by A. J. Pine
“Maybe,” he admitted.
“Maybe I don’t scare easily,” she said, then smiled.
And, Christ, that smile was contagious. He couldn’t help himself around her.
“Ahhh,” she said. “There we go. I knew I could turn that frown upside down.”
He rolled his eyes and laughed. “I guess I’ve completely blown your second impression of me.”
“Second?” she asked.
“Yeah. Last night was the second. You wanted nothing to do with me at the book signing on Thursday.” He raised a brow. “You’re welcome, by the way. I usually get more than a couple days’ notice before I do one of those.”
Annie groaned. “Okay, third impression is looking more like the first.” She waved her beer at him. “That—that ego thing of yours is showing.”
He laughed. “Hard to keep it hidden.”
She shrugged and took a sip of her beer.
“Whatever we were last night wasn’t entirely real,” she said. “You were your best self, and I was mine. That’s how dates go. Not that we were on a real date.” She snorted. “I guess my best self includes drinking straight from a soda gun after burning my esophagus with vodka.”
She still had her knit cap on, so he pulled it from her head and brushed her hair out of her eyes.
“You’re just you, Annie. I don’t know how you do that. There’s no first impression. There’s simply—you.”
She kissed him, just a soft peck on the cheek, but it somehow felt more intimate than what they’d done in the hotel room last night.
“We’re not dating, remember?” she said. “You don’t have to impress me. So how about when it’s just us, you be simply—you?”
He sighed. That would be something new to try.
“Then I need to be honest about one thing,” he said, setting his bottle on the coffee table.
“What’s that?”
He skimmed his fingers across her cheek, then dropped his hand to his side.
“I haven’t slept in two days, and as much as I want to do all sorts of things to you like I did last night, I’m about thirty seconds away from comatose.”
“Well,” she said, “then this is your lucky night.” She set her bottle next to his, stood, and held out her hand. “Come on.”
He hesitated. So she grabbed his wrist and pulled.
“You were right. About me and Jeremy,” she said. “He may annoy me with the big brother act, but it is nice to have someone looking out for me. How about just for tonight, you let me look out for you.”
He stood, but his brows drew together.
“I’m tucking you in, you idiot,” she said and started leading him to his room.
“I’m not a fucking toddler,” he said. “See? Still holding a beer.”
She grabbed the beer and set it on his nightstand. “Not anymore,” she said once they were in front of his bed. And then, without another word, she lifted his T-shirt over his head and unbuttoned his jeans. He was hard inside his boxer briefs. He was human. But he didn’t have it in him, and Annie didn’t try anything more than freeing him from his clothes.
He collapsed onto the mattress, and she drew the blanket up and over his chest. He could barely keep his eyes open once his head hit the pillow.
“You can stay,” he said sleepily, yet in the almost fog of sleep he realized it didn’t sound like much of an invitation. “I mean stay,” he added, “if you want. I’d like you to stay.”
She unbuttoned her jeans and let them fall to the floor, kicking them from her ankles. Then she did that magic trick that girls do, pulling her bra out from beneath her top. And just like that, she crawled in next to him, her body fitting perfectly in the space against his.
“Okay, then,” she whispered, pulling his arm across her middle.
All of his muscles relaxed as his palm fell against her torso.
“Okay.”
Chapter Fourteen
Annie woke with a start when she heard the door slam shut. She threw off the covers and planted her feet on the floor. The cold wood floor. The cold wood floor that was not her floor.
“Hartley?” Knuckles rapped on the bedroom door. “Are you up? I gotta tell you about this fucking hotel, man!”
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
Annie spun to see Wes still sleeping peacefully on the bed behind her. She scrambled onto all fours on the floor until she found her jeans and retrieved her phone. Nine o’clock. She had to open the shop in an hour, but right now she had to do damage control.
She shoved her clothes under the bed and pretended not to care what else lurked beneath a twenty-five-year-old guy’s sleeping quarters.
