The Undateable

by Sarah Title

  Also by Sarah Title

  Kentucky Home

  Kentucky Christmas

  Home Sweet Home

  Snowed In

  Two Family Home

  Practice Makes Perfect

  And read more Sarah Title in

  Delicious

  The Most Wonderful Time

  the Undateable

  SARAH TITLE

  ZEBRA BOOKS

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Also by Sarah Title

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Epilogue

  Falling for Trouble,

  ZEBRA BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2017 by Sarah Title

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  Zebra and the Z logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-1-4201-4183-2

  eISBN13: 978-1-4201-4184-9

  eISBN-10: 1-4201-4184-8

  For Brock,

  who keeps me sane on Sunday mornings.

  You’re electric, darling, and I love you for it.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The plight of the misunderstood librarian is a real one, and I want to thank Jeff Waller for his help with the realities of academic librarianship in a small-ish college library. I’m glad I was able to give Bernie some coworkers.

  Also, thanks to Trixie Stix and the Chemical Valley Roller Girls for introducing me to the world of roller derby back before I was even thinking about writing romance novels. I’m glad I finally got to use some of the knowledge I picked up.

  That said, any errors I made vis-à-vis college libraries or roller derby are totally my own, the former because I am a bad listener, the latter because I was drunk on adrenaline. And beer.

  I always have to thank Alicia Condon for being gentle with me as I fight with plots and politics. Ladies, if you can find an editor who lets you talk about the gender dichotomy in your romance novels, go with that editor.

  Louise Fury, agent extraordinaire, thank you for believing that big things would happen.

  For my mom, who pushes my books on all of her unsuspecting friends, and my dad, who reads them all even though we don’t talk about it. We don’t have to talk about it, btw. Mom told me your secret.

  Thank you to Aunt Barb for being the OG Bernie, who lives her principles and made me the fresh-mouthed independent woman I am today.

  And thank you thank you to all the readers who have reached out or reviewed my books. I still can’t believe people I don’t know IRL read my books, and it does wonders for my delicate (fresh-mouthed, independent) ego.

  Kisses!

  Chapter One

  Dear Maria,

  I’m about to graduate from college and I think my boyfriend is going to propose. My parents really like him, but they say we’re too young to get married. I really want to start a family, and I love him so much! We’ve been through everything together. We lost our virginities to each other. We’ve been talking about what we’ll do after graduation, but he’s never brought up marriage.

  If he asks, should I say yes?

  Distressed About Saying Yes in Alamo Square

  Dear Distressed,

  You are so young. I can barely remember what it was like to be that young, except that marriage was the last thing on my mind. Marriage is a lifelong commitment, and who knows what will happen when you get out in the real world? You might discover that the path you set yourself on is not the path you were meant to be on. Your boyfriend might find the same thing. Hell, you might want to have sex with other people!

  Think about that. He is the only person you’ll have sex with for the rest of your life. Unless you have an open marriage, which is definitely something you should bring up before he asks.

  Imagine your perfect life together. Imagine what your house will look like, how many kids you’ll have, what your career will be. Nice, right? Now imagine that none of that happens. You have a dead-end job that you took just to pay the bills. You can barely afford the kids you have, or maybe you find out you can’t have kids. You live in the Bay Area, so guess what, you can’t afford a house. Life sucks. Is your boyfriend still the person you want to be with?

  I can’t tell you what to do, Distressed, but if I could, I would tell you: when he asks, say, “Hell, no.”

  Kisses,

  Maria

  IT WAS SEVENTEEN PAST ONE and Bernie was hangry.

  She thought longingly of her midmorning banana, abandoned and lonely on her kitchen counter, and of her leftover lentil soup, waiting patiently in the insulated bag under her desk. All of her food was so far away. And even if it was right in front of her, she wouldn’t eat at the information desk. It would set a bad example. She had enough trouble keeping her student workers off their cell phones while they were on the desk; she didn’t need them eating, too.

  She looked at the clock again. Eighteen after one. Carly was a wonderful employee in many ways; she was friendly and she seemed unflappable in the face of panicked procrastinators. She had ended up in the library as her work-study assignment, but after four years, she was now considering library school. Bernie was glad. She’d be a great librarian.

  A late librarian, but a great one.

