Can't Match This: A Friends To Lovers Romantic Comedy

by Xavier Neal

  She takes the offered glass bottle. “I don’t like it in there.”

  “It belongs in there. That’s what entertainment rooms are designed for.”

  “It’s drafty.”

  “Change the temperature.”

  “It’s dusty.”

  “It’s not. Margo and her team clean the house three times a week.”

  Loading music floods the speakers, and she hits me with a teasing smirk., “Then perhaps it’s because I love adding anarchy to your otherwise perfectly systematic existence.”

  “That I can believe.”

  We laugh together and pop the tops to the bottles.

  She pauses the game before propping her feet on the expensive custom-made coffee table that has the Hellcats logo carved into it. “And how was work?”

  I drop the bag by my feet and take the same position. “The usual.”

  “But…”

  My head tilts in question.

  “Something got fucked up. I can tell by the way your tie is loosened.”

  Her observation forces me to look down at the item.

  “You fidget with it when you’re pissed. If it’s a little too far left that means it was your fault but won’t admit it. If it’s a little too far to the right that means it wasn’t your fault, but you could’ve prevented it. And if it’s dead center,” she motions at it, “and that far from your neck it means someone else severely fucked up, but now you have to fix it.”

  There’s no use in trying not to smile.

  Sometimes I forget how impressive she is.

  Her attention to detail is remarkable. Always has been. It’s why taking a path where she could apply said skills made direct sense. Lenny can read body lingo like it’s her first language instead of third. She can coach you into confessing things you didn’t even know you were hiding and build up your confidence to bulletproofing levels. While her day-to-day life typically manages to mask her phenomenal ability to connect with individuals, I know it’s there.

  I’ve experienced it in multiple capacities that started back in college with a casual comment about how being a great player didn’t directly correlate to being a great person.

  “Wanna talk about it?”

  There’s hesitation to speak.

  “Sabes que quieres. You know you do.”

  An exasperated sigh slips out. “Junior agent fucked up a couple deals that his senior agent couldn’t fix, so they want me to step up to the plate and knock it out of the park.”

  “Those are baseball references meaning this is an MLB situation.”

  “I fucking hate dealing with baseball players during baseball season.”

  She offers me a small grin. “Si, but it always ends with free tickets.”

  “True.”

  We clink our bottles together in a small celebratory way.

  “I’ll be out of town tomorrow and Thursday, so you’ll have to wait to schedule your next shitty match until the weekend.”

  Lenny’s eyebrows bounce into the air. “It wasn’t shitty!”

  “It was terrible.”

  “You’re exaggerating.”

  “Wish I was.”

  “No need desear because you are.”

  “Unfortunately, I’m not.” Stretching one arm across the back of the leather couch, I inform, “Not only was she one of the worst dates I’ve been on, she set the record for shortest.”

  “How long did you stay?”

  “Thirty-five minutes.”

  “That’s not even enough time to get to know someone!”

  “Wrong.”

  Lenny adjusts herself to completely face me. “It’s not, OG. I’ve spent more time with taco truck vendors than that.”

  “Weird.”

  She flashes me her middle finger.

  Unlike the ABC Princess I went out with earlier, she’s never had a manicure.

  “What was wrong with her?”

  “Nauseating word choice aside?”

  “¿Qué?” She pushes up her glasses. “What does that mean? She was too crass?”

  “The complete opposite.” I sneak a sip of my beer. “She censored herself.”

  “Okay, so, she’s a fucking lady.”

  “It was like trying to engage in an adult conversation with a special guest on Blue’s Clues.”

  Lenny cringes and has a gulp of her beer.

  “And she gave me an imaginary sparkle sticker.”

  “Did she at least try to put it on your penis?”

  “Nope. My hand.”

  Another wince hits her face.

  “Keep the dates up at this rate, and our deal will easily be a blowout.”

  Her lips scrunch to the side of her mouth.

  “What were you even thinking?” I continue to chastise, doing my best to include mirth in my tone. “Please, walk me through that fucked up thought process.”

  Lenny doesn’t cower at the challenge, and the sight of her preparing to fire back stirs my cock.

  Damn, her fierceness is sexy.

  “Believe it or not, on paper you met the three out of five-bar minimum required to be connected. You actually had four.”

  “How? Did you lie on my profile?”

  “No,” she casually replies between gulps. “You matched in core categories. You were both professionally driven, and career cemented. You both valued financial responsibility. You both preferred hard work to handouts. You both preferred making long term plans as opposed to short ones. And on a more fun note, you both love the beach.”

