by Cindi Madsen
Five years ago I would’ve given anything for him to look at me as more than a friend. I’d just known he would eventually see what I had the day I’d met him—that we were meant to be together. That night during spring break, when he kissed me and we ended up in bed, I’d thought he finally realized it, too.
Ivy had repeatedly warned me he wasn’t a relationship guy and it was a bad idea to fall for him, so I don’t know why I’d been so surprised to wake up alone the next morning. He’d left a note, but all it had scribbled across it was an ambiguous “Catch you later.” I guess it wasn’t all that ambiguous, because clearly it was a blow-off, don’t-make-this-more-than-it-was letter.
Stupidly I’d thought starting out as friends meant it’d be different with us. That our connection was undeniable and I wasn’t alone on Team Together Forever. The way he went on as if lines had never been crossed crushed me, but I knew I shouldn’t blame him, since we never officially dated. He’d clearly only seen our night together as no-strings-attached fun, but that was the point now, wasn’t it? I fell for unattainable guys—er, used to.
After that experience, I changed, and honestly, the guy standing across from me was the reason for several rules in my program, including “Know where you’re at with a guy before you sleep with him.”
Realizing I was staring, I cleared my throat and took a stab at normal conversation. “So, did you move back for baseball, then?”
“In a roundabout way. The baseball thing…” His smile faded, and then he reached out and squeezed my shoulder. Guess I should’ve put my coffee in his hand to prevent contact. Not that I was experiencing butterflies—that sensation in my gut was from the caffeine jump-starting my system. Never mind I hadn’t had a sip yet. Had to be a contact high through the skin. Yeah. Definitely. “It’s so good to see you, Savannah. We should catch up.”
Nope. Bad idea. “Totally.”
“Here, let me give you my number.” He held out his hand for my phone, and I didn’t know who was in charge of my body, but whoever she was, the traitor shifted her bag and coffee cup and handed him my cell.
He typed in his number, and when he placed the phone back in my hand, he curled his fingers around mine, and a tingle of electricity fired up my arm.
Of course he was all casual sexy cool. He hadn’t been in love with himself—well, come to think of it, that might not be completely true. He’d been on the confident, borderline cocky side. That was what happened when you were the star pitcher for the Georgia State University Panthers and women constantly threw themselves at you. Anyway, I assumed, as the only curveballs I’d thrown were when I’d been aiming straight, and the ball decided it had other plans. I was that kid picked last for baseball. And basketball. All the sports, really. But knowledge bowl? Yeah, I rocked that shit.
The barista called his name, and when he moved to grab the cup, she also batted her eyes and shot him a flirty grin. Obviously his effect on women hadn’t changed.
Luckily his effect on me had. Instead of standing by like an idiot while he flirted with another girl, I took my soggy coffee cup and my muffin and hurried toward the door as fast as I could without running. I thought I might’ve heard my name again, but I wasn’t sure and no way was I looking back.
Because I, Savannah Gamble, was powerless over my attraction to the wrong type of guy. But my dating life was no longer unmanageable, thanks to the fact that I now knew how to avoid letting it get that way.
Despite all that, though, I was still going to have to kill my best friend.
Chapter Two
As soon as I’d scarfed my muffin and put caffeine in my system the old-fashioned way, I flopped on the couch, opened up my laptop to sort through emails, and…decided to call Ivy. She worked the closing shift at Azure, which meant she’d probably still be in bed, but I couldn’t wait until after my workshop to talk to her. Not without going crazy, anyway.
Ivy and I met our sophomore year of GSU, the day we moved into a house a few blocks from campus together. We’d both known our other roommate through classes and were sick of living in the dorms. Our mutual friend acquired a boyfriend over the summer, though, so she spent every spare moment at his place. Fortunately, Ivy and I immediately clicked. Then, one fateful night, she invited her cousin over to hang out. The ability to form complete sentences eluded me as I blinked at the hottest guy I’d ever laid eyes on, and I practically drooled all over Linc when he’d sat next to me. Was it any wonder he didn’t immediately fall in love?
