“Us being together,” he said. “All bullshit aside, I liked you the moment I first saw you in college. A lot.”
“You had a terrible way of showing it.”
“Maybe at first.” He furrowed his brow. “It wasn’t until after your friend told me what you thought about me that I may have a gotten a little petty.”
“Once again, ‘a little petty’ is not—Wait, what?” I sit up. “What do you mean, after my friend told you what I thought about you?”
“So, you still want to play the victim?” He shook his head. “I used to call her every night and try to come up with ways to get your attention. I did everything she said, all for you to say, ‘Fuck Tyler. He’s an asshole who I’ll never forgive.”
I stared at him for several seconds, mentally rewinding when I’d said those words—remembering them under a completely different context.
“She never told me that you were serious about me,” I said. “I never knew that.”
“Bullshit, Chassie.”
“It’s true.” I swallow. “She made it clear that you were just playing games.”
“You should call her right now.”
“I can’t,” I say.
“Why not?”
“Haven’t talked to her since she slept with my boyfriend.”
His eyes widened. “When was this?”
“Shortly after we graduated college,” I said. “I didn’t see that coming.”
“Fuck,” he said. “You really should’ve.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Tyler
Senior Year Incident #2
Cambridge, Massachusetts
“I’m sorry for being an asshole. Can we start over?”
I make sure that the words on the apology cake are correct before paying the cashier.
Despite the fact that the universe has insisted on placing Kelsie in every major class of mine for the past four years, we’ve never settled on a truce of any kind.
It doesn’t matter how many times professors praise our joint efforts on group projects, how many times we both make the same marks on tests and win the same awards.
She and I have always been “strictly business, strictly enemies.” Nothing more, nothing less.
On the one hand, I can’t help but push her buttons. She’s the smartest person—male or female, that I’ve ever met, and she’s just as competitive as I am.
On the other, she looks sexy as fuck when she gets angry, and she manages to arouse me each and every time.
She’s ruined my dating life to the point of no return since no other woman on campus compares. (I’ll never admit it, but whenever I’m out with other women, I typically picture Kelsie sitting across from me instead.)
I personally think that we should just sleep with each other and kill the tension once and for all.
Please accept my apology. Even if you hate me.
I repeat those words in my mind as I walk into the library where her best friend Amy told me she would be.
Spotting a table with our names on them, I take a seat next to Amy.
“Where’s Kelsie?” I ask.
“Okay, look.” She let out a breath. “I didn’t want to hurt your feelings, but she’s not coming.”
“Excuse me?”
“I told her exactly what you said,” she says, looking genuine. “I said Tyler wants to personally apologize for everything and since he knows you wouldn’t believe him, he gave me instructions on where to meet him tonight.”
“What did she say in return?”
She sighs and picks up her phone. Then she holds it closer to me and hits play.
Kelsie’s face appears onscreen via recorded video message. Even without make-up and in a torn Harvard sweatshirt, she’s turning me on with ease.
“I saw your message again,” she says, shaking her head. “I’ll spare you a conversation and just say…Tyler Hudson is an unbearable asshole who I’ll never forgive, but hopefully one day I’ll forget. I’d rather keep him as colleague or an enemy, nothing more. Ever.”
The video ends, and I can’t help but hit play again.
I’m not sure why, but seeing the anger in her eyes, the vitriol dripping from her lips, is making my blood begin to boil.
She didn’t even give me a fucking chance…
“Well, I’m interested in you.” Amy rubs my arm. “I mean, I’m her best friend so we do have tons in common. It might be like dating the same person, but better.”
“No, thank you.” I stand up, leaving the cake on the table. “Appreciate the offer, though.”
“Wait, what?”
“I’m only interested in dating Kelsie,” I say. “Well, was.”
“So, you’re incapable of being interested in anyone else?”
“Pretty much, yeah.”
“She doesn’t want you, and she’ll never fuck you,” she says. “Why bother wasting anymore of your time?”
I don’t answer her. I just walk away.
Beyond hurt and livid about that video, I’m now only interested in beating Kelsie in everything for the rest of the year.
If she thinks I’ve been “one-upping” her before, she hasn’t seen shit yet …
Tyler
Present Day
Manhattan, New York
The expression on Chassie’s face told me everything that I needed to know.
“I would’ve forgiven you if you’d met up with me to apologize,” she said softly. “Maybe not immediately, but—”
“Eventually.”
“Yes.”
“I wanted to start over back then,” I said. “Can we start over now?”
She nodded, and I pulled her close against my chest.
“Let’s start with hiring a team to build you a soundproof room next door,” I said. “I’ll pay for every dime of that.”
“Am I really that loud when I’m recording?”
“Yes.”