  The last line receives a sarcastic glare. “Really? The old long walks on the beach bullshit?”

  “Never said walks.” Lenny quickly reprimands. “Just said both of you love the beach. Which you do.”

  “And you tolerate.”

  “For you.”

  My expression softens, and Mick’s earlier request begins creeping through my mind.

  Is this it?

  Is that the boyfriend door being cracked, or am I reading too much into this shit?

  And why can’t women wear a flashing green light for go or flashing red light for fuck off? Wouldn’t that make everything much easier for everyone?

  The temptation to say something meaningful is unexpectedly squished by the shift in topic. “Wanna shoot shit in the face and blow off some steam?”

  I swallow the small courage that had crept up my throat. “Fuck yeah.”

  “Go grab your controller. I’ll load up a game.”

  My eyes land on the remote beside her. “That is my controller.”

  “No. That one’s mine.”

  “No, yours is black. Mine is red.”

  “That’s incredibly offensive.” She snatches up the controller. “Just because part of my familia is afroamericano does not mean I have to play with that controller, OG.”

  Her playful tangent paired with the nickname successfully wins my surrender.

  She gave it to me when some asshat who was also named Gideon came sniffing around her sophomore year. Lenny’s reassurance that I was number one and would always be number one in her eyes gave me the inspiration to tell her we should try to hook up…Sadly, the day I finally convinced myself to find my nuts and do it, she was busy letting the other Gideon grope her against her dorm door.

  It was a shitty start to the season that would be my last.

  After grabbing my controller, a very violent, very competitive game commences. Our first round is a head to head who can kill the most zombies. Her rapid button mashing is obnoxiously impressive and her un-sportsman-like gloating gets on my last fucking nerve. The next round I vote for a rematch in headshots only mode. She over confidently agrees, assuming the same tactics will more or less work, however, having her ass handed to her unleashes the green-eyed demon that doesn’t handle losing any better than I do. We curse at one another. At the screen. Drink more beer and compete for more kills. All the problems and irritation of the day are replaced with pure drive to not let my balls be handed to me in a picnic basket by a b
eautiful, bobble-headed beast.

  Lenny loses for the fourth time in a row and attempts to throw the controller. “You motherfuc-”

  “Ah. Ah.” I swiftly intervene, snatching the remote out of her hand. “You’re not about to break my flat screen again. Replacing this shit is expensive.”

  She sneers her nose.

  “Wanna play something else or call it and watch Sportscenter?”

  “Pretty sure they’re just doing the best highlights from the season to get everyone riled up for the finals.” Lenny reaches for her beer bottle. “I’d rather play the finals than watch reruns while waiting for them to happen.”

  I can’t stop myself from cocking an eyebrow. “Do you have any idea how long that would take?”

  “Basically, all night.”

  “Yeah, and I’ve got a plane to catch in the morning, Lenny.”

  “Morning like, ‘hey it’s eight a.m. somewhere’ or-”

  “Morning like my jet leaves at six.”

  My best friend groans her disapproval.

  She doesn’t see anything that early unless she’s been awake since the day before.

  “Fine. No Basketball. Soccer?”

  “I’d rather not watch you spend two hours drooling over your Drake Lenzi avatar.”

  “That problem could easily be solved by you just introducing me to him. He is one of your clients.”

  “No.”

  “And why not?”

  Because I fucking love her and refuse to have her swept off her feet by the biggest name in the league.

  That’s probably not the dating conversation segue Mick was referring to.

  Childishly, I retort, “Because.”

  “Because what?”

  “Because it would be unprofessional.”

  “How is introducing him to a slightly attractive admirer unprofessional?”

  Slightly attractive? Try permanent blue balls level of painfully beautiful.

  I brush off the question by grabbing my nearly empty bottle.

  “Afraid I’m gonna go all Swimfan on him?”

  The idea of her having sex with Drake churns my stomach. “I’d just rather you not join his rabbit race to repopulate the Hundred Arce Woods.”

  Lenny rolls her eyes and complains, “I’m starving.”

  “Is that why you’re moody? You’re hangry?”

  She quickly nods.

  “What do you want? It’s probably too late for takeout.”

  “But it’s never too late for tacos…”

  It’s my turn to roll my eyes.

  “Come on! You have all the important ingredients to make me breakfast tacos.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “It’s my job to know that!”

  “You bribed Margo, again, didn’t you?”

  A wicked smirk soars to her full lips.

  Lips I’d love to have wrapped around my…

  I momentarily squeeze my eyes shut.