My call went straight to voicemail. I tried once more but got the same result, so I left a message for Ivy to call me, not bothering to go into how I’d seen Linc, because I knew it’d result in a rambling, too-long message.
After placing my phone on the coffee table—screen up, so I could answer if Ivy or my clients called—I turned my attention back to my out-of-control inbox. On top of doing workshops, I worked as a personal dating coach, sometimes even for the women who’d been through the program but wanted extra help once they jumped back into the dating pool.
When I’d been studying classic literature my freshman year of college, I never expected to end up here. Fortunately, the English program I began before switching my major to sociology actually came in handy when I started analyzing my bad dating patterns.
I hated to blame Jane Austen and the Brontë sisters, but I couldn’t deny that when I met a guy who was standoffish or broody, I couldn’t help but think of him as Darcy-esque. Slightly angry and so into you he’d do anything for you and, sigh, you’d found yourself a Heathcliff (sidenote: run, don’t walk from Heathcliffs). A guy who lied, but for a super-good reason? Well, who didn’t fall for Rochester? I was still a little in love with him even knowing what I do now.
And while I loved me a good BBC classics marathon and dreamed of an occasion to wear a ball gown, I couldn’t help looking at the characters differently now. Because if a guy called you unattractive and mocked your family in real life, he wasn’t a good dating prospect. Vowing vengeance? Total red flag. Hiding his crazy wife in an attic? Probably a good idea to leave him. And then come back after he’s blind and has learned his lesson about lying. (Hey, I warned you I was still in love with him.)
When you think about everything we’ve been trained to see as romantic, though, was it any wonder so many of us were bad at recognizing the good guys from the bad boys? You know why they say bad boy, right? Because they’re immature, egocentric boys, and trust me, you want a real man.
A strong, sexy man with blue eyes, who hugged you so tightly in a coffee shop you couldn’t stop thinking about how you hadn’t felt a spark like that in a long time.
Crap. No. Bad brain. Bad, bad brain. Closing my eyes only made his face clearer in my mind. Details stood out, like that little dip between his lower lip and chin and how hot his stubble had been—that hadn’t been there very often in college. Then there were those thick, expressive eyebrows. I wonder if he still does that one eyebrow raise I could never do? I bet he does.
There’s something mesmerizing about his lips, too.
The memory of Linc pressing those amazing lips to mine crept into my brain. How it’d jolted every nerve ending into action. One kiss blurred into another and then we’d frantically tugged at each other’s clothes as he guided me into his room at the rented beach house. A dart of heat shot through me as I remembered him laying me down on the bed and kissing his way down my body.
The sex that followed…I hadn’t had sex like that ever before. Or since. So uninhibited and urgent, like we’d both been waiting for months and worried the other person might disappear if we let go.
Oh, jeez. I’m slipping. Glorifying a night that ended up hurting our friendship and left me with issues that took a lot of time and effort to overcome.
Good thing I was starting a new workshop, because apparently I needed to be reminded of my steps all over again.
…
I pushed into Azure, its familiar blue-hued lights and fancy running-water wall behind the bar a
welcome sight. It’d been a while. If they sold fancier food and installed booths instead of opting for tall espresso wood tables and stools, they would’ve swung more to the hipster crowd. But they kept the place open, the lights bright enough that you could see people on the other side of the room, and the menu ran more on the American classics and fried seafood side. Their big bragging point was the best crab fritters in the city, and they weren’t exaggerating.
Even better, Azure attracted a good mix of people, and with it being Saturday night, the place was hopping. Time to put my money where my mouth is.
Step Two: Find hope. Believe there is a guy out there who can provide you with a relationship that restores faith in love.