“Wes,” she hissed, crawling back up next to him so Jeremy hopefully wouldn’t hear her. “Wes, wake up!”
He moaned softly, his eyes fluttering open, and good God the man was a beautiful sight, his lean, muscled torso exposed where she’d thrown off the blanket. When his eyes met hers, he smiled softly and leaned in for a kiss just as Jeremy knocked again.
“Dude, you’re in there, right? I swear, if I don’t tell someone about the shower in this room—and the things one can do in said shower—I’m not going to believe it really happened.”
Wes’s eyes widened, and he bolted upright, not without first knocking heads with Annie, who had to stifle her urge to cry out in pain.
“Sorry!” he whispered. “Yeah, man! I’m here. Just let me put on some—”
But the door handle started to turn, so Annie—head throbbing—dove over Wes and onto the floor where she huddled in the small space between the bed and the back wall of the room.
She couldn’t tell if she was hidden well enough. Nor could she see what transpired between her brother and Wes, so she’d just have to listen.
“Hey, man,” Jeremy said. It sounded like he was still in the open doorway. “You don’t have to dress up for me.”
He laughed at his own joke, but Wes didn’t join him.
Act natural, she urged him with what she hoped was something akin to the Jedi Mind Trick.
“You woke me to tell me about a shower?” Wes asked groggily, even though Annie knew he was wide awake now. Good. He was putting on a show.
She could sense her brother moving, his voice getting closer as he spoke. She tugged at the part of the blanket that hung off the bed, trying to pull it over her huddled form.
“Seriously, there must have been six shower heads. All spraying from different angles…”
Her brother was right there, on the bed. Shit.
“Yeah?” Wes asked.
“Fuck, yeah,” Jeremy said. “Some you could aim. Some you couldn’t. And, Jesus, this girl and I were going at it with the water pouring down on us. It was goddamn beautiful. She was beautiful—until I must have bumped a button or a nozzle or something, and, dude, the sharpest stream of water nailed me right in the fucking nuts.”
Annie cupped her hands over her ears, begging for temporary hearing loss, but Jeremy was too close.
Ew, ew, ew, ew, ew, she chanted in her head, but it was no use. She couldn’t unhear what she’d heard, and she’d never be able to look her brother in the eye again. So that was that. She’d have to move to another country. People need bookstores abroad, right?
Wes hissed in a breath. “Game over?” he asked.
Jeremy sighed. “Game over. I thought I’d fucking been shot.”
Annie heard something hit the mattress just above her head. Her brother had just flopped down onto his back.
“Sometimes,” Jeremy said—and holy shit his head was right above hers. “I think I might have too much fun for my own good.”
A hand flopped over the side of the bed, skimming the blanket above her back, and Annie dropped lower, flattening herself against the cold, dusty floor as she tried to inch under the bed to no avail.
Wes chuckled. “You are definitely not the same guy I remember from high school,” he said. “Not that I begrudge you your fun, but I don’t get it. You were always the steady g
irlfriend kind of guy.”
Jeremy blew out an audible breath. “Things change, my friend. Things change.”
Annie let out a soft sigh. This is where she and her brother differed on a grand scale. Jeremy had one—albeit major—heartbreak, and he swore off relationships altogether. Annie seemed to get disappointed by men over and over again yet kept coming back for more. Maybe Jeremy was on to something. Maybe that’s why she hid behind what Wes thought were fantasies—those fictional happy endings. It would also explain why she was hiding on the other side of the bed, trying to preserve whatever secret she and Wes were keeping. Whatever it was, it was her idea, and it was like nothing she’d ever done before. No commitment. No relationship. No happy ending, but also—no one gets hurt.
“Listen, man, I just woke up—”
“Say no more,” Jeremy said, his voice already growing distant. “Far be it from me to keep another man from taking care of his morning wood.”
“Jesus,” Wes said under his breath. “You’re an asshole,” he called after Jeremy, but there was no response.