  What the fuck is wrong with me today? Why’d I let Mick get in my fucking head? Why can’t I just enjoy a normal night in with my best friend without overthinking every word that comes out of her mouth? Without second guessing every glance? Without wanting to slide my hand underneath her gray tank top?

  “Please, OG,” Lenny’s whining wins my attention. “Por favor.”

  Melting at the request made in a foreign language, I slowly nod, stand, and extend my hand for her to take. “Come on, loser. I’ll make you a condolences meal.”

  She glowers at the comment but willingly accepts the declaration.

  Hand in hand the two of us cross from the living room to the kitchen on the opposite side of the house.

  I secretly fucking love and loathe these moments.

  The ones I can pretend she’s touching me because she wants me, yet loathe that she’s not actually mine.

  When we arrive in the room, she takes her infamous seat on the counter space while I begin grabbing items from the fridge and placing them beside the induction stove.

  Just as I grab the mixing bowl from the shelf, Lenny reminds, “Remember the sal, pimiento, y ajo.”

  I glide over to the spice rack and retrieve the requested items of salt, pepper, and garlic. Once I’ve finished, I take them along with the eggs and the bowl over to where she’s waiting. A mocking smirk slides onto my face. “You must really be fucking starving. That’s more consistent Spanish than normal.”

  She shoots me a similar grin. “You know how I feel about tacos.”

  “Everyone knows how you feel about tacos.”

  Lenny snickers and playfully punches me in the bicep. It surprisingly rebounds into a grip. “You actually got your hair cut today.”

  I lightly chuckle at the comment and reposition myself between her open legs, loving the way she rarely ever sits ladylike. “And yet you noticed where my tie was hanging first.”

  “That’s obviously more important.”

  “Obviously.”

  Her fingers slide up the nape of my neck and softly graze the edge line. “You must’ve gone to Shalinda.” The light touch slinks around to my jawbone. “She’s the only one you let shave your face.” My body leans forward into the sensual caress on instinct. Lenny’s index finger slides underneath my chin lifting it. “Looks good…”

  Our eyes lock, and for the first time in my entire life, I do the exact opposite of what I’ve trained myself to. I hastily mesh my mouth against Lenny’s, eyes shutting tightly preparing to endure the shame from most likely misinterpreting the moment.

  When she slaps me for this shit, I’m punching Mick in the face.

  The squeak of surprise is expected, but the parting of her lips isn’t.

  My heart hammers hard enough inside my chest to knock the wind out of me, yet I don’t bother breaking away for air. Her tongue lightly searches for mine, and the unforeseen invitation to continue the kiss breaks the last of the restraint I was holding onto. I capture her tongue. Stroke it. Stroke it harder. Extract every flavor I manage to encounter. Faint hints of our favorite beer bury themselves into my senses until I’m buzzed all over again. I let my tongue sync to the spinning of my mind, losing all ability to see where the line of friendship between us ever existed. Lenny repeatedly moans into my mouth, and I desperately attempt to devour the delicious sound. One arm wraps around her figure, fingers anchoring onto her ribcage while the other roughly grips her outer thigh, both being used to tug her closer.

  Keep her pressed against me.

  Keep her pinned to this one scenario I’ve been praying for since I saw her smile at me during that fucking frat party.

  Weak whimpers encourage me to slow down my movements, but the hostile hold she has on the middle of my shirt prevents me from doing so.

  Our tongues continue to callously collide, crashing into each other without care or concern to what any of this shit means outside this moment, as if knowing this may be the only chance either of us get to experience this.

  The possibility of that being true prompts my hand to slide higher up her thigh.

  Lenny abruptly pulls back, hard nipples taunting me with brushes during her struggle to regain composure. I brace myself for the inevitable rejection. The rehearsed lines I knew would come, though I mentally begged it wouldn’t be this soon. Once more, she manages to stun me. “Our deal is still in place.”

  Fuck…Not the best time for that talk.

  Unsure of what I should say or what she wants me to say causes me to remain silent.

  “Okay?”

  No.

  That’s what I want to say.

  That’s what I should say.

  Her brown eyes anxiously search mine telling me everything she’s verbally not.

  She’s scared.

  Scared of this.

  Scared of us.

  Scared of what happens next if we just abandon fifteen years of friendship to…fuck? Date? Do everything and anything we haven’t because of the previous status of our relationship. She wants this, but know
ing Lenny, going into the whole thing with a clear plan or idea or expectations will convince her it’s a huge mistake.