by Emma Hart
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Being Brooke
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
Epilogue
The End
Catching Carly
Best Served Cold Sneak Peek
Pre-order
About the Author
Books by Emma Hart
Copyright © by Emma Hart 2016
First Edition
Smashwords Edition
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Cover Design and Formatting by Emma Hart
Editing by Tee Tate
ONE
LIFE TIP #1 : Don't fall for your best friend.
I never knew moving out would feel so good.
Of course, if you have the...privilege...of knowing my mother, you'd know it couldn't feel anything but good. My dropping out of college didn't go over too well—like a ten ton cliff made of shit collapsing on your head, actually—but I don't want to be a kindergarten school teacher. That's her dream, not mine. Who actually wants to teach a bunch of snot-nosed brats?
Anyway, the bottom line: I've just moved out from my overbearing mother's home, away from my devil-may care brother and perfect princess sister into my first apartment and dropped out of college after two years.
We don't discuss that I'm ass-over-tit in debt because it was my second stint in college since my high school graduation. Although my grandmother's nest egg helped with that wasted first attempt at a degree.
Unfortunately, this leaves my job as a travel agency at the World's Worst Travel Agency as my life's sole achievement.
Yay, me.
Still, I've done it. I've moved out, all with the help of my best friend of ten years, Cain. Who is currently walking out of my new pink and white bathroom totally shirtless after his shower. I don't blush, as much as I want to, because Cain and I have the type of relationship where it's totally natural to wander around in your underwear.
Assuming, of course, we even touch on the border of 'normal' with this friendship.
It's been a long-ass ten years. When he moved from downtown Atlanta to Edge-Of-Nowhere, aka Barley Cross, GA, he was the new guy and, okay, I'll admit it, hot as hell, so Carly—my lifetime best friend—and I decided to take him under our metaphorical wings.
We've been best friends ever since.
But I'm also totally in love with him to the point I've considered photoshopping myself into pictures with him, so the best friend thing kinda sucks.
Hey. Don't judge me. We've all done it on Facebook. Mostly with Ian Somerholder or Alexander Skarsgaard.
Mmm. Alexander Skarsgaard.
In all seriousness, there's a torturous vibe in Cain Elliott stalking out of my shower like he owns it. Hell, it's torturous him being in my life in general some days, but there's something about water that makes his bright green eyes seem like gems and his strong facial features resemble a Greek god.
Don't even go there with the water droplet lingering on the curve of his bottom lip.
“I dunno how you did it, Brooke, but you got one hell of a shower in this place.” Cain drops his shirtless self onto the sofa next to me. He wipes the water droplet from his lip—damn—and shakes his head.
I hold up my hands between us to avoid being sprayed by water, courtesy of his dark, shaggy hair. “I did it because I tested the showers on every apartment. You know I'm picky.”
“You mean you showered every time?” His lips curl to one side.
I slap his arm and roll my eyes. “No, I just turned it on, dumbass.”
“Well, however you did it, I might have to take all my showers here.”
“I don't want your smelly male ass taking over my pink bathroom.”
He pouts a little and flutters his long, girly eyelashes at me. Honestly, he's unfairly bestowed with just about everything. Great hair, long eyelashes, captivating green eyes, plump pink lips...
I shake my head and laugh at his pathetic attempt to convince me. “I said no, Cain!” Because, seriously, if that's a regular thing, I'm gonna have to move out already.
He sighs dramatically and rests his head against the back cushions of my sofa. “You're so mean.”
“Whatever.” I nudge him with my foot. Hard. “Do I get the torture of you for dinner, too?”
“Shit! Dinner? What's the time?” He snaps his head up, and instantly, I know how the rest of this conversation is gonna go.
Same old, same old... It doesn't stop my heart sinking though.
“Almost five,” I answer. Reluctantly.
“Uh oh.”
I know that wrinkled brow, lips parted face. Inwardly, I sigh.
“I'd love to stay, Brooke, but—”
“You have to meet Nina,” I mumble and look down. “I know. I get it.”
I shouldn't even be pissed off. He's been here all day after all, but still... I need to sort my life out. Sue me, okay?
“I'm sorry,” he says sincerely, standing and kissing the top of my head before he straightens fully. I ignore the zing that always happens every time he does that. “I'd rather eat Chinese food here until I pass out on the sofa than get dressed up for dinner. Tomorrow though, yeah? She has some parent-teacher shit to go to, so I'm a free guy. Pizza and a movie?”
“Sure.” I look up and put everything I can into faking my smile. He'll see right through it, but you know. Keeping up appearances and all that.
“Aw, man, Brooke.” Cain pulls his t-shirt over his head and rubs his hand down his face. His bright, emerald-green eyes flicker with guilt. “Don't look at me like that.”
“I'm not looking at you like anything!”
“Yeah you are. You're looking at me all sad, and, hell.”
