by Kendall Ryan
That sounds exhausting. I groan, tossing my phone in my bag. My head lands with a thud against the uncomfortable headrest.
“You okay?” the driver asks.
“You bet,” I say, finger guns popping.
Buzz. Someone is texting me.
I dig around my bag for my phone. Slate Cruz, it reads.
You guys done with the bachelorette thing? I need my wing-woman.
I respond with lazy thumbs.
I’m done, but I’m in no state to be anyone’s wing-woman.
The Uber pulls up to my apartment building. I thank the driver and hobble to the elevator, fumbling for my keys. I need some ibuprofen and a blanket to bury myself in forever.
Drunk? Or tired?
Both. Long day.
I can hear the familiar sound of Penny’s aggravated meowing before I even open the door.
She glares up at me with her big green eyes, flashing all her teeth at me. Feed me.
“I know, Pen,” I mutter. “Way past dinnertime.”
I shed my coat, purse, and shoes before shuffling to the kitchen to dig out some food for the little monster. Penny follows close on my heels, pissed that she has to depend on a human for her sustenance. Which I totally get. I depend only on myself, which is just the way I like things.
“Here you go. Go crazy,” I say, sneaking a quick stroke across her back as she dives into her meal. She rarely lets me pet her now that she’s grown, the little grump. I take what I can get when she chooses to dole out her affection.
I shuffle into my room to put on lazy clothes. I’m in the middle of piling my hair into a messy bun on top of my head when my phone buzzes again.
I’ll pay for your ride here. Come on. I’m desperate. Look at me.
A picture message pops up of a coffee table covered in horrible snack foods: a half-eaten pizza, an opened energy drink, and some kind of nachos with . . . chocolate dribbled on top?
Buzz.
I’m spiraling in boredom.
I can’t suppress a snort. My fingers fly across the keypad.
You don’t need me by your side to get laid. Besides, I’m home now. I’ve taken off my bra. I’m in for the night. These are unchangeable truths.
I reopen the picture message. Yeah, that’s definitely chocolate on his nachos.
I don’t understand how this man lives. I met Slate during my freshman year of college through mutual friends, and now it seems like we’ve known each other forever. At first, I was floored by how ridiculously attractive he was. Tall, muscular, sharp brown eyes, soft brown hair, defined jaw, full lips, and a smile that could melt every heart in the room.
We became fast friends in no time. I was drawn to his fearlessness, his charisma, his sense of humor. Slate was totally willing to shoot the shit with me, unfazed by my “bossiness.” It left an impression on me that developed into one of the most comfortable friendships I’ve ever had with a guy.
Buzz.
Fine. Tell me about the party. Were there strippers?
You would ask that.
What? Let me live vicariously through you.
Slate, you get plenty of ass. Let’s not pretend my life is any wilder than it actually is.
He ignores this comment.
What’s a bachelorette party without strippers?
I sigh. Am I really going to tell him what the main event of this party was?
Why not? The buzz of three mimosas and a whiskey still has me warm and fuzzy.
Karina’s sister booked a blow-job class. I sucked. Literally.
There’s a slight delay before his next response.
I’m sure you were great.
No, seriously. I bit the cucumber.
Oh my God, you didn’t?
I did.
That’s like the only rule, Keat. No teeth.
That’s why I suck. I suck at sucking. And I don’t know how to get better.
The typing bubble starts, and then stops. Starts again. Stops.
I frown at my phone. What’s his deal? Finally, he figures out what he wants to say.
Are you actually upset about this?
I roll my eyes. What a guy thing to say.
Why wouldn’t I be? I’m coming to terms with the fact that I’m not a sexually talented person. It’s not exactly Christmas morning for me.
Oh, come on, you have to have skills. Besides, you’re gorgeous. You probably just need a little practice.
I blink past the compliment. Slate has a habit of saying really wonderful things way too casually. I’ve always told him he’s going to lead some poor girl on by being so nice all the time.
What I need is boot camp.
Booty camp?
And then he ruins it. Classic.
Penny waddles into my room, her tummy full and round. She hops up on the bed and finds her favorite spot, curled up exactly in the center of the mattress. I’ve tried to fight her on this, but to no avail. I concede, wrapping my body around her warmth.
I’m not joking, Slate. I feel really shitty about this.
The thought that sneaks up on me next comes out of nowhere. Before Sober Keaton can ruin it, Drunk Keaton takes the wheel for a gentle spin past the point of no return.
Can I ask you something?
Sure.
My fingers are damn little traitors, typing away against my better judgment. I’m already plummeting down this rabbit shit-hole. Might as well make a splash?