Several seconds later, Annie heard the shower turn on in the bathroom next door. She let out a breath. Apparently she’d been holding it whenever she could.
“Have we just completely ruined the male species for you?”
Annie straightened from her Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon pose, rolling her neck to smooth out the kinks.
“I know things I never wanted to know.” She crawled onto the bed and toward him, catlike. She knew they were on borrowed time, but she needed something, however small, before she left. “Do you think there’s anything you can do to help me forget?”
He smiled and pulled her to him. “How are you with first-thing-in-the-morning kisses?” he asked.
She climbed over him, feeling him hard between her legs and, dammit, why couldn’t she stay? He groaned as she slid up his length and brought her mouth to his.
“I’m definitely pro morning kissing.”
She pressed her lips to his, and he thrust his hips toward her. She sucked in a breath and then, painful as it was, slid off him and to the floor where she retrieved her hidden clothing and shoes.
“Rain check,” she said, popping up and sliding into her jeans. She didn’t bother with the bra, just shoved it in her pocket and stepped into her boots.
“You’re killing me,” he said.
She winked. “Gotta keep you on your toes, Hartley. Also—” She kissed him again quickly. “I gotta get out of here, go home to change, and make it to the shop by ten.”
She straightened, but he grabbed her wrist.
“Are you sure you’re okay with this?” he asked. “Our arrangement? Keeping it from Jer?”
She nodded. It had only been a couple of days, but she could tell whatever was happening was good for both of them. So what if last night she’d slept better than she had in weeks? Did it matter that as she scrambled to get out of there before Jeremy busted them, the first thought that came to mind was when she could see him next?
“When can I see you again?” he asked, as if they shared the same thought.
“Brynn comes in at noon to balance the weekend sales. Meet me at my place for lunch at twelve fifteen.”
His jaw tightened for a brief moment.
“She knows. Doesn’t she?”
Annie was almost out the door when the shower water stopped.
“Yes, but she’s my best friend, and I trust her. Don’t worry. She’ll cover for me.”
His shoulders relaxed.
“Twelve fifteen?”
She nodded and spun toward the hallway.
“Hey…Emerald City!” he whisper shouted, and she turned to him once more, her pulse racing as she imagined Jeremy throwing open the bathroom door.
“Yeah?” she whispered back.
He smiled softly. “Thank you. For last night. It was—it was nice.”
She wanted to tease him, the wordsmith coming up with nothing better than nice. But he’d called her Emerald City, a nickname she knew wasn’t real…because they weren’t real. But it was still the best one she’d ever been given.
“You’re welcome,” she said. Then she heard Jeremy break into a ridiculous falsetto of Taylor Swift’s “Shake it Off,” and she hightailed it to the front door.
She would never look at her brother the same way again.
The RomCom
by HappyEverAfter admin | Leave a comment
Hi everyone! I was thinking about romantic comedies today, particularly some of my favorite tropes like friends-to-lovers (When Harry Met Sally anyone?)—and my new least favorite trope, brother’s best friend. I never realized how exhausting it can be to keep a secret from a sibling until I recently started reading a story where the heroine had to do just that. Don’t get me wrong. It’s a good book so far, but the close calls and all that would be really hard to sustain in the real world. What do you think? Favorite tropes? Why do you love them?
COMMENTS:
HEAlove says: Brother’s best friend is my favorite. You’ll have to let me know which one you’re reading. I love the idea of a semi-forbidden romance. The secrecy is great tension and can also be pretty damned fun.
4:00 p.m.
instaluv says: I’m a sucker for a secret baby. Not sure that one lends itself to comedy as much because ain’t nothing funny about a secret baby, but talk about amazing conflict!
4:25 p.m.
readergirl says: Enemies to lovers is the BEST. There is a thin line between love and hate and when that line gets crossed? So HAWT.
5:05 p.m.
15 more replies…
Chapter Fifteen
Wes paced the living room floor. Max said he’d call at three. It was five minutes past. The text hadn’t said if it was good news or bad news or no fucking news at all. Just that he was calling at three and that Wes had better answer.
