look up at the exact same time to see Gabe, the eldest Elliott boy, followed by Billie. “I found this one outside,” she says, cocking her thumb. “Something about breakfast?” Gabe cuts her a look. “Cain sent me. Said there was something banana.” “Well, we found the bright one in the family,” I mutter. He points at me. “As long as you’re screwing Zeke, you can keep the ‘bright spark’ talk to a minimum, ‘cause you ain’t it.” I throw my muffin at him. I miss, but it felt good. “The only person I’m screwing is myself.” “You’re screwing Zeke?” Billie slips onto the stool Brooke vacated only minutes ago. “Why?” I throw my arms up and let them fall to the counter top

with a thunk. It hurts, but I don’t care. “Can I get a freaking break around here?” “No.” Gabe answers, unpeeling my muffin. “That’s my muffin.” He bites into it. “You want it?” Billie wrinkles her nose. “You’re almost thirty and getting married in, like, three weeks. Stop it.” “Kinda, yeah,” I answer. “Is there another?” I ask Brooke. “Bills, throw me one of those on the rack.” She points behind her sister, who does as she asks. “Thanks.” I bite the edge before I get any other smart ideas about throwing it. Billie grabs one for herself. “So. You’re screwing Zeke.” I take a giant bite of my cake. Oh no, I can’t possibly answer now. “She is,” Brooke answers. “But Becky called him this morning.” Gabe draws in a sharp breath and sits on a stool. “What’d she call him for?” “She doesn’t know. He didn’t answer a call and she looked at his phone.” “Way to make me sound like an asshole, asshole,” I say around my food. “I’m not wrong,” she points out.

“Well, no, but still.” “Becky called him?” Billie asks, a few seconds late to the party. “Do I need to go cut her?” “No,” Brooke says firmly. Gabe looks at me. He has Zeke’s jaw but Cain’s eyes, and it’s weird. Or maybe Zeke has his jaw and Cain has his eyes. I don’t think I can tell—he’s the most elusive of all the Elliott boys. “Do you want me to call him?” he asks quietly. “And say what?” I shoot back. “That the girl he’s sleeping with checked his phone this morning after she made a fuss about being on her fucking period?” “Too much info.” He scrubs his hand over his forehead. “Yes.” Brooke butts in with that one word. “For the love of god, Gabe. Call him. She’s going to drive herself to insanity if you don’t.” I hit my fist against the counter. “I am not!” “Oooh, it’s more than sex.” Billie jumps onto the clear counter and crosses her legs. Brooke whacks her feet, and she puts them down. “It’s not more than sex!” I say a little too high-pitched. Shit, Carly. Nobody is gonna believe that. Billie raises her eyebrows at me. “Try again, honey.” I bury my face in my hands. Brooke rubs my back. “It’s pretty much common knowledge at this point, Car. It’s like me and Cain, except

you guys know you have feelings for each other.” “It doesn’t matter, because I’m calling him.” Gabe’s voice is drowned out by the sound of his phone ringing on speaker. I snap my head up. His phone is screen-up on the counter, and that screen tells me he’s dialing Zeke’s number. Shit. “What?” Zeke’s voice crackles through the phone. “Hey,” Gabe says, leaning into the phone. “What did Cain say he wanted from Brooke?” Brooke snorts. I frown, though, because I didn’t think he was at work at ten, and it’s not ten. “Uhh…Banana bread and some cranberry muffin things,” Zeke answers. “You forgot already?” “Didn’t write it down. She’s getting it now.” “You didn’t tell her.” “She’s a nosy bitch. She was listening.” Brooke walks past him and slaps him around the back of the head. Gabe covers his mouth to hide his laughter. “Hey, she said that Becky called you this morning. What the fuck is that about?” “How does she—fuck!” The phone line crackles. “Is Carly there?” “No. She was in the bathroom, but I just stepped next

