The Casanova Experience
A Friends to Lovers Romance
Mickey Miller
Contents
Also by Mickey Miller
1. Prologue
Part One
2. One
3. Two
4. Three
5. Four
6. Five
7. Six
8. Seven
9. Eight
10. Nine
11. Ten
12. Eleven
13. Twelve
Part Two
14. Thirteen
15. Fourteen
16. Fifteen
17. Sixteen
18. Seventeen
19. Eighteen
20. Nineteen
21. Twenty
22. Twenty-One
23. Twenty-Two
24. Twenty-Three
25. Twenty-Four
26. Twenty-Five
27. Twenty-Six
28. Twenty-Seven
29. Twenty-Eight
30. Twenty-Nine
31. Thirty
32. The End
Also by Mickey Miller
33. Professor With Benefits
34. Acknowledgements
About the Author
Copyright © 2017 by Mickey Miller
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Created with Vellum
Also by Mickey Miller
Playing Dirty: A Bad Boy Baseball Romance
Mickey Miller books cowritten with Holly Dodd:
Dirty CEO: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance
Hotblooded Prizefighter: A Bad Boy MMA Romance (coming May 16th)
Even the Casanovas of the world have a girl they wish they could have conquered, but couldn’t.
Mickey Miller
Prologue
Amy
“Last call, flight two-zero-two, direct from Chicago to Barcelona.”
I stared at my ticket, eyes unfocused. What did it even matter anymore? Every guy I dated was a total dick. That was just my fate in life: to date dicks. For me, “the one” was an elusive myth best relegated to corny rom-coms. Why did I even care if I went to Barcelona?
Even if I met another guy, he’d probably cheat on me.
Sorry. I know I probably sound bitter. But after you walk in on your boyfriend getting blown by his manager at the bar where he works, you go into a bit of a phase, to put it lightly.
“Miss, excuse me, Miss?” a polite but firm voice spoke in front of me.
I shook myself out of my daze. “Yes?”
“Your ticket. It’s for Barcelona. This is the last call. Are you going to board?”
I swallowed, turned my chin up, and took a deep breath. “Yes. I’m boarding.”
The attendant took my ticket, scanned it, and handed it back to me with a puzzled look.
“Good, the doors will be closing as soon as you get on.”
On the flight, I waltzed past the first class section to the back of the plane. A young girl stopped me before I reached my seat, reaching out her arm to mine.
“Amy!” she exclaimed. A smile broached my face. The adorable creature was maybe eight years old, and sat next to her mom.
“Jenna! I didn’t think I would see you again.”
“I knew I would see you again,” she responded. Her dimples shown deeply when she smiled.
I blushed. I’d only read to her in Spanish for ten minutes while we were waiting to board the plane. I forgot how much even the smallest gestures meant to little kids sometimes.
“Thanks for reading me that book in Spanish. I feel better about going to Barcelona now.”
I laughed. “It’s no big deal. Trust me.”
“How do you know Spanish though?” she put her arm on me and furrowed her brow. “You’re American.”
Her mom smiled at me. I didn’t feel the need to explain to this first time traveler that Spanish was a language spoken by at least sixty million Americans. She’d learn with time. Her world was still small.
I put my hand on the little girl’s shoulder. “I lived in Spain when I was in college, honey. You can learn any language you want, no matter what. You just have to study hard and not give up.”
“Really?” Her eyes bubbled up. “Can I? Mom, can I even learn Spanish if I want?”
Her mom looked a little surprised at the question. “Of course you can, honey.”
The flight attendant was staring me down, surely wishing I would take my seat. “I’m going to head to my seat in the back, have a safe flight Jenna!”
“Bye Amy!”
Her voice was so bubbly, it put a smile on my face as I found my seat toward the back of the airplane. I found my window seat and stared out onto the runway as the attendants ran through the safety protocol.
Thinking about how much I’d loved reading to Jenna in the airport, my mind drifted to kids.
I loved them, but I wasn’t ready for them. Maybe someday. Not today. Let’s be honest, at the rate I was going, I was probably not ever going to have a stable, lasting boyfriend to raise a family with. My last cheating boyfriend was only the latest in years of failed relationships. Although the sports marketing company that my coworker Andrea and I founded was booming, my personal life was in shambles.
I smirked slightly, finding a little solace in the fact that, somewhere, deep in my heart, I knew I didn’t want to be with my ex. He was an okay guy--don’t get me wrong. But real talk, he was barely an inch taller than me, little Amy. I’m just over five feet. And he didn’t like to read! What kind of guy says no to books?!
We lifted off the ground in Chicago and smoothly sailed into the sky above. After we leveled out, the staff came by asking if we wanted anything to drink.
“Gin and Tonic please.” The stewardess moved swiftly to dole me out my drink. The guy next to me leaned out of the way and let her hand the plastic cup to me.
I took a sip, and then I took another longer sip through my straw. I was on an empty stomach, so the buzz hit me in a few minutes. It felt good.