While bars weren’t the best place to find relationship-minded guys who restored faith in love—I was actually in the process of researching and compiling a list of better places—I was trying to cross off a lot of to-dos at once. I’d just finished Session One of my Twelve Steps to Mr. Right workshop, where I covered the first two steps of my program. The new group of women had done such a great job, bravely admitting their attraction to the wrong guys and that their dating lives had become unmanageable.
I ended the way I’d started. With hope. As I’d assured them there was a guy out there who’d restore their faith in love, hypocrisy-edged guilt dug at me. How could I preach something I hadn’t been practicing lately? Honestly, I’d allowed a bit of cynicism to creep in these past few months, and that simply wouldn’t do. Hope was a vital part of my dating philosophy, and deep down I still believed in everything I taught in my seminars. I’d seen it work for countless women, and I knew eventually the right guy would walk into my life and make me see why it never worked with anyone else.
So I resolved once again to get back out there. It’d been three months, and going by the “half the time of the relationship” rule…well, it was a month shy, but close enough. Besides, there was no time like the present, especially when I was presently all dressed up in my plum dress and matching heels.
In addition to putting myself out there, I needed to talk to Ivy—she called while I’d been teaching, of course—and both putting myself out there and my talk with her would go better with a strong drink. Multitasking at its finest.
I took a seat on a stool and waited for Ivy to finish serving the guys at the end of the bar. The pair were nice looking, mid-thirties range and obviously not together together, and no wedding rings. Hmm. The one on the right might be promising.
The dude on the left was already taken with Ivy anyway. Between her platinum hair, curves that’d make a Victoria’s Secret model jealous, and deceptively sweet face, guys went crazy for her. Few of them could handle that she was also smart, spoke her mind, and fiercely independent, with a need for a lot of personal space. While most girls would kill for a guy who’d shower them with compliments and gifts and want to spend every night together, it made Ivy feel smothered.
As a bartender, she made a killing in tips, and while she claimed the money was too good to walk away from right now, I knew the real reason she hadn’t applied for other jobs was because a serious job would tie her down. Funny enough, she was a lot like the guys I advised girls to stay away from.
When I scanned the room, a well-dressed guy who looked like he lived at the gym winked at me. Not that I wasn’t flattered, but the discretion I’d fine-tuned through the years took over. The guy oozed charm, and guys with that much confidence had a reason. Usually because girls threw themselves at him, and he, in turn, toyed with them until he got bored.
Even as my brain screamed No thank you, a tiny thread of attraction rose. Back in the day, I would’ve let my thoughts turn hazy, whisking away my common sense and allowing the delusional thought women often told themselves when faced with a guy that enticing: Maybe he’ll be different with me.
Now I knew to shut it down and redirect my thoughts back to reality.
One of the main problems with learning to find Mr. Right was that most women basically had to re-wire their brains. Often—and by often I mean 90 percent of the time—the most attractive, desirable men were the worst fit in the long run. I wasn’t sure why evolution hadn’t helped us out with this problem. I get that how-ever-many centuries ago women needed a big strong man to bash a saber-toothed tiger over the head and provide them with children who would also be good at club-wielding and foraging, but when was the last time any of us needed those skills?
Granted, I could use a helper to send to the grocery store so I didn’t have to change out of my yoga pants and deal with shopping—and then, even worse, turning that food into a meal. Nowadays, though, I could invest in a service that’d do my foraging for me, and there was a restaurant on every corner when I didn’t want to cook. And if I ever found a man willing to do both of those things for me, I’d put a ring on it, no further questions.
So why, after those caveman skills became irrelevant, haven’t we evolved? How many centuries do we have to endure heartbreaks before women everywhere are born with an attraction to men with brains over brawn? To men who want to commit? If that’s a no-go, at least give women the muscle structure to wield the clubs as well. That way they can bash idiot guys over the head and drag them down the aisle.
Hey, if Madonna’s arms are any indication, we might get there.
But since all that doesn’t bring to mind the happily ever after most of us are searching for (the dragging a man down the aisle instead of seeing him smiling at the end, not Madonna’s arms) then we have to be responsible for our own evolution.