How about you stop making jokes and help me become a better lover?
Dead air. No typing bubble, no quippy response, nothing to break this tension I’ve created.
What have I done?
I toss the phone aside on my duvet and groan. Penny scoots away from me, displeased by my squirming. I’ve apparently interrupted something important, and she’s less than thrilled.
Buzz.
Oh shit. I scramble for my phone, nearly elbowing the orange puffball dominating most of the bed.
You want me to teach you how to fuck?
Well, that settles it.
Forget it. I knew you’d make it a joke.
As soon as the message is delivered, my phone rings. He’s calling me. Time for some damage control. I pick up.
“Hey, Slate, look—”
“I’m not making a joke.” His voice sounds tight. Almost rigid. Which is so not Slate.
I can imagine him sitting on the edge of his couch with that look he gets on his face when he’s really focused. Admittedly, it’s not a bad look—his brow furrowed, gaze focused, thumb pressing against his bottom lip. It’s kind of sexy, to be honest.
I let out a nervous little laugh. “I mean, I’m drunk. I don’t know what I’m saying. I know you’re probably not interested, anyway. Hell, you get more ass than a toilet seat at Taco Bell, and I’m not about to be sloppy seconds to your weekend plans. No offense—”
“Whoa, Keaton,” he says. “I don’t have any weekend plans.”
“What does that mean?” I ask, my heart now galloping. Is this happening? Am I on the brink of making one of my best friendships totally, irrevocably weird?
“It means I could, well, take a break.”
“Wow, so honorable,” I say with a sneer.
“Come on, Keat, don’t be like that.” He sighs. I can imagine him running a hand through his hair, brushing it over the back of his neck.
“Sorry,” I mumble. “I’m not even sure what I’m asking. I may not even remember this tomorrow.”
“It’s okay,” he says back. Softly.
What did I ever do to deserve such a good friend?
Just when I think he can’t surprise me anymore, he hits me with, “How about we talk tomorrow? We’ll both be sober. We can set some ground rules.”
“Ground rules?”
“For . . .” He falters, only for a second. “Whatever this is. Or whatever this could be.”
“Okay. That sounds good.”
“Good. Talk to you tomorrow, Keat. Get some sleep.”
“You too,�
�� I say, and we hang up.
Penny opens one eye, as if to say, What have you done now, human?
“I have no idea,” I mutter. This could be the most humiliating thing I’ve ever gotten myself into.
But then, without warning, I find myself grinning. Drunk grinning, which isn’t necessarily my best look, but I wonder if Slate is grinning too.
If anything, this is definitely going to be interesting.
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Acknowledgments
Thank you so much to my incredible team, including Danielle Sanchez, who is a publicity and marketing goddess. To Alyssa Garcia, the best executive assistant in the world. What would I do without you? I don’t ever want to find out. And to my editing team—Elaine York and Becca Mysoor, a huge amount of gratitude for helping to shape my story; and to Pam Berehulke for your always outstanding edits.
A giant thank-you to all the book bloggers for your tireless efforts to post reviews and participate in blog tours. You guys rock my world. I adore you so much!!
A massive bear hug to all my readers. I am so blessed to get to do this for a living, and I don’t take a single one of you for granted. Thank you.
And last, to my husband, John. You believe in me, lift me up, and push me to succeed beyond my wildest dreams. Sometimes superheroes don’t wear capes. Mine wears a suit and tie (and often has two babies in his arms.) Love you, babe.
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About the Author
A New York Times, Wall Street Journal, and USA TODAY bestselling author of more than two dozen titles, Kendall Ryan has sold over two million books, and her books have been translated into several languages in countries around the world. Her books have also appeared on the New York Times and USA TODAY bestseller list more than three dozen times. Kendall has been featured in publications such as USA TODAY, Newsweek, and In Touch Magazine. She lives in Texas with her husband and two sons.
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Other Books by Kendall Ryan
Unravel Me
Make Me Yours
Working It
Craving Him
All or Nothing
When I Break Series
Filthy Beautiful Lies Series
The Gentleman Mentor
Sinfully Mine
Bait & Switch
Slow & Steady
The Room Mate
The Play Mate
The House Mate
The Bed Mate
The Soul Mate
Hard to Love
Reckless Love
Resisting Her
The Impact of You
Screwed
Monster Prick
The Fix Up
Sexy Stranger
Dirty Little Secret
Dirty Little Promise
Torrid Little Affair
xo, Zach
Baby Daddy
Tempting Little Tease
Bro Code
For a complete list of Kendall’s books, visit:
www.kendallryanbooks.com/all-books/