door into Brooke’s office,” he lies smoothly. Billie scrambles and clicks the connecting door shut, earning her a thumbs up from Brooke. “She told Brooke she called you,” Gabe continues. I flip him the bird. Great. Just what I wanted. “Yeah, she called,” Zeke says into the phone, something closing on his end. “Is that why Carly left this morning?” My cheeks flush when everyone’s eyes turn to me. “I don’t know, bro. I’m just saying what Brooke told me.” That I give him a thumbs up for. He nods at me. “I called her back when I got out the shower and asked her what the fuck she wanted,” Zeke says, making my heart clench. “She told me she’d heard I was seeing someone new. I told her it’d been over a year and to leave me the hell alone.” Brooke purses her lips at me. Not in a cruel way—in the kind of way that says “I told you so,” without her ever actually needing to move her lips to say it. “Oh.” Gabe taps his fingers against the counter and looks me in the eye. “Did you ask him that, Carly?” “Fuck it, Gabe!” I launch myself over the counter and jab at the ‘End Call’ button on his screen. It’s only by sheer luck I didn’t spill my coffee. “What the hell?”

He holds his hands out. “Sorry. Gotta do what you gotta do.” “You didn’t have to do that, you ass!” Brooke puts in. “Oh my god, I’ve gotta go hide.” I cover my eyes with my hand. “No. You don’t.” Billie’s voice is steady and strong. “I’m going to check out the bakery in an hour. Come get coffee with me until then.” Slowly, I pull my hand down and meet her gaze. “Why?” “Because,” is all she says before she grabs her things and sweeps out of the kitchen. We all watch her leave in silence for a moment. Then, I say to Brooke, “Got that other stuff you found?” She grabs a red, plastic folder from the side and puts it in front of me. “There you go.” “Thanks.” I sweep it up and then take myself out of the building. Billie’s waiting outside the door when I step outside, and I meet her eyes. “Where are we going?”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE Life Goal #21: Keep a diary. That way I might remember when and what I screw up. Zeke: Call me. Zeke: Answer your phone, woman. Zeke: Carly? I click off the messages app on my phone and turn it face-down on the table just as Billie brings over two hot lattes. I don’t even know if I really want coffee, but the croissants on the tray are definitely calling to my hormones. “How much do I owe you?” I ask her. “Nothing.” She sets the tray on the table between us and takes her seat. “Think of this as big sisterly wisdom. And if Brooke asks, I’d rather have you.” “And I bet you tell her you’re glad you have her instead of me.” She presses a finger to her lips and winks. “Talk to me about Zeke.” I say nothing as I take my latte. “C’mon, Carly. You think I don’t know? All I gotta do is look at you. You’re head over heels for that cocky bastard. What I wanna know is why Gabe had to make that phone call

and you’re here with me.” I stir a sachet of sugar into my coffee with a sigh. Then, the words tumble out of me. Every one, starting at Cain’s birthday. I summarize everything, from the fights to the dates to the kisses—but not the sex. I elude to that, but I’m pretty sure the way my cheeks blush give me away every time. “And then Becky called him this morning and you ran,” Billie finishes for me. “Pretty much.” My voice is soft. She half-smiles. “God, Car—he just Googled how to handle your PMS. That’s sweet as hell. Dorky and a little lame? Oh, yeah, but sweet, too.” “Why wouldn’t he just answer it if she means nothing to him?” “If he answered the phone, he’d be disrespecting you. Not to mention that if he did answer, the question wouldn’t be “who called you?” but “What did she say?” That’s a whole other ball game.” “Do you think I was wrong to leave?” “Wrong is pretty much an opinion. Maybe, but do you think you were wrong?” I sigh. “I don’t know. One minute, I feel bad and think it was, but the next…I feel like I had to leave to be able to think about everything.” “Then no, I don’t think you were wrong. You did what

