Say You're Mine: An Enemies to Lovers Romance (Southport Love Stories Book 4)

by Sarah J. Brooks

  Sure, most guys would say I was cute, but I wasn’t the kind of girl that caught their attention when I walked by. I didn’t get catcalled or hit on. I was the girl the guys picked first for their soccer games. I was the one who joined them for hours of Call of Duty. I’d be first in line for the new slasher flick, never squealing over blood and gore.

  Whitney always said if I didn’t have boobs, she’d wonder if I was even female. And she wasn’t wrong. I was the antithesis of everything girlie.

  Until I realized I was half crazy in love.

  With Adam Ducate.

  My best friend for my entire life.

  Since then, everything had gone to hell, and my don’t-give-a-crap attitude went right out the window. I spent longer on my hair. I even started wearing a little bit of lip gloss—nothing too over the top, of course. I had even gone out and bought some prettier shirts. Whitney’s eyes had nearly bugged out of her head when she saw me in the color pink. Because I wanted him to look at me the way he looked at Angelina Jolie when we watched Tomb Raider for the fiftieth time.

  My almost obsessive fixation on his lips was also becoming a problem. I had to force myself not to stare too long at his mouth. I couldn’t think about much else but his gorgeous blue eyes and dimples. And soft, dark hair that fell slightly in his eyes. And his cocky smile with the chipped front tooth from the time I threw a football at his face, and he failed to catch it.

  I had it bad.

  “You’re a magician, Whit. You turned me into Cinderella,” I laughed, twirling.

  Whitney snickered but then became serious. “So, you’re finally gonna say something?”

  I stopped preening over my damn-I’m-hot reflection and met her eyes in the mirror.

  Aside from Adam, Whitney knew me best. I told her most everything, including about my new infatuation with the boy who had been a fixture in our house for the past seventeen years.

  I had originally hoped my feelings would go away. I chalked it up to temporary insanity. It was the only thing that made sense.

  I had known Adam literally my entire life. His mom and my mom had been best friends since high school. Our dads played Parks and Rec basketball together. His younger sister Lena had learned to walk in our living room. Whitney had started her period during the annual Ducate New Year’s Eve party when she was thirteen. Our families were so intertwined that our friendship had been a sure thing. Until I decided that I would follow the route of every other silly teenage girl and fall for the most unattainable guy possible.

  Because Adam Ducate wasn’t just my best friend since birth. He was the most beautiful boy in our entire school and the object of just about every girl’s—and some boy’s— fantasy. Including Whitney at one point, though she swore her case of Adamitis was down to a bad viral infection.

  No female under the age of thirty was immune to Adam’s many, many charms. I had teased him about it, goading him to use his sexy smile to con extra cookies from the sour-faced lunch ladies in our school cafeteria on more than one occasion, or to flirt with the awkward cashier at the movie theater so we could get more popcorn free of charge.

  Now I could only stare at him in tongue-tied horror as our friendship morphed into one-sided desperate longing.

  I let out a long, pent up breath full of adolescent angst. “What if it ruins everything?” I exclaimed dramatically. I wasn’t one for extreme theatrics, but lately, it seemed I was one huge teenage cliché. The tomboy who falls in love with her hottie bestie. It was the stuff of John Hughes’ movies and chick-lit novels.

  It made me want to gag.

  And then die at the mortification of it all.

  Whitney put an arm around my shoulder, giving me a squeeze. “And what if it doesn’t?”

  My cheeks flushed, and my hands started to feel clammy. “It’s Adam. I’m not supposed to like Adam,” I reminded her.

  Whitney rolled her eyes again, her de facto response to most things I said. “It’s Adam. How can you not like Adam?”

  She was right. It was bound to happen sooner or later, particularly after he turned fourteen and grew five inches, and his physique started to resemble a linebacker. But it wasn’t just about his looks. I could probably ignore the twinges of desire if that were the only thing about him that I was into. But Adam was smart. He read biographies on the US presidents for fun. He could count to 100 in seven different languages. He liked George Romero movies and could recite all the dialogue from Day of the Dead. He was a kick-ass tennis player, and we made a great doubles team.