“Noted.” Her cheeks flushed red. “I’ll agree to that, after you agree that I’ll be listed as first chair on the case, even if I don’t do any work.”
“I think you’re out of your goddamn mind.” I looked at her. “But I’ll agree this one time.”
“Do we need to discuss a schedule for sex?”
“Every night will suffice,” I said. “You need to take me off your shit list, though.”
“I did that a while ago.”
“When?”
“After the café.”
“Is it still up on your Facebook page?”
“I’ll take it down once you list me as first chair.”
I laughed. “Besides your first name, you really haven’t changed at all.”
“Do you consider that to be a good thing?”
“Yes.” I pulled her on top of me so we could pick up where we left off, last night and in college. “That’s a great thing.”
Epilogue I
Chassie
Cambridge, Massachusetts
Six months later
“Is this some type of joke?” I look over at Tyler as he steers into the lane that leads towards Harvard. Of all the places to take me for a “surprise drive,” anywhere near my college hometown should be at the bottom of the list.
“We're not staying for long.” He looks over at me. “I think there’s something you'd love to see.”
“Is there a sinkhole opening up there?"
“No.” He smiles. "Your former best friend is getting a divorce, and right after she leaves the courthouse, she's getting served with the papers in my glove compartment."
"What's the charge?"
“She double-crossed the wrong professor in college over a project that made a lot of money,” he says. “Now, he wants to sue her for every dime that she's ever had.”
"You honestly think that I would take pride in watching you kick someone while she’s down?"
"You haven't stopped smiling since I mentioned her divorce."
"Can I record you while you serve her th
e papers?”
"Absolutely."
Epilogue II
Tyler
Manhattan, New York
One year later
“You can open your eyes now.” I gently pulled the silk blindfold away from Chassie’s face.
Her eyes fluttered open, and her jaw dropped to the floor. “Oh my god …”
I stood back and watched as she walked around the living room, as she ran her hands along the custom granite countertops in the kitchen.
As if she was in a trance, she roamed from room to room in silence—taking in every inch of the four-thousand square foot condo.
“You’re renting this?” she asked.
“I bought this.” I set the keys on the counter. “For you.”
“Is it too late to tell the bank I can’t afford the property tax on something like this?”
“It’s been handled.” I kiss her forehead.
“You’ve changed your mind about us moving in together already?”
“Of course not.” I walk over to the door in the corner and unlock it, revealing an apartment. “I bought the one next door, too.”
More by Whitney G.
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Break Up with Him, for Me
Hayden
Seventy two hours post-breakup
When you and I meet again at the end of this novel, you’ll owe me a huge apology.
Yes, you.
The person devouring these words.
I can see you prematurely judging me—wondering why my face is battered and bruised, or why I’m slumped over a grey leather chair in my penthouse suite.
You’re embarrassed that you ever told your friends how “drop-dead sexy” or “insanely gorgeous” I was. How I made your panties soaking wet when you saw me on the cover of Esquire or GQ magazine.
First of all, you’re welcome for that last thing. I know that your boyfriend/husband hasn’t given you mind-blowing, toe-curling sex in forever, so consider my panty-melting skills our dirty little secret.
Second of all, I’m well aware that I look nothing like the Cocky King of New York or the Untamed Playboy of Manhattan at this moment. There’s no need to remind me.
And yes, I also know that I’m bleeding all over this marble floor …
I want to tell you what happened, but I can barely move my jaw right now, and you’d never believe me anyway.
So, I’ll tell you something else.
Everything I’ve learned over the past seventy-two hours can be summed up in a single sentence: The only difference between a devastating breakup and a car crash is the fact that I would happily sign up to suffer through the latter more than once.
Broken bones, fractures, concussions, and cuts? I can deal with all of that.
The recovery time for those injuries lasts anywhere from six weeks to six months. And after doctors prescribe a medley of painkillers and intense physical therapy sessions, I can move on with my life as if the accident never happened.
A broken heart after a breakup, though? There are no painkillers, therapy sessions, or guaranteed recovery plans available. And anyone who says, “Time heals all wounds,” has never loved and lost their best friend.
“You’re a piece of shit!” My best friend Penelope’s voice suddenly comes over the penthouse speakers for the umpteenth time this morning.
I’ve been struggling to walk over and turn it off, but it’s no use. I can’t feel my legs.
“I hate that I ever slept with you, that I trusted you to be anything more than the cocky, arrogant bastard that you’ve always been,” she says. “I guarantee that I will never, ever talk to you in my lifetime.”
Beep!
“I hate you, Hayden Hunter.” She starts a brand-new message. “I. Hate. You. I hope your cock falls off and you lose every dime in your bank account. Those things are all you’ve ever cared about anyway.”