I swept my brown hair behind my head and stuck my forehead against the cold airplane window of the jumbo jet, looking out into the black of the night sky.
Through the haze of my buzz, I thought about a man I used to know. He was the one I pushed away years ago, because I was afraid he’d become the same as all the other crappy men in my life.
“Chandler, where are you now?” I said aloud. I’d been just a girl when I met him--barely twenty. Now I was five years older and had my own company. Yet still, when I fantasized and let my mind drift off about who I’d love to have kids with, his frame popped into the picture.
I wondered if I would ever see him again. Sure, he was an asshole like all the others. But I’d never met a man quite as honest as him or as sexy.
A surge of adrenaline came over me just thinking about him. I hadn’t been back to Barcelona in five years. I doubted he ever even thought of me anymore. I was probably just another notch on his belt--except I was one he never got to mark off.
Yet something bothered me about the way we’d left our friendship. I never really gave him a chance to prove himself. Because wherever Chandler went, he was known for leaving a trail of broken hearts. As good of a lover as he was, the man never committed. Not to anyone. What would make me so special that I could tame him?
I order
ed another Gin and Tonic from the stewardess when she came back, sank back into my chair, and closed my eyes. My memory drifted to when I’d first met him, and how my silly crush on him had begun.
Part One
Five Years Earlier
One
Amy - Five Years Ago - Barcelona, Spain
Depression doesn’t give a shit about you. It nips at your heels, reminding you of all of the bad things in life, and how much better everyone else has it. On Facebook and Instagram people show the best parts of their lives. Rarely do they snap a photo of the worst.
The thing I hated most about my depression was that it always knew where to find me.
It would sneak up when I least expected it, tap me on the shoulder, and say, “Hi there Amy, what are you up to? I thought I might follow you around today.”
The big bad D had found me in Barcelona and after a week of living here, I was thinking that my mom’s concerns about me not dealing with my depression were legit. It made adjusting to the language barrier, the jet lag, and starting classes the day after I’d arrived that much more difficult. I channeled my therapist and tried to think positive. I thought about my dad’s parting words before I boarded my plane at O’Hare in Chicago: it’s an adventure, don’t forget to live it, and have fun.
As the busy traffic sounds of the city streamed through my window, I focused on coming up with one thing that was good about this morning. And that, I decided while sniffing the air, was that the coffee smelled damn good. I was already waking up when my host mom knocked on the door.
“Amelita?” Doña Maria chirped.
“Yeah…?” I returned, my voice hoarse.
I heard her jiggling with the knob and then her voice filled my room. “Chandler is back from his two week spring break. Why don’t you get dressed and come down to meet him? I’ve made you two breakfast—your favorite—an omelet with bacon and avocado.”
It was like she’d known I was down without actually knowing, and had taken extra care to find out a few of my food likes and make them for me. Clearly, she had experience dealing with emotionally fragile study abroad students. Her hospitality was really sweet and it did help. However, I was still getting used to the Spanish schedule of waking up around 9 a.m. and getting to class around ten most days. My host-mom’s mood rubbed off on me a little bit, and I decided that today, I might try a go at actually enjoying myself, as much as it pained me.
“Amelita,” she repeated, a little more insistent.
“Coming,” I finally groaned and forced my eyes open when something she’d said hit my brain. I glanced over at the door. “Wait!”
“Yes?” Doña Maria said, and poked her head back into my room. I’d been living in her apartment in downtown Barcelona since I’d arrived, and I was under the impression that it was only me who was going to be living here with her. She’d never mentioned another student since I arrived, and the program advisor hadn’t mentioned it either.
“Who’s Chandler?” I asked, furrowing my brow.
“Chandler is your host brother, Amelita,” Doña Maria said, like it was the best news I could ever hear. “The program gave us two of you this year. Chandler arrived in January, and he’s here for winter and spring.”
She smiled and closed the door.
I propped myself up on my elbows and glanced out my bedroom window. The sun was bright and making me wince a little. It was mid-April, springtime in Europe, the best time to visit—or so I’d read. It was nice weather back home in Chicago, too; but I hadn’t come here for the weather. I had hoped a change in scenery would be better medicine than taking actual medication. I wanted to get away from the people around me, especially my mom—who was great, but living in the same city as her while going to college was a little much. Dad was more hands off and trusted my judgment, which was why I was probably closer to him. He saw me as Amy, his daughter; not Amy, his daughter with depression. I suppose it balanced them out, Mom over worrying and Dad being more easygoing. I just needed to figure shit out for myself in general.
Studying in Spain had not been on purpose, but rather by happenstance. I’d decided to do this on a whim, last minute and it was by pure luck that I got in. At Columbia, my focus was on marketing and management—nothing to do with Spain or its culture—but I was ahead in my credits and taking all electives while abroad. I was here to have fun and do something different. Discover something new. But it would be a brief visit.
