Page 40 of The Best You've Ever Had

She answers on the first ring. “What’s up, girl? How’s everyone after last night?”

“Everything…was a lot,” I admit. “Ben’s grandpa went into cardiac arrest while Ben and I were at his work’s holiday party. He passed away.”

“Shit, I’m so sorry.”

“Thanks, it’s been tough.” I sigh. “Also, something else happened. With Ben. After the hospital…” I push little melted shreds of cheese around on my plate. “We had sex.”

“Iknewit!” she practically yells into the phone. “I saw this coming. But how did that happen? I mean, after the hospital and everything?”

“I think we were both in a really emotionally raw place after the hospital. Especially Ben. And then…I don’t know, it just happened.”

“Makes sense. So, is it casual? Or what’s going on between you two?”

“I have absolute no idea. We haven’t talked about it yet.”

“Ooh,” she coos. “Just been doing more talking with your bodies than anything else. I see how it is.”

“You’re the worst,” I laugh.

“I know. That’s why you love me. So what do youwantto happen with him? I thought you two were sworn frenemies.”

“Wewere.Now, maybe not so much.”

“There’s a thin line between love and hate, you know.”

I take a bite out of my dry toast. “Okay, rein it in. No one is talking about love here.” It’s a complete lie. While I don’t know a thing about love, this feels a lot like the beginning ofsomething.

“Mhm, yeah, sure,” she says, disbelieving. “This is the first guy you haven’t instantly run away from. That must tell you something. Like maybe he’s worth sticking around for.”

I roll my eyes, but know she’s absolutely right. “We’ll see. You can’t really run when you’re stuck in a town as small as Havenbrook though.”

“Keep telling yourself that, girl.”

I don’t catch much else of what she’s saying, because right at that moment Ben walks in. He’s sleepy-eyed, shirtless, and stunningly gorgeous. He runs his hand through his dark hair, his long fingers threading through the strands. Walking right toward me, he mouths good morning, as he leans down to kiss the top of my head—acting completely normal, as if he didn’t just have his dick inside of me eight hours ago. Meanwhile, a flutter stirs low in my stomach. Even through the mess of emotions, my body is making it clear—it’s more than ready for round two with him.

“Hey, I’ll call you back,” I tell Hazel absentmindedly, half-dazed by the indents of muscle that travel down Ben’s abdomen.

She laughs into the phone. “Have fun getting banged.”

Hanging up, he grabs the white plate I had set out for him on the counter, bringing it to sit next to me at the small table. “Everything okay?” he asks, taking a bite of toast.

“Yeah, just my friend giving me a hard time. Nothing new.”

“Glad I’m not the only one in your life who likes giving you a hard time,” he says with an effortless smile. His knee brushes mine under the table, and his hand slips down, grazing my inner thigh before finally coming to rest there.

“Have you heard from your parents today?” I ask.

His smile fades. “My mom texted me this morning. They’re running on fumes. Mick’s funeral will be sometime after the new year. They’re expecting a big turn out, so they want to give people plenty of time to make arrangements to get here.”

I lay my head on his shoulder. Mick was well-loved by many people throughout the community. He’ll have the building packed, while I can count the total turnout for my own future funeral on two hands. “He was a good man, wasn’t he?” I remark.

“One of the best.” His head turns to breathe me in, his lips grazing my hair. “I’m glad you’re here.”

We sit in comfortable silence as I turn his simple statement over in my mind—I’m glad you’re here. I weigh it, mull it over, trying to decide if he’s merely being polite or if he actually means it. After all, I’ve bullshitted plenty of people at work to keep things pleasant, and this might be one of those moments for him too. I decide to skip the mirage of questions spiraling in my head, and soak in this feeling instead: sitting at a worn kitchen table with a failed, but edible, breakfast in front of us. His hand on my thigh and his lips on my head. The feeling in my chest like I’m soaring a hundred feet in the air, high off the way I feel when I’m with him.

He clears his throat. “Hey, can I ask you a question?”

“What is it?” The hair on the back of my neck stands up. Whenever someone wants permission to ask a question, it’s usually never good. Or perhaps it’s the pessimistic lawyertendency in me—always expect bad, because it’s probably even worse than you even imagined.

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