1
Off. Limits.
Those two words had pretty much been the everlasting definition of my relationship with Macy Sinclair, my hot-as-all-fucking-hell roommate and best friend.
We’d known each other since first grade. Went to the same schools. Were neighbors. I mean, Macy wasliterallythe girl next door. Through those formative years, we’d grown inseparable, and while in middle school, the two of us made a pinky-swear pact that our status would forever and always be best friends.
By our first year of high school, I wanted nothing more than to kick that dumbass pact in the balls. I’d found myself catching feelings for Macy, learning it was difficult to resist that snarky charisma, flawless face, brilliant smile, lucid-blue eyes, and her impeccably round ass. Clueless me had no idea she’d done the same—developed feelings for me stretching beyond the ties that bound our friendship. Had I taken notice, watched for subtle hints, glances,anykind of dead giveaway, God knows I would have done this shit differently.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Me.
The emphatically correct procession of F-bombs summed up every single emotion coursing through my veins.
Shock? Elation? Bitterness? Regret?
I’d just proposed to my girlfriend with ambitious plans to tie the knot six months later, mere weeks before the long-awaited NFL draft. Life, as I saw it, was mapped out. Get married, then get scooped up by one of thirty-two pro-football teams.
Things were decent. Un-freaking-eventful.
Then…wham!
An out-of-nowhere, presumably unintentional,Dear Diaryentry posted on Macy’s book blog. A life-shaking notification sent to my phone via theConfessions of a Bookaholicphone app. I’d made it a habit of reading every damn one of her entries.
Calm. Down.
I wasn’t some jock who happened to be an avid reader of romance novels and reviews on the down low. No, I read Macy’s posts because I’d felt obligated, knowing the hours she’d dedicated to reading romance novels and publishing reviews. I was proud of how she’d turned a hobby into something substantial and meaningful. Still, nothing could have prepared my eyes and heart for what she’d distributed to her herd of followers that night.
Dear Diary,
So it’s been said…when you write, sorrows disappear.
With that in mind, tonight marks my first digital diary entry. I can only hope what I’m about to write sheds this pent-up wretchedness, for I truly need to move the fuck on.
“Unrequited Love” should be the title of this inaugural entry because that, dear digital diary, is the sad and true story of my life. Which is probably why I’m such a voracious bookworm of any happily-ever-after. I’ve existed vicariously through the amorous lives of book heroines, imagining I were them, and their spellbinding heroes—alpha, broody, however—were all…
Him.
Real-life confessions: For nearly five years, I’ve been in love with my roommate, Lucas Stone, the drool-worthy morsel of hunky-hotness who’s been my best friend since forever. On top of that, I’ve shamefully compared past boyfriends, lovers, one-night stands, book boyfriends, and the good-looking barista at the coffee shop to Lucas. Even worse, I’ve entertained thoughts of his glorious face, abs, and cock while spending quality time with Mr. Stone, my trusty vibrator. Yet, foolish me has been too much of a chicken ass to divulge my true feelings.
Doesn’t really matter now. Lucas is getting hitched.
I should be delighted he’s happy.
Really.
I mean, everyone deserves to chase, then live out, their blissfully-ever-after. Even so, my heart’s scorned. Bitter as all freaking fuck. And I’ve mentally kicked my own rump one thousand and one times for not fessing up and for instead forgoing divulgence. Maybe, just maybe, if I’d shared this adoration, I’d be the one Lucas plans to walk down the aisle with.
Instead, he put a ring on her finger.
Harper Kingston. Ugh.
All right, scratch the, “ugh.”
Truth is, she’s perfect for him. The polar opposite of me. Curly, saffron hair to my bone-straight blond. Sea-green eyes to my sky blues. A tall, slim, flawless-bodied Barbie Girl, while I’m more of a petite, snack-loving Carbie Girl. In fact, I’m actually munching on my favorite chips as I type this.
Anyway, three days ago, Lucas sailed into our house, that curved-up, hard-to-get-over smile stretched across his face. It was our friend-anniversary. A day we’d celebrated for well over fifteen years. I’d cooked us a surprise dinner, poured our favorite white wine, and prepared to finally spill the tea, profess all my sheltered feelings. Only, before we even sat down to devour our meal, Lucas blurted, “I’m getting married! I asked Harper to marry me today.”
All I could do was nod and smile, tears—he likely assumed existed because I was elated to hear his news—pooled in my eyes. We sat at our round dining room table, the one we’d purchased at a flea market when we first moved in together, then enjoyed dinner while Lucas spoke of his and Harper’s plans for the future.