“I'm not sad. I'll just look lame ordering Chinese for one, but that's fine. Maybe I'll order servings for two so I don't look so lonely.”
He wavers by the door, his eyebrows pulling together. He presses his lips together. “Now you're guilt-tripping me.”
“And to think, I was going to buy it for you.” I sigh. “I can cope without you, Cain. Go and see Nina.” The bitch girlfriend.
He's still hesitating.
“Go!” I order, pointing to the door.
He sighs and turns. “Call you tomorrow afternoon?”
“You better.”
He winks over his shoulder and pulls his phone from his pocket, shutting the door behind him.
I sink back into the chair, unable to fight the dejected jolt that runs through my body.
Perfect Nina. There's always that one girl who has everything, right? The real-life Regina George in everybody's life.
Well, she's that girl to me.
Two years older than us, she's the kindergarten teacher I'll never be. She's als
o tall, perfectly blonde, legs as wide as my forearm, and just generally fucking perfect.
And she has Cain.
If Nina snaps her fingers, Cain goes running. Hell, if she told him to jump off a cliff, he'd find the highest one and dive into the water below.
Of course, if that happened I'd hunt the bitch down and scratch her flawless skin with my paint-chipped nails.
But the point still remains: she is everything I'm not, and I'm all too aware of it.
Mindful of my self-pity, I decide to leave the ready-made lasagna in the fridge and call for that take-out, but I decide against Chinese. I don't know any on this side of town, and given my laziness where cooking is concerned, I don't want to go out on a limb and order for one.
First impressions and all that.
Upon hanging up with Mr. Turkish Delight at the Greek deli I do know nearby, (he really is Turkish and quite nice to look at), I shuffle off into my bedroom and change into my all-in-one pajamas.
I'm twenty-four, it's a Friday night, and I'm waiting in for a take-out gyros and fries in my onesie.
My life is just so exciting I can barely stand it.
“My boss is an asshole,” I announce, sliding in across from Carly and dumping my purse on the seat next to me.
“Yes, B, we established that two years ago,” she says nonchalantly, flicking her brown ponytail over her shoulder. “What is it today?”
“First, I'm not selling enough vacations, then I'm not keeping the staff room clean enough. Well, I'm pretty sure I'm not the Saturday girl who's meant to clean out the staff room. I don't even use the stupid room.”
“And the vacations?”
“He thinks we live in Atlanta. Hello, this is Barley Cross, population deadville. Unless Mr. Barber across the road is willing to jet set to the Maldives with a pretty little thing who’s only after his money later this summer, Jet is just gonna have to deal with Disneyland, California. Disney World at a push, but the suckers that come in for that pricey crap ain't freaking flying.” I look up at the wide-eyed teen girl with her pen poised over a notepad, clearly taken aback by my ranting.
That's sadly a regular occurrence. The ranting. And the people being shocked. Restraint isn't a skill I've ever learned—unless you count the fact I've made it just over twenty-four years and haven't been arrested for murder. With my temperament, that's worth celebrating.
That's why I have birthday parties—to celebrate making it through another twelve months of dealing with assholes and not killing any of them.
I slap my menu down on the table and force my lips to form something that resembles a smile, but in all likelihood, is closer to a constipated grimace. “I'll have a bacon cheeseburger with fries. And for goodness sake, don't go easy on any of it. Especially not the bacon. Or the cheese. Or the fries.”
Yes. I know. Take-out last night, and a burger for lunch. I have a fast metabolism, so shoot me.
I also have a hint of a muffin top and a pair of ripped jeans nudging me toward getting a gym membership, but let's ignore that for now.
“Caesar salad and a bottled water,” Carly orders, handing the menu to the girl without looking at her. Working in the only bank in Barley's town center, my beautiful best friend spends all day smiling at annoying people so when it comes to lunch, she avoids eye contact with anyone that isn't me.
It's why we're friends. People? No, thank you.
“It sounds like you've had a day of it already.” Carly meets my eyes, their soft, oaky-brown color warm as she sympathizes with me.
“I have.” I sigh and roll my napkin between my fingers.
“How did moving go? Sorry I couldn't help much.”
“It's okay. It went great until Cain had to run off to deal with Miss Prissy Pants for dinner.”
“I have no idea what he sees in her. She's about as attractive as a donkey's asshole mid-shit.”
“Well, you said that, not me.” I sniff. “But, as your best friend, I am obliged to agree with you.”
“Cain would be better off with you.”
I raise my eyebrows. “But we know it's never going to happen, so can we please save my little old heart the bother and not discuss that?”
Carly knows better than to bring up my long unrequited love for our mutual best friend. Way better. I've punched her for less.
“Okay, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have mentioned it,” she gives in. “But since it's never going to happen, I need a favor.”
My dusky blue eyes snap up to her brown ones. “No more double dates.”
“Please, Brooke!” Her voice takes on a high-pitched whine. “I know the last one was...”
“A complete and utter fuck up?” I offer helpfully.