you felt was right, and nobody can criticize you for that. This isn’t an easy situation.” She tears off a piece of her pastry, but she puts it right back down. “My feelings about Marcus are still so raw. I don’t think I’ve accepted our marriage is over and that he betrayed me the way he did.” I swallow. “For someone you love to do that to you is devastating. It might have been well over a year ago that Becky cheated on him, but it was right before they were meant to get married. Think about it, Car—he was ready to spend his entire life with her, then he discovered that. He’s insecure and that’s completely natural.” “But I’m not her.” My voice is no more than a whisper. “The sad part is he knows that. Deep down, he knows you’re nothing like she is.” Billie taps my hand. “But no matter what he knows, right now, he thinks something different. You’re the first person he’s let get close to him since her. All you have to do is see the way he looks at you.” “How do you know what he looks at me like?” She pulls out her phone and scrolls. “So, my little act back there might have been an exaggeration,” she admits, tapping her screen. “Brooke uploaded this picture of y’all in New Orleans to her personal account.” I take her phone from her when she offers it and look at the screen. To the left is Brooke and Cain, both smiling,

both happier than it should be possible. To the left is me and Zeke. We’re both side-eying this picture with tiny smiles on our faces, and it’s not because we don’t like one another. It’s because we both thought this picture was stupid. Because it was Brooke’s way of outing our feelings to the world, but she—finally—enjoyed the time in the city and was so excited that neither of us could tell her no. That was the smiles. We were both stuck in a fresh hell where her childish excitement won us over and either one of us wanted to ruin that picture. She thought it had, but insisted she was posting it anyway. We thought she was insane and rolled our eyes. Now, looking at it, I see it another way. I see the way his eyes are fully on me, and I can even remember what it felt like. What it felt like to be the only person in someone’s world. Like being the last chocolate in the box and having everyone fight over you, except there was no fight except with thin air, and he slayed that perfectly. In this picture, Zeke’s looking at me like there is no picture. He’s looking at me like there is only me. Like I’m everything. “Goddamn it.” I hand Billie back her phone. “What am I

supposed to do? I panicked and now I’m an idiot.” “No. No, Car, you’re not. You’re human.” She smiles, locking her phone with a quick click of the button on the side. “I would have done the same. You just have to trust that he trusts you.” “He said the same thing to me, but that’s easier to say than it is to do. How can I trust someone who I don’t know returns that?” “You have to take a leap of faith.” “What if he doesn’t trust me?” “Then it’s gonna hurt.” “Awesome.” I sigh. “Do you have a Band-Aid big enough for that?” She shrugs. “Not using my mom purse. Sorry.” “Can I just avoid this for a couple days?” I ask her hopefully. “Will that be easier then?” Billie shakes her head. “Nope. You have to deal with it today.” “But how?” I don’t know what I’m doing. This is too much adulting for me. I have no idea what I’m supposed to do to make this right. She wraps her fingers around her glass mug. “Honestly? I think you need to tell him how you feel. Even if it bites you in the ass. He ain’t gonna say it first, so I don’t think y’all can move past this barrier of fear you both have going on until you tell him you love him.”

“How do you know that’s how I feel?” Shit, I didn’t even know until an hour ago. Her smile is slow and knowing. “It’s all over your face. You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t. And you know what? I don’t blame you. Zeke is an easy guy to love. When you get past all his shit.” “Not an easy task.” I pull my pastry closer to me. “How the hell am I supposed to tell him how I feel?” “However feels natural…Even if you have to scream it at him.” “That seems like it’ll work.” *** “These are yours.” I put the folders in front of Brooke at Cain’s apartment. “The front sheets are labeled separately. They have your breakdown for you, and I highlighted how much money you currently have stored in Brooke’s Bites and how much I recommend you invest into the storefront.” Brooke pulls the folder toward her and opens it. A low whistle escapes between her lips. “That’s a little more than I thought.” “That’s because you’re terribly unorganized.” I smile. “You have enough to go in with Billie since she’s putting up most of the money to start with. You’re all good here.”

