Published by Hot-Lanta Publishing, LLC
Copyright 2019
Cover Design By: RBA Designs
Photo Credit: Rafa Catala
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All characters in this book are fiction and figments of the author’s imagination.
www.authormeghanquinn.com
Copyright © 2019 Meghan Quinn
All rights reserved.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Epilogue
The Secret to Dating Your Best Friend’s Sister - Excerpt
Prologue
EMORY
Rule number one in college: don’t lose your friends at a house party . . . especially when you’re drunk.
Technically this is a loft party though, so . . . am I really breaking the rule?
My head falls back against the wall, my empty red cup rests in my hand and is clutched to my chest as I scan the giant loft space on the third floor of a renovated warehouse. I climbed up a fire escape in heels to get here, risked the safety of my ankles to be a part of something special, because apparently this is the place to be on the weekends.
The Baseball Loft.
As I’ve been told by my best friends, this is where you earn a golden ticket invitation to the exclusive but highly sought-after locker room—where dreams come true.
Supposedly.
Don’t take my word for it.
But rumor on the street is: the best orgasms take place in the Brentwood Baseball locker room. Legends say one girl had a five-minute orgasm on the tile floors of the shower.
Five-minute orgasm in exchange for a week’s worth of ringworm. Not sure I’m interested.
But alas, I’m here, drunk off my ass, boobs practically spilling out of my shirt, and my mascara slowly melting off my eyelashes and onto my face, morphing me from new-in-town college girl, to trash panda from the raccoon clan.
“Dottie, Lindsay,” I say weakly, moving my head from side to side. “Where art thou?”
“You need help?” a deep voice slurs next to me.
I look to my right through very blurry vision and make out what I’m going to assume is an incredibly attractive man. But then again, I’m drunk—the whole mascara melting off my eyes in full swing—and I’ve been fooled once before.
But hey, I think those are blue eyes. Can’t go wrong with that . . . reasoning that will be thought better of in the morning.
“Have you seen Dottie or Lindsay?”
“Can’t say that I have,” he answers, resting against the wall with me.
“Damn it. I think they’re making out with some baseball players. Have you seen any of those around?”
“Baseball players?”
“Mm-hmm.” I nod, shutting my eyes for a second but then shooting them back open when I feel myself wobble to the side. The guy catches me by the hand before I topple over, but thanks to his alcohol intake, he’s not steady enough to hold us up and . . . timber . . . we fall to the couch next to me.
“Whoa, great placement of furniture,” I say, as the guy topples on top of me.
“Damn near saved our lives.”
I rub my face against the scratchy and worn-out fabric. “How many people do you think have had sex on this thing?”
“Probably less than what you’re thinking.”
The couch is deep, giving me enough room to lie on my side with the guy in front of me, so we’re both facing each other. He smells nice, like vodka and cupcakes.
“So, have you seen any baseball players around? I’m looking for my friends.”
“Nah, but if you see any, let me know. I can’t find my room.”
“You live here?” I ask, eyes wide.
“Yup,” he answers, enunciating the P. “For two years now.”
“And you don’t remember where your room is?”
“It has a yellow door. If the damn room would stop spinning I’d be able to find it.”
“Well . . . maybe if we find your room, we’ll find my friends,” I say, my drunk mind making complete sense.
“That’s a great idea.” He rolls off the couch and then stands to his feet, wobbling from side to side as he holds out his hand to me.
Without even blinking, I take it in mine and let him help me to my feet. “Yellow door, let’s go,” I say, raising my crumpled cup to the air.
“We’re on the move.” He keeps my hand clasped in his and we stumble together past beer pong, people making out against walls, the kitchen, to an open space full of doors. “Yellow door, do you see one?”
I blink a few times and then see a flash of sunshine. “There.” I point with force. “Yellow, right there.”
His head snaps to where I’m pointing. A beam of light illuminates the color of the door, making it seem like we’re about to walk right into the sun. I’m a little chilly, so I welcome the heat.
“Fuck, there it is. You’re good.” Together, we make our way to the door, pushing past a few laughing people and into the quiet den of his room.
Black walls, white trim, one window looking out over the water; the guy has a nice place. I scan the space, looking for any sign of my friends but come up short, only finding a large bed with a black comforter, a metal-looking desk, and a large white dresser with a giant TV mounted on top.
Not a friend in sight but what a cozy spot to take a little rest.
“I don’t see my friends.”
