by Sara Ney
That seems about right. I don’t know his buddies Blaine and Phillip, but from what Bambi has told me, Brooks’ friends are kind of immature.
“What’s the bet you lost?”
“I…” He hesitates. “I’m not really supposed to tell you this either, so you have to promise not to say anything.”
Bambi’s face pops up in my mind, and I bite down on my bottom lip; whatever Brooks is about to tell me is his secret and his alone, not mine to tell someone else. Even Bambi. Even if she deserves to know what ridiculous nonsense she’s up against if she wants to win her ex-boyfriend back (although if you want my opinion, she’s better off without him).
“The bet was to be single, and stay single.”
A boys’ club. A bet. Smoking jackets. An old-school hangout. “Oh my God, you guys had a gentlemen’s club and made a pact to stay single just like they do in historical romance novels.”
“No—not like historical romance novels!” he argues.
“We just talked about this and you said the whole idea of it was ludicrous.”
“Nooo, you said it was—I never said a word about it. You went on and on about men doing that being losers and I kept my mouth shut.”
“Well duh, that’s because the whole idea of guys doing it in this day and age just sounds stupid. No offense.”
“None taken, because it is stupid, and I can’t fucking believe I did it—and not only that, the whole thing was my dumb idea.”
Lord almighty. Men, I swear. Some of them never learn.
“What did you lose?”
“Just season tickets to the Jags.”
Yikesssss. That had to hurt.
“Oh Brooks, you didn’t!” I had no idea he even had season tickets. The jackass never mentioned it when I told him about the suite we can use if we want to catch a game.
He inhales, taking a deep breath. “The point isn’t that I lost. The point is that I lost because I don’t want to be single—I want to be with you.”
“That’s the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me.”
I hold my breath, waiting for him to repeat those three little words he said just moments ago.
“I love you.”
I will never get tired of hearing them, and this time when he says it, I blush prettily and sigh, whispering, “I love you, too.”
Still clutching my hands, Brooks leans forward, pressing his forehead against mine. “I missed you like crazy, Abbott.”
Abbott, Abbott—never stop saying my name! “It’s only been a few days, you goof.”
But my voice is scratchy from emotion, and a tear slips out of the corner of my eye.
“It felt like months,” he murmurs quietly. “God, I was going crazy without you.”
I smile, though he can’t see it with our heads pressed together. “Don’t be so dramatic.” Reach up and rake my fingers through his beautiful, dark hair. “I missed you, too. You know who missed you more?”
He shakes his head. “Do not say Desdemona.”
“Okay, I won’t.”
Epilogue
Desdemona
My humans are at it again.
The pair of them are vulgar, screeching like owls from the bedroom—it’s his bedroom now, too, I suppose, since he moved all his things into Girl’s apartment before it started to snow and all the birds went away.
What’s mine is mine.
What’s hers is mine.
What’s his is now mine, too.
Happy cat, happy life. It doesn’t rhyme, but it’s true nonetheless.
I’m curled up on one of Boy’s soft shirts, the one that fell to the floor when Girl was putting clothes into the white box that pours water on everything and spins them around to clean them. The shirt smells like city and him, and I drag it from one room to the other, pulling it so it’s on top of my little bed in the corner of the living room.
It’s sunny today, and I wish they’d take me outside.
When Boy moved in, he bought me a leash—more like a harness, but who cares—and said if he couldn’t have a damn dog, he’d at least try to walk the damn cat.
When dogs approach, Boy scoops me up and carries me, and I’ve never been happier in my life.
Girl is cheerier, too.
She hums when she’s alone, and dances—and sings, although the notes are too off-key to be anything but a hideous warble.
The old lady with the silver hair still comes around when I’m alone and leaves things inside the apartment. Food. Flowers. Gifts.
Last week she came by and left a blanket. Then it was a new tag for me with my name and phone number on it. It’s round like a quarter, and gold, and shines in the light like the sun.
I bat at it with my paw, bored.
Sigh from the center of my chest, which gets ignored, as usual.
Glare at the bedroom door that has been closed for hours; what are they doing in there? I tried scratching on it a while ago but was ignored. No one came for me then, either.
I know they’re not dead because of the noises.
Those haven’t stopped.
Won’t stop until one of them gets hungry, and when they finally emerge, they’ll be giggling and laughing and kissing like they always are, and I’ll gag up a hairball in disgust.
Like I always do.
THE END
About the Author
Sara Ney is the USA Today Bestselling Author of the How to Date a Douchebag series, and is best known for her sexy, laugh-out-loud New Adult romances. Among her favorite vices, she includes: iced latte’s, historical architecture and well-placed sarcasm. She lives colorfully, collects vintage books, art, loves flea markets, and fancies herself British.
For more information about Sara Ney and her books, visit:
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Also by Sara Ney
Other Titles by Sara Ney
The Kiss and Make Up Series
Kissing in Cars
He Kissed Me First
A Kiss Like This
#ThreeLittleLies Series
Things Liars Say
Things Liars Hide
Things Liars Fake
How to Date a Douchebag Series
The Studying Hours
The Failing Hours
The Learning Hours
The Coaching Hours
The Lying Hours
Jock Hard Series
Switch Hitter
Jock Row
Jock Rule
Switch Bidder
Jock Road
For a complete updated list visit: https://authorsaraney.com/books/