No kidding. The last guy she tried to set me up on was of the mind one should put out on the first date.
I knew the moment my knee met his dick I'd never see him again. Except that time in the grocery store when he almost dropped a bottle of wine in his haste to turn away from me.
“That's a little strong,” she says hesitantly. “You were incompatible.”
I snort. “I'm incompatible with exercise, Carly. That guy was a creep.”
She rolls her eyes. “Listen to me. Simon is adorable. Nothing like Lord Creep-a-Lot. He's new to the bank after relocating from Atlanta after his grandmother died a couple months ago.”
“Because ‘guys who've relocated from Atlanta’ is working out so well for me, right?” AKA, unrequited love for my bestie.
She ignores that. “He needs to get to know people.”
“Why don't you take him out then?”
“Because Ian asked me.”
“Ian?” I ask through a mouthful of food. “Again? Really?”
Carly looks at me disapprovingly. “He's not that bad. He's just a little... Handsy.”
The waitress sets the plate in front of me, and I pull it closer to squeeze some ketchup on the surface. After a jab around the red sauce, I shove the fries in my mouth, staring at Carly.
Handsy? Handsy? Ian was more than handsy. He was a human octopus.
I swallow my food. “Honey, I hate to break it to you, but his hands crawl more than the bugs Jeremy Highfield used to put down our dresses in pre-K.”
She huffs, chewing her rabbit food slowly. “I know, but he's a really nice guy, so I'll give him one more chance. Besides, it's not like this town has a million choices.”
“You talk like Barley Cross is the only place we'll ever live.”
“Nobody in five generations of our families have ever left Barley. We won't leave. We're too rooted in climbing trees and fishing in little ponds and off the pier and stuff.”
We both sigh, propping our chins up on our hands. She's kinda right. We go for college and vacation then, boom, you're back.
It's the Barley Cross Boomerang, bitch.
“Maybe a hot, rich guy stopping in to visit his grandmother will pop by the travel agents later and be dazzled by my superior wit and sweet smile,” I suggest, shoving another fry into my mouth.
Carly raises an eyebrow.
I shrug. “Hey, a girl can dream. Let me do that at least.”
“Yeah, but you should work on the dream of the “superior wit and sweet smile” before the hot, rich guy comes true and you screw it up.”
Bitch.
She glances at the watch on her wrist and stands. “We have to get back.”
“Great. Because another four hours of Jet is exactly what my patience needs.”
Carly glances at me as we pay. “You’re due on your period, aren’t you?”
I look up to the ceiling, counting in my head. “Ten, twelve, fourteen... No. Not for a week or so. I guess I just took one too many bitch pills this morning.”
She nods and we push open the diner’s glass doors. “I can tell.”
I screw up my face. “Am I really that bad?”
She nods again.
Oh well.
TWO
LIFE TIP #2: If you don’t read the calorie count, t
hey’re still going to shrink your clothes. Sadly.
I adjust the waistband of my fat pants and debate internally whether to cook the pizza or call for Dominos.
I shouldn’t actually be doing either, given the gyros last night and burger for lunch. I should be reaching into the fridge for my, ahem, ready-made lasagna.
Because that’s so much healthier. Well, kinda, I guess. There are less carbs, right? Maybe.
I open the fridge and pull it out off the top shelf, then slide off the cardboard sleeve. Huh. There’s actually not a huge difference in the calories, and I could exercise tomorrow, and—
The container slips right out of my hand to the floor. The lasagna inside mushes up into a mess of meat and pasta and sauce. It looks like a bucket full of puppies all projectile vomited into the container, so... Yeah. That’s not happening.
Shame.
Okay. It’s definitely pizza, but which one? Frozen or take-out? Hmm...
My apartment door opens, revealing my six-foot-three, muscular, handsome, builder best friend.
I need to rein it in. Hello, cheesy romance novel thoughts.
“Oh, it’s you. Come in, pal. Thanks for knocking,” I drawl, swinging my gaze toward him.
He grins, looking at me standing in the middle of the kitchen. Then his green eyes drop to the lasagna on the floor. “Did you do that deliberately?”
“No.” I look from him to the box. “It slipped.”
He responds with a low chuckle. “Sure it did, B. I know what you’re thinking, and it’s Dominos every time.”
I wrinkle my face as I pick up the lasagna and throw it into the trash. Now I’m gonna have to go shopping tomorrow. Damn my butterfingers.
Cain kicks the door shut, plastic bags swinging from his hands. The sound of glass clinking together has me perking up, because that sounds like wine.
How do I know? I’ve trained my ears to recognize it. And yes, it is a distinct sound, before you ask. This is a finely-tuned skill, that one day, a future CEO will appreciate right before they hire me.
I point at the bags accusingly. “What are they?”
He heaves them onto the counter next to me. “Wine and beer.” He pulls a six pack of Coors Light and two bottles of zinfandel blush from the first bag.
