by G. , Whitney
Break Up with Him, for Me
A ‘Friends to Lovers’ Romance
Whitney G.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2021 by Whitney Gracia Williams
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission of the author.
Cover designed by Najla Qamber of Najla Qamber Designs
Model: Lucas Bloms
Created with Vellum
Contents
Dedication
A Note from Whitney G.
Prologue
Sixteen weeks ago
Sixteen *breakups* ago
Breakup #1
Breakup #1.5
Breakup #3
Years Later
One
Two
Two (B)
Three
Four
Break Up #6
Four
Five
Five (B)
Six
Six (B)
Seven
Seven (B)
Break up #7
Eight
Eight (B)
Nine
Nine (B)
Break Up #9
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Twelve (B)
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Fifteen (B)
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Two (B)
Twenty-Three
Twenty Four
Break Up #12
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Seven (B)
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Break Up #13
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty One (B)
Thirty-Two
Break Up #15
Thirty-Three
Thirty Four
Thirty Five
Thirty Six
Thirty-Six (B)
Thirty Seven
Thirty-Seven (B)
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Break up #16
Break up #16
Break Up #16
Forty
Forty(B)
Forty One
Forty-Two
Forty Four
Forty Five
Break Up #16.5
Break Up #16.5
Break Up #16.5
Break Up #16.5
Forty Six
Forty Seven
Forty Eight
Forty-Eight (B)
Fifty
Fifty One
Break Up #17
—
Author’s Note
On a Tuesday
Grayson: Now
Don’t Miss Out!
Another Long Read?
Dedication
For Fun.
Pure fun.
Synopsis
Please leave your message at the sound of the beep…
* * *
Penelope, I know that it’s three o’clock in the morning, but I need to get this off my chest.
* * *
I can't give you any more advice on landing this other guy, can't tell you another “sexy” thing that you should do, or suggest a new set of filthy words that you should text him late at night.
* * *
As your best friend, I’ve reached my limit, and I can honestly say that he doesn’t deserve you.
* * *
I'm not saying all of this because I'm fucking jealous, or because he had the audacity to say that he makes more money than me. (I still can't find his name on the Forbes 500 list, and I know damn well that he's renting that Ferrari, but that's a story for a different day.)
* * *
He's not who you think he is, and the better man has always been right in front of you...
* * *
You have every reason to never give me a chance since you know me better than anyone, and you agree with all the tabloids calling me The Cocky King of New York and the Untamed Playboy of Manhattan. But I honestly believe that you're better off with someone else, and I need you to see.
* * *
I'm not asking for too much...I just want you to break up with him, for me.
* * *
This is a contemporary friends-to-lovers romance by New York Times bestselling author, Whitney G.
A Note from Whitney G.
Dear Awesome Reader,
* * *
Thank you so much for picking up Break Up with Him, for Me! I can’t wait for you to fall in love with Hayden & Penelope! This book ends at 90% and features a sneak peek of On a Tuesday.
* * *
If you want to be the first to learn of my upcoming releases, sales, and special things that I only offer to my readers, be sure to sign up for my Exclusive F.L.Y. List. (F.L.Y. = Effin Love You. Because whether you love or hate this story, I still love you for giving it a chance!)
* * *
Sincerely,
Prologue
Seventy two hours post-breakup
Hayden
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 umpteen
th 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 …
Sixteen weeks ago
No, wait.
* * *
Allow me to rewind things a little bit further.
Sixteen *breakups* ago
Yes.
* * *
Let’s start this train wreck of a love story here.
* * *
Shall we?
Breakup #1
the one that ruined Valentine’s Day
Penelope
Back Then
My brother is going to kill me …
He’s going to kidnap me the moment I step out of this dorm, drive me to an abandoned dump, and suffocate me behind a stack of burning tires. Even if it’s what I deserve for lying to him, I doubt he’ll bat an eye when he’s sentenced to prison.
He’ll probably thrive there.
In fact, I’m pretty sure that the headlines tomorrow will read, International Ice Skating Champion Found Dead in Apparent Strangulation; Older Brother Confesses, ‘I Told Her to Focus on Skating, Not Dating.’
Shit. Shit. SHIT!