It had been a week since he sent the pages, which meant his editor must have read them, right? She read, and this phone call was the verdict. If it was good, Max wouldn’t make him wait. Would he? He’d tell him straight away. Bad news had to be face to face—or over the phone if they were in different states. That way he could soften the blow with a soothing tone.
Who the hell was he kidding? Max didn’t have a soothing tone. He didn’t have a soothing anything. But he was the closest person in Wes’s life for the past few years, and whatever the news was, it was coming from someone he trusted. That didn’t change the fact that he was ready to vomit. After all, it was only his entire future as a writer on the line.
The phone vibrated, and he almost threw it across the floor. Christ, he hadn’t been this high-strung in a while.
“Hey, Max.”
“Hey, Max. He says Hey, Max when he just made his editor cry with fifty fucking pages. He says Hey, Max when his publisher wants to launch the book in New York and then send him on a U.S. tour. He says Hey, Max after I spend an hour and a half on a call with Hollywood talking about sealing this deal on the option for book one now that you are going to blow up the bestseller lists once again.” Max whistled out a breath and then laughed. “Wes, my boy, I think you just put my kids through college.”
Wes collapsed onto the couch. He had to take this all in because it didn’t seem real. He was blocked for weeks, had to ask for a freaking extension. He was almost ready to admit that he was a one-hit wonder.
And then there was Chicago. And Annie. A place that felt more like home each day he was there with the girl who lit up the room—and something inside of him. Everything had seemed to fall into place in the span of a weekend.
“You there, Hartley? Say something, goddammit.”
Wes cleared his throat. “Yeah. I’m here. Sorry. I’m just letting this sink in. A book tour? Are you serious?”
Max laughed. “You can probably add movie premiere to that, too. Eventually. You know how slow shit goes in Hollywood.”
Wes ran a hand through his hair. “No,” he said. “I don’t.” Because he was
twenty-five and still not sure this was really his life. Because the past five years had been shit. Okay, fine, the past four had gone a little better than that initial first year, but there was an emotion taking root that he couldn’t articulate, probably because he hadn’t felt it in so long.
He was—happy.
Even if the book didn’t get published—even if the movie didn’t get made—he was enjoying the writing. He was enjoying catching up with his oldest friend. He was enjoying spending time with Annie, no matter what they were doing.
He looked at the cut on his hand that no longer needed a bandage and remembered the feeling of her fingers on his palm—the warmth of her touch.
And then he realized that Max was still talking.
“…will want a detailed outline and the next fifty pages in a week. She wants to do the first pass of edits as you go, expedite the process for this book not only because we’re behind but because timing is everything. We want to publish while Down This Road is still selling.”
Wes nodded, then realized Max couldn’t see him.
“Yes. Of course. I already have more pages.” Even though he hadn’t known what his editor would say, he couldn’t stop the words now. He wrote all day and worked at Kingston’s at night. But Jeremy was working, and he had tonight off. He knew exactly where he wanted to go—and who he wanted to see.
“Send me the next fifty by Monday, then. Or sooner. You’re my star, Hartley.”
Wes opened his mouth to respond, but he could tell by the unmistakable silence that the call had ended. It was ten after three.
In five minutes everything had changed. No. In one week, it had all changed, and he didn’t want to stay in that empty apartment by himself another minute. So he grabbed his jacket and helmet and was out the door.
He didn’t think, just rode. The leaves had begun to change color but hadn’t yet fallen. The Chicago streets were a canopy of orange and yellow with sunlight dappled through the scattered openings between branches. He slowed to a stop and pulled out his phone, snapping a few pictures so he could remember this moment, so he could write it down later, using his words to transfer his experience to that of his characters, Evie and Jack. Manhattan didn’t have trees, not like this. He could move to the outer boroughs, Brooklyn, maybe. But for the first time in years, Chicago was starting to feel like home again.