“I’m so hiring you to handle my shit.” She closes the folder. “For real. You can be one of those financial advisers or something for me.” “Done, but I’m gonna charge you.” “No worries. Apparently, I really can pay you.” I laugh and hug her. “I gotta go. I have to go see Zeke and sort out this shitstorm.” She glances at the clock on the wall. “They don’t finish until five-thirty.” “I know. I’m just going to wait at his place.” “Have you spoken to him?” I shake my head. “He keeps texting me, and he called a couple times around lunchtime, but I don’t know what I’m supposed to say to him without making it worse.” “You could tell him that you’re sorry and you love him and you hope he’ll never leave you.” “I will punch you.” She grins and steps back. “Text me later.” “Sure. Bye.” I leave the apartment and head down the stairs at the side of the garage. My phone buzzes again as I reach my car at the front of the Elliott family house, but I ignore it, choosing instead to unlock my car and shove my purse on the passenger seat. Another buzz happens as I pull away. It’s Zeke. It’s obvious. He’ll be having a tiny break before finishing work and he’ll be using that time to

message me yet again and try to get me to reply. I can’t reply until I’m at his house. That’s the only way I’ll be able to do it and not back out of this entire situation. I never had any idea that telling someone how I feel would be harder than a frat boy’s cock. School doesn’t teach you this shit. No. I can’t back out of this. I need to see this through. He knows where I live, after all. Ignore and wait. Ignore and wait. Ignore and wait. I ignore and wait my way through town until I turn into the street where his house is. I can see it already, at the end, practically owning the entire end of the cul-de-sac despite the house not being huge. It’s because he has the only house there. I pull up into one side of his double driveway, the slot furthest from the house, and kill the engine. It takes a deep breath and a swig of Coke from the can in the center console for me to pull my phone out of my purse and read my latest messages. Zeke: I used to like it when people didn’t talk to me until you stopped. I bet he still likes it. I’m probably his exception. Zeke: Carly…This is stupid. Stop ignoring me, ok?

I’ll come over soon and we can talk about this because we need to. Just stoop fucking ignoring me, for fuck sake. I hit reply. Me: I’m sitting outside your house waiting for you. His message is instant. Zeke: I’m leaving now. I draw in a deep breath at those three words. Of course he is, and the Elliott workshop is only ten minutes from here. I have got to get my shit together. I’ve had all day to think about this. I still have no idea what I’m saying to him. Words might be powerful, but at times, they’re also inadequate. There are also a damn lot of them, which makes me kinda spoiled for choice. I tap my fingers against the bottom of my steering wheel. My clock says it’s only been one minute since he texted, which seems like longer than it should. I don’t know what I ever expected for this conversation. Probably Channing Tatum running out of the ocean in

nothing but a little pair of swim shorts while declaring his love for me. Not an insecure guy I’ve hated longer than I’ve loved or even liked. Funny. The second option sounds better. Well. It is the real option. Unless Channing is suddenly going to appear from the ocean onto Barley Cross Beach… I pause, just in case. No. I guess I wait.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO Life Goal #22: Food is powerful. So are boobs. “I brought Chinese food,” are the first words out of Zeke’s mouth when I get out of my car. I turn to him. He’s standing between our vehicles, clutching a plastic bag with cartons in it and the red logo of the local Chinese take-out printed on the outside. “I am hungry,” I admit. I haven’t eaten since my croissant and muffins this morning. “It’s still hot,” he says, digging into his pocket. “I called ahead to order.” “Sounds good to me.” I follow him to the front door. He unlocks it and pushes it open before removing the keys with a clink. This is the first time I’ve ever been to his house, and I’m not sure what I expected, but it wasn’t a light, airy, open-plan living area with pictures of him and his family on the walls in the hallway. I think I assumed it would be dark…Probably red or navy blue…Like some kind of sex dungeon. What? I’ve never really been in a single guys house before. Apartment, sure. House? No. I really have dated some fuckboys. “Take a seat,” Zeke says, closing the front door. “Do

you want a drink?” “Do you have wine?” I ask warily. “I’ve got wine.” He half-smiles. “Can you take this in?” I nod and take the offered bag of food from him. His living room is connected to the rest of downstairs, and when I note the dining table, I have to ask, “To the table or the sofa?” “Sofas good,” he calls back from the kitchen at the other end of the house. I perch on the edge of the cream, suede sofa and set the bag on the table. I don’t know what’s in there, so I’m a little hesitant to open to it. Also, this situation is strange. Here we are, talking about food and drink, when the air is thick with words we have yet to say. Thick with words I’m afraid to say. Ones I don’t even know how to begin to approach. Hey, by the way, I’m in love with you. Sorry, though, I can’t wait forever to know if you feel the same way. So fucked up. All of this. Still better than online dating. “Here.” I look up to where Zeke is holding a glass of white wine. “I only filled it halfway since you’re driving,” he says, hesitating. Just when I think he’s about to say something else, he doesn’t.