  And he visited his grandparents every Friday after school without fail. He made sure to bring his grandmother a Baby Ruth candy bar, her favorite, and a bouquet of flowers he’d pick up at the corner market by her house. And he took his granddad the latest tape of baseball games he had recorded for him during the week so they could watch them together.

  Adam was everything every other boy in our grade wasn’t.

  Whit was right. How could I not like Adam?

  The question was, did Adam like me back?

  I nodded, feeling resolute. “I’m going to tell him. Tonight. At the dance.” A twinge of doubt took hold. “What if he doesn’t feel the same way? What if I ruin our friendship?” Those were the two things that had been swimming around in my head since I realized I wanted to stick my tongue down my best friend’s throat. What if this destroyed seventeen years of friendship? Because at the end of the day, that mattered more than any potential relationship.

  Whitney kissed my cheek. “I don’t think you have anything to worry about, Meg. I’ve seen the way he looks at you. If I were a betting gal, I’d say he’s as ga-ga over you as you are over him.”

  “Psh, no way,” I scoffed, but the butterflies had taken hold in my stomach. It felt a lot like hope.

  “Meggie, Adam and the gang are here!” my dad called up the stairs.

  “Here goes nothin’.” I grabbed my canvas tote bag covered in patches, slinging it over my shoulder.

  “You can’t take that bag,” Whitney groaned, trying to pull it from my shoulder. “It completely ruins the look.”

  I grinned, hurrying out of my room before she could take it from me. I may be dressed up, but I was still Meg Galloway after all. Whitney chased me down the stairs, the two of us laughing the whole way. And then I saw him.

  I came up short, Whitney almost running into my back.

  Adam stood at the foot of the stairs talking to my dad, his hands tucked into the pockets of his pressed trousers, his blue button-up shirt open at the base of his throat. His dark hair was freshly trimmed, falling in a wave over his forehead. He grinned at something my dad said, and the sight of that smile—one I was achingly familiar with—made my insides turn to jelly.

  Our friends Skylar Murphy and Kyle Webber stood with him decked to the nines. Skylar, while wearing a dress, kept true to her trademark goth style, pairing the frilly black number with torn fishnet stockings, fingerless gloves, and thick eyeliner. She looked like the perfect undead homecoming queen.

  Kyle was dressed traditionally in slacks and a green shirt with a yellow striped tie. I noticed his brown hair was also recently cut and styled much like Adam’s, which wasn’t surprising. Kyle was always emulating Adam in all things. But unfortunately, Kyle was usually relegated to the second string in sports and with the girls. He would always be Adam’s less attractive friend, which wasn’t fair, Kyle was a good-looking guy. But Adam was in a completely different league. I knew it bothered him, though he would never say anything. He was loyal to Adam to a fault. Nothing would get in the way of their friendship.

  “Hey, guys,” I said, my mouth dry and my heart pounding. I focused on Skyler and Kyle so that I could get myself under control.

  Chill out, Meg. It’s just Adam! I scolded myself.

  Just Adam.

  If only.

  Skylar lifted her hand in greeting, too cool to say anything.

  “Hey, Meg,” Kyle greeted with a smile, his eyes instantly zeroing in over my shoul
der. “Uh, hey Whit. H-how are you? No school?” He stuttered and stumbled over his words, not even trying to hide his obvious desire for my sister.

  Whitney, always oblivious, rolled her eyes. “There’s no school on the weekend, Kyle.” She forever treated him like a pesky little brother, even if he was now a lot taller than her and had developed a defined muscular build. The poor guy hadn’t even been friend-zoned. He’d been looked over entirely. She turned to me, squeezing my arm. “Go get ’em, tiger,” she whispered.

  “Thanks, Whit. For everything,” I told her before turning back to my friends.

  “Later, guys. Have fun!” Whitney called out, heading back up the stairs. Kyle glumly watched her leave.

  Skylar elbowed him in the side. “You’re drooling, Romeo.” Kyle glared at her but surreptitiously wiped his mouth.