He looks around. “I don’t either, but fuck, my bed.” He throws his arms out to the side and bellyflops on the mattress, bouncing a few times before settling his head on his pillow.
I stare at him a few moments. Tight jeans shaping his ass and thighs, white shirt that shows off every muscle in his back, handsome face. Not a bad view. But that’s not what’s enticing me to move forward. It’s the warm and fluffy-looking pillow right next to the guy.
Like a cloud calling my name . . . Emory, come here, Emory, rest your head on me. I make one of the best decisions of my life.
Don’t mind if I do.
I propel my body forward like a dolphin slicing through the water and flop down on the mattress
, resting my head right on top of pure heaven.
Oh, that’s nice.
Real nice.
Smells like fresh soap and feels like my head is being hugged by cotton.
See, best decision I ever made.
The mattress shifts next to me, and I peep my eyes open to see the guy with the nice ass hovering over me. He glances down with heavy lids and then back up at me.
I smile lazily up at him, a little nervous that I’m puckering my lips, but honestly, I can’t be in control of anything my body is doing right now.
He’s about to tell me I’m the most luscious and beautifully smelling girl he’s ever met—like a field of flowers on an epic spring day—
“Uh, your boob popped out of your shirt.” He points at my chest. What now? Spring flower—
That’s no spring flower compliment.
I must be completely and utterly exhausted, because instead of reaching up to stuff the wayward boob back in my shirt, I cry out, “Oh, no,” but make no attempt to fix the problem.
“Does it usually do that?” he asks, looking very concerned for me. “Try to run away?”
I shake my head, the softness of the pillow making my eyes heavy. “No, this is the first time the little lady tried to escape.” Barely able to lift my hand, I tap his forearm and say, “Be a dear and lecture the poor thing and stuff it back into place.”
“I’ve never lectured a boob before.”
“You got this. You’re a strong, confident man with a commanding voice. Give that breast a berating.” When he just continues to stare at me, I shift my head to the side and rub my cheek against the smooth fabric of the pillowcase. “Don’t be shy,” I encourage him. “Just lift it up and shove it back in.”
He rests his head next to mine, the mattress shifting and bouncing with his movements. Still staring at my boob, he reaches up and cups it in his hand. “Heavy,” he says quietly.
How sweet.
And utterly romantic.
I’ve never been told I have a heavy boob, but by God, it makes me smile. Good job growing, Emory.
His abnormal but delightful compliment is the last thing I remember before I drift off and fall into a deep slumber.
It’s the last thing I remember before I wake up in the middle of the night in a stranger’s room, passed out with my boob in said stranger’s hand. So much for tucking her back in.
Welcome to Brentwood U.
Chapter One
EMORY
This map is useless.
Easy to read, my ass. I need a magnifying glass to make out any of the color-coded buildings on this thing and unfortunately, I left my magnifying glass in my other skirt. That was sarcasm, if you didn’t catch it.
Standing next to a wonky-looking tree, I try to act as casual as possible—hip popped out, interested glances, the usual—as I hide a school map beneath the pages of Pride and Prejudice, while off-handedly looking for the MacMillan building. But the wind—though subtle—isn’t making things easy.
Recently transferred from Cal State, Fullerton, I’m attempting to avoid making a fool of myself on the first day of fall classes at my new school, Brentwood University.
Unfortunately, I’m way out of my element.
For one, I know nothing about this school other than they have the best library sciences program in the country. Making the transfer a no-brainer for me the minute I realized I wanted to be a librarian. I dabbled in business at Cal State, but who was I kidding? I had no right trying to figure out micro- and macroeconomics.
A California girl through and through, Illinois is nothing like the palm trees and beaches I’ve grown up with. Don’t get me wrong, there are trees here, huge, plush, green trees everywhere, the kind of trees Bob Ross made dance on his canvas. But the smog . . . I have no idea where that is. Breathing fresh air almost feels wrong. And apparently pizza is a big deal here. I’ve heard at least three separate arguments since I’ve moved about which pizza in town is best. Let’s all be friends and be grateful there is good pizza here.
And even though this is a “small” school town outside Chicago, it’s larger than life with boisterous personalities and ivy-covered buildings that cause me to believe I’m walking on the hallowed grounds where the prosperous were educated.
Plus, I had to buy leggings for all my skirts, because the temperature doesn’t call for bare legs out here.