I’d been so caught up in my thoughts, I didn’t notice Ivy had come over until she set a lemon martini in front of me. “I’m guessing you’ve decided against the J.Crew dude who’s trying to catch your eye again?”
“Yes, because I’ve evolved. No matter what, though, I am flirting with someone tonight. If I can’t find any eligible Mr. Rights, I’ll have to make do with conversation with not-so-eligible, simply so I won’t forget how.” The fact that I was so rusty only increased the pressure. I took a sip of my drink, enjoying the sweet and sour mix—she’d made it extra strong, too. As far as fortifying attempts went, it wasn’t bad.
“I’ll keep my eye out. So, I’ve been needing to talk to you forever…” Ivy leaned her palms on the bar, and I waited to see how she planned on breaking the news about her cousin being back in town. “How was the first session of your workshop?”
I licked sugar off my lip and then wiped at the granules that’d fallen onto my skirt. “My workshop? I got the feeling you needed to talk to me about something bigger.”
“I figured I’d get you talking about your job, which you’re always excited about, then you’d rattle off a few affirmations, and I could capitalize on the happy vibes. Plus, that’d give the martini time to work its magic.” She tipped up the bottom of the glass when I pressed it to my lips, causing my sip to turn into a gulp.
“Well, considering I ran into Lincoln this morning at the Daily Grind, I’m thinking the alcohol and affirmations are going to be too late.”
Ivy winced. “Shit.”
“Shit is right,” I said. “Why didn’t you tell me he’d moved back?”
“For one, I didn’t think you’d run into him before I got the chance. You know, you were the one who introduced him to the Daily Grind in the first place, so if you think about it—”
“If you say it’s my fault, I’m throwing this drink at you.”
Ivy laughed and folded her arms across the bar. “I kept waiting for the right time, but it never seemed to come up. Ever since Mason moved, you haven’t dated anyone, and I can tell that you’re…hesitant to get back out there. I didn’t want to make it worse by reminding you about Linc.”
While I’d decided it was time to move on, even the mention of Mason stung more than I would’ve liked. At least she’d revised to “hesitant” when I knew she really meant “scared.” “Linc’s ancient history, though. So over.”
Ivy gave me the not-buying-it look. That was wha
t happened when you’d been friends with someone for so long. She knew way too much about you, including when you were trying to delude yourself. “You should also know—”
“Oh, red flag,” I said, launching myself off my stool. “I’ll be back in a sec.”
“But you’re not even working tonight,” Ivy called after me.
I pulled up a seat at the table where a blond woman had just joined a man in a white-collared shirt and loosened blue tie—judging from the discarded lanyard and name badge next to his beer glass, he was traveling for business. They both looked at me like I might be bonkers. Considering what I was about to do, it was debatable, but I couldn’t help myself. Small red flags and not my clients and I’d ignore it—anyway, I pretended I could. But this was a huge red flag with a high chance of ending in pain and future distrust of men in general.
Might as well cut it off at the pass if I could, right?
The guy gave me a wary glance. Was it bad that it sent a tingle of excitement through me? The smoother the guy thought he was, the more fun. “I couldn’t help but notice when this lovely woman sat next to you, you slipped something into your pocket. Care to show us what it was?”
The girl looked at him and the guy blinked at me. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.
“I guess we can just look for the tan line on your wedding-ring finger, but considering you probably slip it off whenever it suits you, I’m not sure how accurate it’d be.” I leaned closer to examine his hand and he quickly yanked it back.
“I don’t know what this is, but—”
“Just show us the ring. Please? And your next drink’s on me.” I gave him my most winning, I’ll-torture-you-until-you-give-in smile.
With a huff, he tugged out the gold wedding band, shoved it back on his finger, and pushed away from the table. Then he made a beeline for the exit. I didn’t even have to buy his drink! Score.