  As if Bernie’s rising hunger-induced annoyance had conjured her up, Carly came sprinting through the lobby, slowing down to a power walk once she crossed the threshold of the library. She mouthed a wincing apology to Bernie, who just shrugged. She could write her up, but Carly was a senior. She’d be graduating in a few months, and anyway, Bernie was about to eat lunch so she didn’t really care.

  “I’m so sorry.” Carly was breathless when she finally reached the desk. She dropped her heavy shoulder
bag on the floor next to the reference computer. “Evan was . . .” She blushed, then stopped. Bernie was grateful. She’d learned way too much about Carly’s personal life, and the oversharing had only multiplied since Carly had started dating Evan. Evan was a musical theater major—not gay—and they were supposed to be saving themselves for marriage. Bernie ignored the alarm bells and minded her own business, or as much as Carly would let her mind her own business. For example, a few weeks into the new semester, Carly was floating around and more tardy than usual, and when Bernie asked her what was up, she got a long, metaphor-filled description of Carly’s deflowering by the not-gay (and apparently not-waiting-for-marriage) Evan.

  It was sweet, Bernie reminded herself. Young love and all that. She had been young and foolish and in love before. Carly would grow out of it, just as surely as Bernie had.

  That was depressing, she thought.

  Which was surely just the hunger talking.

  “There’s nothing carrying over,” Bernie explained, her mind half on her lunch. In addition to soup, there was also a cupcake. She had forgotten all about the cupcake. Her stomach growled. “It’s art history time again,” she said, referring to the annual Intro to Art History term paper rush they got this time in the semester. “I pulled a few of the books this morning”—she pointed to a small cart of giant art books near the desk—“so if you could check the links on the Web site, make sure they’re all still good . . .”

  Bernie was distracted by a big crowd of students entering the library. Her heart sank even as her public service smile lit up. She couldn’t leave Carly to handle this many students by herself. Carly was unflappable, but Bernie wasn’t a sadist.

  “Hi, can I help—”

  Bernie started to greet them, thinking they’d all come over from a class together and maybe they wanted a tour. Bernie didn’t have any tours on her calendar, but that never stopped a professor from sending a group over. But then they all stopped just shy of the desk and turned their backs to her. Were they protesting? Who would protest the library? Then she heard music coming from the back of the Student Blob, and she was just about to launch into her autopilot Please-Use-Headphones, when the Blob started to shake.

  Oh my God, she thought. They’re dancing.

  She looked at Carly, as if The Young Person might have some explanation for the Undulating Student Blob (was this a thing the kids were doing, Bernie wondered while reminding herself that she was only thirty-one, still a kid, maybe). Carly, however, looked like she was on the amused end of the bemused spectrum. Kids, Bernie thought. Then: I am very, very hungry.

  Then the lyrics started, and Bernie recognized the pop song—something about love forever and crap like that. But her Old Person Brain remembered that it was sung by a woman, and this was not a woman singing. The Dancing Blob parted and there, like a singing Moses, was Evan. He was holding a small microphone plugged into his cell phone, karaoke-ing over the original song. As he sang and the music crescendoed, the dancers moved in a joyful, if not totally coordinated, circle around the information desk. Bernie watched them swish and swirl around, wondering where they were going to go next. She started to say something to Carly, but Carly was not watching the dancers. She was watching Evan, who had swirled up to her and onto the desk. He was dancing on the information desk. That was not allowed. Bernie should stop him.

  Then a couple of the burlier dancers were behind the desk—another thing Bernie should stop—and they lifted Carly, who squealed, but took Evan’s hand as he led her in a few complicated but clearly familiar moves on the desk.

  Two people dancing on the information desk. Bernie should definitely not just stand there with her mouth open.

  Then the dancing stopped, and so did Evan’s singing, although the music continued in the background. Bernie remembered this part. This was the part where the singer talked to the singee about how much she loved him and there were some metaphors about sunshine and butterflies. But Evan wasn’t metaphorizing. He was getting down on one knee. Then he was reaching into his pocket. Then, accompanied by the sound of dozens of undergraduate cell phones taking pictures, he pulled open a small square box.

  “Carly Monica Hilbert, you have made me the happiest man in the world. Will you make me even happier by becoming my wife?”

  No, no, no, thought Bernie. This isn’t right. They are way too young. They just started drinking legally—they couldn’t possibly be ready to get married!

  But Carly wasn’t listening to Bernie’s silent objections. She wasn’t looking to her mentor for advice or approval. She was just looking at Evan, her eyes shining, and she nodded.