The wind picks up again, lifting my skirt and map at the same time. Not wanting to be known as the resident flasher on campus, I save the skirt—because even though I have leggings, I chose not to wear them today—and tamp it back down on my legs as the map lifts from my book, floats into the air, twirling and swirling only to smack a passing guy right in the face.
Whap.
“What the—?” He startles and I jump into action.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, scrambling to hold my skirt down while clutching my parted book at my chest.
The map is slowly peeled away and a pair of beautiful light blue eyes peek past the paper first, followed by the sharpest jawline I’ve ever seen, defined and tense. Light scruff matches his dirty-blond hair that is swept to the left and cut short on the sides. Dressed in a green Brentwood baseball sweatshirt and wearing a jaw-dropping smile, he chuckles and hands me the map while eyeing me up and down.
Why is he so familiar?
Those eyes.
“Not a problem, but you could have asked for help if you were lost. Slapping me with a map is an aggressive tactic, effective, but aggressive.”
That voice, that smirk. I know it from somewhere.
Feeling a light blush creep up my cheeks, I say, “Not used to the wind.”
He nods and thumbs behind him. “Lake Michigan. It’s a bitch in the winter.” He studies me for a second and then nods at my map. “Where you headed? I can help.” There is the smallest southern drawl in his voice, nothing strong, but enough to tell me he’s not from Illinois.
I know that voice. I remember specifically thinking it was hot.
Tamping down my map and folding it in my book that I snap shut quickly, I say, “I promised I’d figure this all out on my own, but looks like I might need a little help after all.”
“Don’t blame yourself; this campus is a maze with no rhyme or reason. I was lost my entire first semester. Can’t tell you how many times I was late to class.”
“That’s reassuring.”
He tilts his head to the side and gives me a small once-over. “I know you.” I don’t say anything and just as his eyes land on my chest, a smile creeps over his face, a light bulb lighting in his head. “You’re the girl who helped me find my room on Saturday.”
Oh.
Shit.
It’s the yellow-door baseball guy.
He leans forward, hands stuffed in his pockets and says, “I never forget a good pair of tits.”
As if I wasn’t blushing enough already.
“It’s a shame I passed out with my hand holding one. I’m usually smoother than that. If anything, I think I owe you a nipple tweak.”
If I opened my book back up, would I be able to sink into the pages, allowing the literature to swallow me whole?
“I didn’t even remember passing out with a tit in hand until my buddy told me he walked in to make sure I was okay, saw me cupping you while we were both passed out.” He scratches the side of his jaw. “Still getting shit for that.”
I . . . what does someone even say to that?
“Don’t worry,” he adds. “I won’t reveal your identity. Clutching a tit is between said man and a lady. No gossiping here. How’s your boob, by the way? Still trying to run away?” He chuckles. I’m mortified.
I push my hair behind my ear and stare at my Mary Janes. “Uh . . . everything’s intact. Thank you.”
“Good, you calmed the old girl down.” He takes in a deep breath, acting so casually. “Where you off to?”
Why are guys like this? So easygoing, as if they weren’t humiliated enough to warrant crawling back
into your mother’s womb? I’m pretty chill, but reliving a moment like Saturday night isn’t a top priority of mine. More like “let’s forget it ever happened” because passing out with my boob in a strange man’s hand isn’t one of my finest of moments. Nothing to scrapbook.
Wanting to move on from reminiscing, I say, “I’m looking for the MacMillan building. I have class in ten minutes, and I have no idea if I’m in the right area or not.” I need to get some distance from him. “I can figure it out though. Uh, good to see you again.” I start walking away, showing confidence in my shoulders even if I have no idea where I’m going.
“Hold up.” He grabs my shoulder before I can slink away and turns me in the opposite direction. “Going the wrong way.” Oh hell. “I’m headed there as well, so you can walk with me.” Of course he is. He grips the straps of his backpack as he nods in front of us, casually directing me where to go.
“Oh, that would be great. Thanks.” Not really, but doesn’t seem like I have a choice at this moment. I fall in line next to him and immediately feel awkward, unsure of what to say to this guy whose hand became my boob’s overnight cushion as we drooled on his ultra-comfy pillows.
Do I compliment his pillows?
Ask him if he still thinks my boob was heavy?
Tell him I don’t normally let my breasts fall out of my shirt?
Lucky for me, his easygoing personality reflects in conversation. “Are you a freshman?”
“No. Junior transfer. What about you?” Might as well fill in the awkward silence.
The Locker Room Page 1