“Right. Thanks.” I take the glass and cradle it in my hands, bringing the rim up to my lips. I stare at the bag of food as he sets to work opening it. I’m not focused at all—it’s just a point in the room for me to look at while he does that. A time-passer. Completely useless and redundant, much like this dumb little thought process. “Grabbing plates,” Zeke murmurs, standing up. I nod my head. Nod. Nod. Nod. I’m barely even hungry anymore. This is just so…so… fucky. Zeke comes back with the plates and forks. He sets them down on the coffee table in front of the food and takes the seat on the sofa next to me. Tingles dance across my thigh when his touches mine despite the fact there are two layers between our skin. The tingles make my heart beat a little faster. I don’t know how or why, because with the quicker beats of my heart comes a splurge of bravery, one that forces words from my mouth that catapults me into a situation I’ll never be ready for. “I’m not hungry. This is stupid.” I put the wine glass down on the coffee table next to my plate. The sofa squeaks when I pull my leg up onto the cushion as I turn to face Zeke. “We need to talk about whatever this is.” I wave my

hand awkwardly between us—apparently, that’s my new hobby. I’ve done it a lot lately. “You’re right.” Zeke puts his fork on his still-clear plate. “I didn’t mean to look at your phone. And I’m mad Gabe called you. He’s a dick. I’m a dick too. I’m sorry.” The words spill out of me. Zeke smiles. “I’m not annoyed. Maybe at Gabe, but that’s because he lied to me about you being there.” I bite the inside of my cheek. “I probably would have done the same, all right?” He leans back on the sofa and props his head up with his arm on the back cushions. “It isn’t the first time Becky’s called me in the last few months. I ignore her every time. I keep meaning to block her number, but I’ve been distracted lately.” He pauses, looking at me intently. “I dealt with the call instinctively. Mute it, ignore it, delete it.” “That doesn’t excuse the fact I looked at your phone when I shouldn’t have.” “Well, this entire day would have been a lot more successful if you’d just asked me.” “I didn’t want to be a dick.” “You failed.” His raw honestly makes me laugh. “I know. And I am sorry.” “I know you are, sugartits.” He reaches out and tugs on

my hair with a grin on his face. “But I know that’s not the reason you’ve been ignoring me all day.” I drop my gaze to the sofa. There’s the tiniest dirty mark on the cushion, and I reach my finger out toward it. The soft fabric moves as I rub my finger across the stain for no other reason than to give myself something to do. “Carly?” Zeke pushes my hair back from my face. “Talk to me.” “What are we doing?” I ask him quietly. “What is this, Zeke?” “Do we have to put a label on this?” “Yes.” I bring my eyes back to his and nod. “Yes, I do. I need to know what this is before I go crazy. Are we just messing around? Are we dating? Is it…something else?” His throat bobs. “What do you want this to be?” “Oh no—I’m not falling into that trap.” I shake my head and get up. “What do you want this to be? I’m not the one holding back.” Something flashes through his eyes—something that looks a lot like annoyance. “You think I’m not putting a damn label on this because I find it fun? I already told you I have feelings for you and fuck me if they won’t go away. Why does it matter if we don’t define this?” “Because it does. I don’t have an explanation but it matters and it matters to me.” “Fine. Then I guess what this is is us dating.”