“Babe? Hey, babe?” My boyfriend, Michael, pushes me against the elevator’s back wall—knocking me out of my thoughts. “Babe, you’re scaring the hell out of me. What are you thinking about?”
“Getting murdered.” I look into his eyes. “Did you notice anyone following us when we left the arena? Was the person driving that green Honda a guy who looked like a human version of the Hulk?”
“Um, wow. And no.” He tugs at the medal around my neck. “You’ve been away from me for months, finally won another medal like you wanted, and you’re thinking about getting killed?”
You would be too if you knew my brother. “Sorry, I’m just—” I struggle to think of a lie. “Tonight’s competition was a bit more intense than I thought.”
“The only thing you should be thinking about is how your loving boyfriend, i.e., me, is about to lay down this nine-inch pipe when I get you into my bed.”
I blink a few times.
I’ve envisioned losing my virginity hundreds of ways, and a guy saying any version of “laying down this pipe” has never appeared in any of them.
Also, I’ve felt him rock-hard before, and he definitely isn’t “nine inches.”
Four, maybe …
“Babe, pay attention.” He presses his lips against mine, kissing me so hard that I lose my train of thought. Once he’s rendered me breathless, he grabs my hand and leads me off the elevator and toward his room.
Pressing a kiss against my cheek, he unlocks the door and pulls me inside.
The mixed scents of old pizza, beer, and soy vanilla candles waft around me as he walks me to the bed.
“I’ve missed you so damn much.” He slides a hand under my dress, pushing my panties to the side.
As if he can sense my hesitation, he pulls back.
“Let’s get tipsy so you can get comfortable,” he says. “I have strawberries, whipped cream, and some specialty champagne I bought for you.”
“Actually, I think all I need to do is make a phone call.”
“To who?”
“Travis.”
“Your brother?” He raises his eyebrow.
“Yeah.” I nod. “He’s called me like ten times tonight, so I should probably let him know that I’m fine.”
“Your brother is a thousand miles away.” He shakes his head. “And last time I checked, he left you in Seattle to fend for yourself. He can wait.”
Good point.
Pulling me close, he runs his fingers through my hair—kissing me all over again. I wrap my arms around his neck as whispers my name. I try my best to focus on this moment. On him.
“Take off your shoes,” he says, and I kick off my heels.
Without another word, he rolls me onto the mattress and stamps a line of kisses against my neck.
As I’m threading my fingers through his hair, a loud knock sounds at the door.
“Coming!” He groans. “I forgot to put a sock on the door for my roommate, babe. Hold on.”
Walking over to the door, he looks through the peephole. “Holy fucking shit.”
The knock comes again—much louder this time, and he steps back.
For a moment, I start to believe that my premonition of murder is seconds away from coming true. I look around for our best chance at escape, but both windows are blocked with beer can towers, and I can’t risk my legs by jumping down four stories.
I consider volunteering as tribute to be murdered first, but logic steps in to alleviate my fears.
It would take Travis seventeen hours to drive here, and even if he chose to fly, he wouldn’t dare waste money on a last-minute plane ticket.
He’d also call me a million times in advance to let me know.
“Who’s at the door?” I ask him.
“Shhh.” Michael presses a finger to his lips. Then he stares at me, looking torn between jumping out of the window and hiding under the bed.
Suddenly, like a scene straight out of Mission Impossible, he runs over to me and wraps his arms around my legs. Tossing me over his shoulder, he carries me to his closet and drops me onto a pile of musty clothes.
“Stay here and be quiet, okay?” he whispers. “I love you so much.” He slams the door shut, but he quickly reopens it.
“Here. Take your shoes.” He almost hits me with them.
What the hell? I stand to my feet as he pushes a laundry basket in front of the closet door.
Through the thin slats, I watch as he puts on an erratic one-man show.
In the first act, he makes and remakes the bed—adjusting the pillows by color. In the second, he takes off his jeans and changes into a pair of sweatpants, all while humming an off-key refrain of a familiar pop song.
He ignores my whispered demands for a
nswers during the intermission, and after brushing gel into his hair, he takes a few swigs of Listerine and spits into the sink. For the finale, he rummages through his top dresser drawer for cologne, spraying a bit too much of it on his chest.
