Page 78 of Hart Breaker

“No?” he gasps.

My chest puffs with pride. “One hundred percent.”

“So, that means you’re gonna have to break up with …” He scratches his head like he’s thinking. I know better; Boone doesn’t think. “Free online porn and your hand?”

“Fuck you, man.” I shake my head.

“You know I ain’t lying. You haven’t hooked up in BV or on the road.”

“The thought of you having a little chart of my sex life is disturbing.”

“A chart would need actual information, stud.” He’s not wrong. “More fucked up that you’re bringing your girl to the town where you do hook up.”

“I know you’re from a place a little further south than I am, and the rules may be different down there, but there’s not a chance in hell I’m gonna run into someone I’ve gotten off with when we’re hanging out with my family.”

“Your sister’s friend? CeCe’s girl?”

“Nope, no worries. And no offense, Boone, but I don’t attract chicks who have preconceived notions that I’m relationship material. Never have.”

“Lily’s a chick magnet, for sure.” A slight laugh escaped him. “You ready for that?”

“For a Lily?” I nod. “With a Riley, I’m ready for a dozen Lilys.”

“No, Hart, but remind me to backtrack and cover that. I’m asking if you’re ready for the chicks that come after you harder when they know you’re capable of a relationship.”

“Not gonna be an issue—ever.”

“I can see that.” He sits back in his seat. “But a dozen Lilys? Do you not remember the Lovey night?”

“Yeah, but that’s you, not me. I don’t lose shit.”

“As type A as you are?”

“I’m as laidback as they come.”

“Out in the wild, maybe.” He attempts to stifle a laugh. “When she realizes you stress bake, can’t go to bed without the kitchen spotless, even when your shitfaced?—”

“You make me sound like a drunk. Twice, Boone.” I hold up two fingers and repeat, “Twice.”

“Yeah, and both times, you did some fucked-up shit.”

“Not gonna disagree”—I look in the rearview—“but I got the girl.”

“And what are you willing to do to keep her?” he asks like it’s a challenge.

“Whatever it takes.”

“Wake up, Ry,” Boone says as we’re pulling up in front of The Trenton, a hotel close to Revolutionary Stadium.

“Let her sleep.”

“She’s been out since Binghamton. That’s like four hours. If she’s anything like Lily, she’ll never go to bed tonight.”

Ding, ding, ding, I think.

Boone clearly reads my mind. He holds out his fist, and I give it a tap.

“I’ve been awake since you nerds started butchering Bruce Springsteen.”

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