“You guess?” My voice is softer than it was a moment ago. “That’s the best you can give me?” Zeke sits forward on the sofa and rests his elbows on his knees. “What more do you want?” “I want to know if I’m going to spend god knows how long wondering if I’m going to be enough for you.” He stills, his eyes focused on me. “You don’t think you’re enough for me?” “You literally took me out of this state for a date and the best you have is “I guess” this is “dating.”” I run my fingers through my hair. “You know what, Zeke? Think about it. Figure it out. I don’t think I can do this right now.” I grab my phone and keys from the table, then when my back is to him, I pause. No. I came here for a reason, and even if I leave without his, I’m not going until I’ve said it. “Actually, there is one more thing. I’m not done.” I spin on the balls of my feet. My mouth is dry. My lips feel chapped and broken, and a desert creature may as well take residence up in my throat for how scratchy it feels. “I have an explanation for why it matters to me to know what’s going on here.” I find his gaze with mine and hold it. “See, I want that happy ending. I want that fairytale kinda thing I always dreamed about when I was a kid. I want that and I want it to be real, and I need to know if I have it with

you or if you’re just a pit stop. I’m…” I stop and shudder out a breath. “I want the fucking happily ever after. Problem is, I’m in love with you, Zeke.” He stares at me, deathly still. If I couldn’t see the light flaring of his nostrils, I’d wonder if he were even breathing. “So, when you figure out what you want,” I continue, “Make it soon, so I know if I already have the thing I want or if I have to keep looking.” Then, on those words, I turn and head for the door. My footsteps echo through the silence of the house. His don’t follow mine. So, I leave. The door seems to slam behind me, and my heart thuds right along with it. Right into the fucking ground, where I stomp on it with my next step. I have the feeling I just broke my own goddamn heart. I unlock my car, and the front door opens. I don’t turn around, because I don’t want to look at him right now. My eyes are stinging like hell, and while I could totally blame it on my hormones, it might not swing in this situation. “Carly?” Zeke’s voice is low and hesitant. “Don’t go.” “Do I have a reason to stay?” I crack halfway through, the last few words coming out scratchy. “Come back inside. Please.” Keeping my head down, I lock my car again and head back for his door—and him. My hair is hiding my face

from his view, a fact I’m really happy about right now. One look at my face and he’d know everything—he’d know just how much it hurts. I’m not ready for him to know how much it hurts. He closes the door behind me and walks into the front room, leaving me in the hallway. He runs his fingers through his hair before he clasps his hands behind his neck, revealing a slight cut to his left, middle finger. It’s a few hours old, and I use that cut as my staring point. If I don’t, I’ll run. “You’re not her,” he finally says after a moment. “And you never have been her to me. I loved her and she fucking hurt me. That’s a hard thing to let go of. But you’re the first person I’ve felt like this about since her. You’re the first person I’ve wanted to feel this way about since her. It scares the fuck outta me, Carly.” He finally drops his hands and turns to face me. His blue-green eyes are raw with emotion, and his heavy sigh fills the room with an almost tangible sense of his emotions. “I’m afraid to let myself feel this way about you, even though I know you’re not gonna do what she did. You’re more likely to break up with me because I overcooked your toast or something because you’re fucking insane.” “Toast is a serious matter,” I mutter. “Case in point.” He waves his hand through the air, but

there’s a teeny, tiny smile twitching at the corner of his lips. “And you want all this stuff. This happy ending and a fairytale and the happily fucking ever fucking after.” He rubs his hand down his face. “And I know I don’t want that.” “You brought me back in here to tell me that?” I take a step back. My stomach is churning. Each thump of my heart is like a goddamn sucker punch straight to my soul. But Zeke shakes his head and walks toward me. He frames my face with those rough hands and tilts my head back until I can’t look anywhere but in his eyes. “I don’t want that, Carly, because I don’t just want any old shit. I don’t want a happy ending, or a fairytale, or a happily ever after. I want your fucking happily ever after. I don’t want that happy ending stuff unless I can have it with you.” “You’re just saying that,” I whisper, tears pricking my eyes again. “No, I’m not.” He brushes his thumb across my cheek. “Fuck it, when you stood there just now and told me you love me, you looked terrified. I’d never seen you look so scared, but you did it anyway.” “I had to.” “You were brave enough to tell me.” His breath tickles my mouth as he leans down. “If I can’t be brave enough to push all the bullshit aside and tell you that I’m pretty fucking sure I’m in love with you, too, then I don’t deserve you.”