  There was a surge from the crowd as Evan stood and twirled Carly in his arms, then shakily put the ring on her finger.

  Bernie was never going to get to eat lunch.

  * * *

  Colin woke up on a couch that was not his own.

  He knew this because his legs were hanging off the end, and his legs did not hang off the end of the giant lounging sofa he had in his living room. Also, he was sticking to the fake leather. Not only would he never own a fake leather couch—and this one was really fake—he also knew that he didn’t own a fake leather couch. He didn’t own a real leather couch. Steph would never allow such an affront to the animal community as a leather couch in their house. Never mind that she had a pretty extensive collection of leather shoes, which he regularly pointed out, as was his prerogative as an older brother. However, since he was not on his own couch, the chances of his little sister being here were pretty slim.

  He sat up, unsticking his legs from the couch while wondering why his legs were so sticky when he was pretty sure he had been wearing pants last night. He lifted the edge of the Transformers comforter covering his legs and confirmed that, yes, he was in his boxers. Also, his head hurt. Also, where the hell was he?

  He looked around the room with squinting, hungover eyes. There were posters for martial arts movies in cheap frames on the wall, an artful tower of beer cans in the corner, and a bed with three heads sharing the lone pillow.

  Where. The. Hell. Was. He?

  As if sensing Colin’s very confused perusal, one of the heads lifted and offered Colin a weak, groovy smile. “Hey, man,” the head said, and Colin nodded hello.

  “Have you seen my pants?” Colin whispered. This was a phrase he’d hoped never to say again after a particularly wild semester abroad in college. And yet, here he was. Wherever he was.

  The head lifted an arm and pointed to the easy chair in the corner, on which another guy was sleeping, his mouth open and drooling onto Colin’s jeans.

  Great.

  “I got ’em,” the head said, and Colin went to stop him—surely he could retrieve his own pants—but the head was already climbing up and over his bedmates, who barely stirred, and deftly extricating Colin’s jeans with barely a jostle of Drooly’s head.

  “Thanks,” Colin said, and stepped off of the couch and into his pants. “Uh—” he started. He wasn’t sure how to address this situation. He’d had drunken one-night stands before, and he’d woken up with a woman whose name he’d forgotten more times than he should probably admit. But this was new. A platonic drunken crash with strangers. At least, he assumed it was platonic. He couldn’t really remember....

  The head, which was attached to a tall, skinny body, tilted toward the door out of the living room or bedroom or whatever it was, and Colin followed him into a small but bright kitchen. He wished he had sunglasses. But at least he had pants.

  Tall Head started making coffee, and Colin thought he might kiss him, which reminded him that he had no idea what had happened last night.

  “Drake,” Tall Head said, holding out his hand.

  “Colin,” said Colin.

  “I know,” laughed Drake. “You told us last night. A lot. Colin Rodriguez, Party Reporter.” Oh, God. That was Colin’s line from his first job as a nightlife reporter at an East Bay alt-weekly. He thought he’d left that particular bro persona behind after his im
mediate post-college life.

  “Geez,” he said, recognizing Drunken Asshole Colin Who Thought He Was Being Funny. “Sorry.”

  Drake shrugged. “Happens. We tried to put you in a cab home, but you couldn’t remember your address. Figured it was better if you just slept it off here.”

  “I really appreciate it, man.”

  Drake waved him off, then poured him a cup of coffee. Colin thought he might love Drake.

  “I think we’re out of milk,” Drake told him.

  “S’cool. Black is good,” Colin said, and he meant it. If he could have injected the coffee into his veins, he would have.

  It was good.

  “So . . . you live here?”

  Drake laughed at him again. Colin blushed. This was the most awkward morning-after conversation he’d ever had, and he’d had plenty. And this time, he hadn’t even gotten anything for his trouble.

  Well, he was pretty sure he hadn’t gotten anything. He hadn’t gotten anything memorable, at least.

  “Yeah,” Drake said. “Me and my boy who was on the chair. The two girls were . . . visiting.”

  Oh my God, Colin thought. I slept through an orgy.

  “Listen,” Drake told him around a mouthful of toast. Where had he come up with toast? “I gotta get ready for work. You’re welcome to hang out. . . .”

  “No! No, that’s okay. I’ll, uh. I’ll just go. Thanks for the coffee.” Before anything else dumb could happen, Colin walked out of the apartment, down the hall, and into the bright San Francisco day.

  At least he hoped it was San Francisco.