  I hopped down the final two steps, bumping Skylar with my hip. “You clean up nicely, Murphy.” Skylar made no outward show of being pleased by my compliment. She wasn’t one to emote much. It’s probably why we got along so well. I ran hot and cold to such an extreme that Adam had nicknamed me Hurricane Meg when I was a pre-teen. Skylar had always been a balance to my intensity.

  “Not so bad yourself, Galloway,” she replied, finally allowing herself to smile—only the slightest.

  “Sexy, mama,” Kyle grinned, picking me up and twirling me around. I laughed, smacking him on the shoulder so he would put me down.

  “Shut up, Web,” I grumbled, loving the appreciation all the same.

  I glanced up at Adam, who was still chatting with my dad and noticed his eyes on me. My heart fluttered wildly in my chest. Was I imagining that he looked at me with something that seemed a lot like desire?

  Or was it wishful thinking? Because honestly, how would I even know what desire looked like? I had nothing to compare it to in my minimal experience with the opposite sex.

  “There’s my girl,” Dad exclaimed, beaming at me proudly. I walked over and threw my arms around my dad’s neck, hugging him tightly. I never shied away from showing my parents affection. I didn’t subscribe to that silly teenage notion that you couldn’t still hug your mom and dad just because you had grown up.

  Dad pulled back and looked at me, shaking his head. “Why did you have to go and grow up on me, Meggie Bear?” He kissed my cheek. “You look absolutely stunning. Doesn’t she, Adam?”

  I glanced at my best friend and felt the world drop out from underneath me. I wasn’t imagining the look in his eyes at all.

  He swallowed before answering. “She’s gorgeous.” There was a note in his voice that changed absolutely everything.

  This was our night.

  Finally.

  “Everyone, get together so I can take a picture!” my mom called out, bustling into the room with the energy of a whirling dervish. Mom always brought an energy that could either be exciting or exhausting, depending on her mood.

  Our group of four huddled together in the front foyer. We were a motley crew, but we worked. I felt Adam put his hand on my hip as he squeezed in close.

  “You really do look amazing, Meg,” he murmured in my ear. I could smell his aftershave and the distinct scent that was all him.

  His fingers burned through my dress, branding my skin.

  This was it.

  The moment it would all change.

  I wanted to hold onto this feeling forever.

  **

  Of course, it all crashed and burned extraordinarily.

  Because Adam Ducate was no longer my best friend.

  Now he was simply the asshole that broke my heart.

  Chapter 1

  Adam

  Present Day

  I was about to cum—and cum hard.

  I closed my eyes and thrust faster, my hips pumping in overtime.

  My mind was blissfully blank. I could only focus on the feeling of pressure in my cock and the soft, satin feel of her skin. I gripped her thighs, spreading them wider so I could hit just the right spot. Her deep, rough moan let me know I was doing the job right.

  I grinned, feeling high on it. If I was good at anything, it was fucking.

  I flipped her over onto her stomach, her ass in the air as I pounded into her. I wrapped my hand into her long, blonde hair, giving it a yank as my dick spasmed. We both yelled our release, our bodies slick with sweat.

  This was always the best part. Those few glorious seconds after I shot my load when I didn’t have to think about anything. Particularly what a lying bitch my soon to be ex-wife was. A lying, unfaithful, kick-a-man-in-the nuts bitch.

  The lying ex-wife in question sighed beneath me, turning on her back and squeezing her legs around my waist, refusing to let me go. She’d swallow me whole if I weren’t careful. Lord knows she’d tried her hardest for the past ten years. And had almost succeeded.

  Thank Christ, I had woken the hell up and kicked her traitorous ass to the curb.

  Yet, here I was, cock deep in her succubus pussy like the dumbass I was trying so hard not to be anymore.

  Sex with Chelsea was easy. Too easy. Old habits die hard, I guess. Our compatibility in the bedroom had never been our problem. It was everything else that was a goddamn mess.

  Thirty minutes of excellent fucking couldn’t erase over a decade of deceit and manipulation, no matter how spectacular her skills were. Staring down at the woman I had stupidly shackled myself to when I was too young to make informed decisions, my dick softened, and I immediately pulled out, wishing I could fast forward through the next ten awkward minutes.