“You’re in love with me?” “You want me to spell it out for you?” I nod. “Please.” He smiles, touching his forehead to mine. “I’m not saying this is gonna be the easiest thing you’ll ever do, but damn it. I want you too much. Hell, I’ve wanted you since you stood in the middle of my parents’ spare room lookin’ like a fucking wet dream right out of the fifties in that goddamn pencil skirt you were wearing.” I laugh, because the memory is too sweet not to laugh at. It was just another verbal war between us, mostly because he was thinking with his cock and I wanted to ram it up inside him. Not gonna lie, I’m feeling pretty damn good about the fact I didn’t do that now. I’d only have myself to blame. “Are we good?” he asks softly. I can’t fight my smile as I give the smallest nod ever. “We’re good.” “Thank god.” He presses his lips to mine. “Can we eat now? You might not be hungry, but I am.” “I am actually hungry. I just said that.” Shrugging, I allow him to lead me into the front room where I throw myself on his sofa and kick off my shoes. “Isn’t it after the epic love declarations in movies that the guy and girl have red hot sex?” He pauses, but he swings his gaze to me.

“Yes,” I tell him, grabbing my wine glass. “Because in most movies, the girls don’t get periods. And that epic love declaration? Way more stressful in real life.” “And here I thought someone would make a movie out of our love story.” “I’ll write it for you one day. It’ll be pretty much two hundred pages of ‘asshole’ until we reach the night of Cain’s birthday.” “You mean the night I won you over with my skills in the bedroom.” “Yeah, that one.” He puts one of the foil tubs on my plate. “You could sound a little more enthusiastic.” “It’s hard to get enthusiastic about sex when you have expandable fabric inside your vagina. “I’m not hungry anymore,” he says to his now-opened Chinese food. I nudge his knee with mine. “Welcome to life with Carly. I’m a right catch.”

THE END Sign up for Emma Alerts at: http://bit.ly/EmmaAlerts If you’re interested in reading more from the Barley Cross “world,” there’s more! THE UPSIDE TO BEING SINGLE is now available for pre-order. Mellie’s story is coming June 12th and leads you into the fun world of New Orleans.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR Emma Hart is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of over twenty novels and has been translated into several different languages. She first put fingers to keys at the age of eighteen after her husband told her she read too much and should write her own. Four years later, she's still figuring out what he meant when he said she 'read too much.' She prides herself on writing smart smut that's filled with dry wit, snappy, sarcastic comebacks, but lots of heart... And sex. Sometimes, she kills people. (Disclaimer: In books. But if you bug her, she'll use your name for the victims.) You can find her online at: www.emmahart.org www.facebook.com/emmahartbooks www.instagram.com/EmmaHartAuthor www.pinterest.com/authoremmhart

Alternatively, you can join her reader group at http://bit.ly/EmmaHartsHartbreakers. You can also get all things Emma to your email inbox by signing up for Emma Alerts*. http://bit.ly/EmmaAlerts *Emails sent for sales, new releases, pre-order availability, and cover reveals. Each cover reveal contains an exclusive excerpt.

BOOKS BY EMMA HART

Stripped series: Stripped Bare Stripped Down The Burke Brothers: Dirty Secret Dirty Past Dirty Lies Dirty Tricks Dirty Little Rendezvous The Holly Woods Files: Twisted Bond Tangled Bond Tethered Bond Tied Bond Twirled Bond Burning Bond Twined Bond

By His Game series: Blindsided Sidelined Intercepted Call series: Late Call Final Call His Call Wild series: Wild Attraction Wild Temptation Wild Addiction Wild: The Complete Series The Game series: The Love Game Playing for Keeps The Right Moves Worth the Risk

Memories series: Never Forget Always Remember Standalones: Blind Date Being Brooke Catching Carly Casanova The Upside To Being Single (June 12th)