Beep!
“I left out one last thing, asshole …” Her voice cracks, and my heart burst into flames. “For the record, you were the one who started our cold war years ago. It was you and that was always your fault … As your former best friend, allow me to name our breakup like we’ve named every single one of my others.”
She pauses for a few seconds, sniffling in between breaths. “You’re officially ‘The One That Should’ve Never Happened.’ You were better off helping me land other guys than convincing us to cross the line. You also weren’t that good in bed. I’ve had far better sex with my exes.”
Beep!
There’s no sense in me reacting to that last sentence, as we both know that’s a lie.
It’s not even a good one.
Even though hearing the pain in her voice hurts like hell, this is the most she’s talked to me in days, and a part of me is glad she called.
As much as I’ve been dying to tell her my side of the story, i.e., why our breakup is not my fault, she might have a point about us crossing the line.
Maybe if I’d said, “Go ahead and keep dating him. He’s a far better man than me,” (he wasn’t), then I’d still be helping her date some other guy. Perhaps, if I’d never insisted that our relationship was worth the risk, we could’ve remained best friends and nothing more.
Then again, Penelope and I weren’t always this close.
Hell, she wasn’t even my “friend” for the first few years that I knew her.
She was nothing more than a tag-along third wheel, a woman who was meant to be “off limits” forever.
She was my (other) best friend’s younger sister …
Click here to read the rest of this super sexy & super fun novel!
More By Nicole London
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Mr. Popular
Mariah
If I’m ever granted my wish of personally kicking one person off this planet, that person will definitely be Liam Carter. (Also known as Mr. Asshole Mr. Popular) Star of the basketball team, top cheater on the national Spanish exam (there's no way he scored higher than me), and man of my nightmares, Liam walks through our school's hallways as if he owns them.
It's bad enough that he's "best friends" with my older brother, but he's also, unfortunately, every silly girl at Blue Harbor High’s wet dream. He smiles and winks at every girl who glances his way—constantly playing up his good looks, as if any of them will ever stand a chance in taking him away from his girlfriend, Miss Popular, a.k.a. Ashley Jordan. (I couldn’t make this stuff up if I tried, I swear.)
The two of them together are like a bright and colorful Ralph Lauren ad on sugar, and in moments like right now, I wish I could kick them both off the face of the earth …
They’re currently standing in front of my locker, laughing at something that probably isn’t funny. He’s running his fingers through her strawberry blonde hair and she’s massaging his broad shoulders.
“Excuse me?” I clear my throat to get their attention.
They don’t make a move. They continue standing there in their own little bubble, laughing even louder.
“Excuse me, please?” I clear my throat again.
Nothing.
Okay, fine. “Could you two idiots please step the hell away from my locker? Like, now?”
They immediately turn to look at me. Before Liam can say anything, Ashley crosses her arms and pops her gum.
“What did you just say, Maria?”
“It’s Mariah.” I roll my eyes. “And I said I need you two to get away from my locker.”
“Well, ask us nicely and maybe we’ll consider.”
“No need for that, Ashley.” Liam gently grabs her arm and pulls her to the side. Then he looks at me. “Better?”
“Much.” I open my locker, hoping the two of them will move farther down, but Ashley acts as if my intrusion never happened.
“Can you finally say that you like me back, Liam?” she asks softly. “We’ve
been together since the summer, gone on all types of dates, and you have yet to say those words to me.”
“Ashley …” He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “I have said them to you. More than once.”
“Then say them again …” She lowers her voice, and I immediately regret not accepting a locker on the sophomore hall. A locker far away from the front row seat to senior student drama.
“I really like you, Ashley,” Liam says the words in the most unconvincing tone I’ve ever heard. “A lot.”
“Finally!” She laughs. “So, can I wear your letterman jacket at the pep rally this week? I feel like people need to know that you’re mine and I’m yours.”
“We can talk about that later …”
“We can talk about it right now. Yes or no to me wearing your letterman jacket, Liam?”
I grab my books and slam my locker door shut, practically running down the hallway, so I can miss the rest of their conversation. I make my way to first period, Advanced Literature, and take a seat in the back row. I take out all the reports I’ve completed over the summer, the extra printed analyses I completed for fun, and as I’m double checking to make sure my eighteenth century poems are in order, Liam walks into the class and takes the seat next to me.
“Did you finish all the Victorian novels on the list?” he asks.
I don’t answer.
He isn’t supposed to be in this class. It’s only for the people who attended the advanced summer session, and he was nowhere to be found during those eight weeks.
“Mariah?” he calls my name, waiting for a response.
I don’t give him one.
My Enemy Next Door: An Enemies to Lovers Romance Page 7