My school here was on trimesters instead of semesters, so I would only be staying through the middle of June.
I squinted at the clock on the nightstand next to my bed. My Monday classes started soon and I needed to get a move on if I wanted to get to the subway and to my classroom on time. I threw the covers off and shuffled to my door, not in the mood to meet new people. I wondered if it’d be weird with this complete stranger and me living in this apartment—together? What kind of guy studies abroad, anyway? Of the three guys on my program that I’d met, they were all long-haired, skinny hipsters. Not my type. Yawning, I sauntered down the hallway still in my tank top and short pajama shorts. I took a second to glance down at myself. I definitely wasn’t looking my best.
Whatever. I grew up around parents who walked around the house naked, so it wasn’t like I cared who saw me in my early morning state. However, the “whatever” mindset disappeared the moment I rounded the corner and laid eyes on my ‘brother’.
He sat in profile to me, elbows on the breakfast table. He was sipping coffee and reading the local newspaper—in Spanish. I did a double take.
Seeing him for the first time reminded me of Sixteen Candles when they cut to Molly Ringwald’s love interest for the first time. What was that actor’s name again?
The sun poured in from the front windows, landing on him like a spotlight. When he flipped the pages, his arms flexed. His chest and abs were chiseled, with a tattoo of a rose above his heart, and another image that I couldn’t quite make out on his abs. His skin was olive-colored, and he looked as though he certainly had a healthy bit of Greek in him, or maybe Italian. Or maybe something totally different, but definitely a little exotic. His hair was a dark color, borderline black. When he looked at me, I stared at his eyes. They somehow ranged in hue from light blue to dark green, a combination that perplexed me.
“Hola. You must be Amelita.” He flashed a cocky almost-smile in my direction. He returned the favor by looking me over thoroughly. The way his eyes scanned my entire body in a leisurely way, twice, sent chills through my body.
“H-hola…” I stammered, expelling the air I’d been holding while he perused me. I shook my head. “Wait. Did you say ‘Amelita’? My name’s Amy but no one here seems to know that.”
He laughed—a hearty laugh for so early in the morning. “‘Amelita’ means ‘little Amy’. Guess you haven’t had time to brush up on your Spanish yet. How long have you been here?”
My pulse accelerated and I took the coffee Doña Maria placed in my hands and urged me toward the table. “Just over a week. And you’re…my host brother?” I asked, distracted.
“Yep. Me llamo Chandler,” he said, taking a sip of his coffee. “I just got back today from a trip. Looking forward to living with you, little Amy.” He winked.
Once again, I watched, riveted as his biceps flexed. He could have done ads for arm porn. And when he spoke in Spanish with Doña Maria, it sounded flawless and natural. In spite of my sudden inability to speak, I pulled out my chair and sat down across from him at the small wooden table.
Chandler continued to watch me from his seat, as though waiting for me to say or do something. But I just kept staring back at him like an idiot. My host mom was intently watching the interaction between us as she set my plate with my omelet before me. Meanwhile, Chandler continued to watch me openly, which made me doubly nervous. He was a big guy, and his left knee kept bumping into mine, or mine kept bumping into his because I was suddenly jittery. And it wasn’t the coffee.
He definitely wasn’t skinny. Or a
hipster.
I gulped down a bit of my omelet—which was delicious—and tried not to gawk at this guy sitting across from me shirtless.
Maria gave a nod as she sat to my left, a small smile on her lips. We both looked at her when she sighed, smiling. “I think you two are gonna be friends,” she said, in her cutesy Spanish accent.
“Oh, I have a boyfriend,” I blurted out. As soon as I did, I felt my cheeks get warm from embarrassment. That was not relevant to the conversation. I couldn’t think in front of this guy because his damn abs were too distracting.
Doña Maria let out a chuckle at my out-of-context statement. “It’s good. It’s okay. Chandler ya tiene muchas chicas. Muchas amigas.”
I ruffled my brow at her broken English and glanced at Chandler. “What did she say?”
Chandler cocked his head to the side. He quirked the corner of his lips. “Don’t worry about it.”
I ran a hand through my hair. “Fine. I won’t.” But I was worried about it. Ya tiene muchas chicas. I made a mental note to look that phrase up ASAP.
Two
Amy
Another week went by, but I didn’t see much of Chandler, especially over the weekend. His classes were also completely different from mine so I never saw him on campus either. I wasn’t sure when he went to class because he seemed to sleep late every morning, and I was out the door before he’d get back. Then he’d arrive late in the night back to Doña Maria’s apartment when I was trying to sleep.
And, I’d successfully Googled the phrase that I’d been wondering about. Ya tiene muchas chicas meant Chandler already has a lot of girls. I wasn’t sure if she meant friends, or girlfriends, or something in between. It was hard to say. But tonight, judging by the screams I was hearing in his room, he’d brought one of his girlfriends home.
The Casanova Experience: A Friends to Lovers Romance (Ballers Book 2) Page 1