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Because I love a man who loves books, but that man loves football even more.
And I won’t take it from him. I won’t be anyone’s distraction from their dream.
“Do you need me to come get you?” Vale asks, her tone getting sweet because she knows I’m in deep shit.
I’m guilty of a first-degree emotional felony.
Yes, your honor, I had the best sex of my life with the man of my dreams, knowing full well it was only one night, Valentine’s night, further making it an aggravated assault on my heart.
And yes, your honor, I have the video evidence to prove it.
So please sentence my pussy to a life of dildos only because she’s a menace to my heart. She can’t be trusted around real big dicks.
“No,” I answer Vale. “I need to do the walk of shame. I deserve it.”
“There’s no shame in love,” Vale answers gently. “We can’t help who we fall for.”
“Who are you, and what have you done with my evil twin?”
She chuckles but still asks, “Are you gonna be okay, or are you gonna start wearing flannel pajamas to work?”
“No, and yes.”
I’m not lying because I don’t know how long this will hurt. I’ve never fucked and had my heart broken. But I know the grieving process requires flannel pajamas, fuzzy slippers, and my hair in a messy top-knot with two-day-old mascara flaked under my eyes.
Done.
“Fine then,” Vale sighs. “I’ll go by Target, get you seven pairs, and meet you at your place in two hours.”
“Don’t you dare buy flannel with hearts on it. Valentine’s Day can eat a bag of dicks; I don’t care if it’s fifty percent off now.” I add, “And… love you.”
“Love you.” She snickers, “But you’re still dressing like Sexy Bessie, too. A bad slut keeps her good word, no matter what.”
I end the call. My sister’s sass almost stops my tears.
Standing at the bathroom vanity, I snatch my hair back into a ponytail and can’t leave fast enough. I yank on the jeans I threw in my overnight bag, and I leave Beau’s jersey on, too. It’ll be the only thing I sleep in now because I’m a glutton for pain like that.
I grab all the toys and the remaining evidence from the best night of my life, but another wrecking series of sobs threatens when I can’t find my heels.
“No, no, no!” I warn myself, talking aloud with the insanity I feel as I crawl on the floor, searching under the bed. “Bitch, you cry again and no coffee for a month.”
That’s a serious threat and one I’d never survive, but itworks.
I find my heels under the bed where Beau Bronson fucked me to within an inch of my life several times, and damn, how I’d let him murder my pussy again, but I won’t cry about it.
I won’t collapse, not yet, not here. Because if I do, I’ll be a permanent resident at The Mercier Hotel, trapped in a luxurious hell I can’t afford.
I understand why Beau said I was too tempting because he is, too.
If we stay together, our lives will never be the same. He needs to win games, and I need to write books five people will read, but those are our dreams, and love only gets in the way.
That shit is a serious distraction.
Bye, bye, sanity and goals and crap on my Google calendar I gotta do. Nope. I’d be too busy, blissfully fucking Beau and loving him, to ever empty a dishwasher or pay my rent or write another book.
Or at least, that’s the bullshit I tell myself so I can jailbreak from this hotel room as fast as humanly possible.
Cramming my feet into my heels, I sling my red bag over my shoulder and take one last look around.