  Chelsea—my soon to be ex-wife—arched her back, her magnificent breasts on proud display. I loved her tits—as well I should, considering how much I paid for them. She spread out in the middle of what used to be our shared king-sized bed, angling her body in a way that accentuated her very best parts. She was gorgeous, and she knew it. Which was part of the reason I should have known all along we’d never work out.

  Yet here we were, post-coital, six months after I caught her in bed with Dave, the contractor I had hired to build the new extension on our 6,200 square foot house. And I was damn sure he wasn’t the only one she’d spread her legs for.

  Cuckold wasn’t a good color on me.

  Chelsea got off on admiration the way some people got off on drugs, or porn, or alcohol. She was addicted to making people want her. And it wasn’t hard; she was a man’s wet dream with lips that were full and perfect, particularly wrapped around a cock, and an hourglass frame that was all soft sensual curves and slim lines.

  But she was a selfish woman, and when I had wanted to start a family, she had promised to go off her birth control and really try for a baby. I thought she had finally matured, that she was becoming the woman I had convinced myself she could be.

  I was a complete moron.

  Because of course, she lied. It was second nature to a woman like Chelsea. As natural as breathing. She had no intention of getting pregnant. It would have ruined her carefully crafted figure, after all. Instead of going off the pill, she had gotten the Depo-Provero shot, ensuring we couldn’t become parents, and she had played the disappointment card convincingly every month when she took another test that came up negative. I’d console her as the tears dripped artfully down her cheeks. I’d hold her as she sobbed in my arms, thinking that maybe having a son or daughter wasn’t meant to be.

  All the while, she was sleeping with most of the men in the neighborhood—excluding old Mr. Winston, who at eighty-six could barely walk. Though I honestly wouldn’t have put it past Chelsea to give it the good ol’ college try.

  The worst part was that I hadn’t been particularly surprised. I had been angry, sure, but any hurt I would have felt faded along with any semblance of genuine affection I had for her. Deep down, I had always known what sort of woman I had married. Even when she played the part of dutiful wife and loving partner, I had seen through the facade. I had just gotten entirely too adept at ignoring my better judgment because a huge part of me had held onto the dream of two
point four kids and the white picket fence all the while she spent my money and made me look like the world’s most idiotic husband.

  It was my own fault for being so stubbornly blind to her many faults. I should have known better—hell, I did know better—but I had been told my entire life that I only saw the best in people. It was one of my more annoying traits. But that ship had sailed when it came to Chelsea. There wasn’t much good about the woman I had sworn to love for better or for worse.

  I climbed off the bed and pulled on the pair of pajama bottoms I had thrown on the floor that morning. I hadn’t planned to screw my manipulative wife when I woke up. I was irritated with myself for how easily I fell back into self-destructive patterns where she was concerned.

  She had shown up just as I was leaving for work, saying she wanted to talk with tears in her eyes and her full lower lip jutting out in a miserable pout.

  I shouldn’t have let her in. I should have told her to call instead of simply showing up at my doorstep.

  I had to stop listening to my dick. He was the biggest dumbass on the planet.

  “You need to leave, Chels. I’m late for work, and I have a meeting in thirty minutes.” I couldn’t look at her, mostly because after the sex haze had dissipated, the sight of her turned my stomach.

  Chelsea got up on her knees, crawling across the bed until she was in front of me. She slithered her hand into my pants, gripping me tightly. I was mortified by the automatic twinge that signified the beginning of a hard-on. “Don’t be like that, baby. Call in sick, come back to bed. I can make it worth your while.” She kissed my chest, sliding her tongue downward before taking the hem of my pants between her teeth and giving them a tug.

  I gripped her upper arms and pulled her upright, gently pushing her away from me. She landed on her bottom, her eyes widening in surprise. She wasn’t used to being denied anything. “You need to go, Chelsea. This was a mistake that definitely won’t happen again. Call it a lapse in judgment. If you want to get your rocks off, go call Eddie, or Miles, or whatever other poor, pitiful schmuck you’ve seduced into your bed this week.”