Page 55 of Don't Puck Your Best Friend’s Girl

"If that's what you need, I get it. I'll give it you." His voice carries no hesitation, no judgment — just calm acceptance. "I don't want to lose this — lose you — before we even figure out what it is."

The sincerity in his eyes makes my breath catch. This is Cade Connolly, the smarty pants guy who could have a girl that's way better than me. Have you seen Hannah? The girl's a fucking saint, and I'm far from that. And he's telling me he doesn't want to loseme? It doesn't compute with the image I've constructed of him since I've known him.

Is my pussy that good?

I find myself laughing, quickly covering my mouth at that thought.

Am I giggly over the idea that Cade's giving me what I want? Shit, I am giddy on the inside. My terrible mood is disappearing like clouds blowing away. I search my mind for what this means, but I'm also too drunk to comprehend it.

"I have terms too," he adds, a familiar spark of challenge returning to his gaze.

"Terms?" I echo, wariness mingling with curiosity.

"I'm going to take you on dates, whether you like it or not. And I want you to stay over at my place once or twice a week."

Each word sends a different kind of warmth through me — not the sharp heat of desire, but something softer, more dangerous. The prospect of regular dates, of nights spent in his bed, of building something beyond these feverish encounters, makes my pulse race in a way that has nothing to do with physical attraction.

"If I'd known all you needed was a little commitment," he says, leaning closer until his breath warms my lips, "I would have given it to you a week ago."

The space between us crackles with possibility — not just for another night of amazing sex, but for something more substantial. Something I never expected to find with him of all people.

"So?" he prompts when I remain silent. "Do we have a deal?"

The question is in the air as my mind still searches for how to comprehend this. This isn't just about tonight or last week or about sex. It's about admitting that whatever is happening between us matters enough to define, to protect, to nurture, to grow.

"What about Byron?" I ask, the question that's been hovering at the edges of my consciousness finally finding voice.

"You'll be my secret," he says softly.

The words shouldn't affect me the way they do — shouldn't send warmth cascading through me, shouldn't make my heart flutter like a caged bird. There's something undeniably thrilling about the idea of being Cade's secret, something both forbidden and precious wrapped into one.

A blush crawls up my neck as I try and fail to contain the smile spreading across my face. The emotion bubbling up inside me is so foreign, so unexpected, that I hardly recognize it. Happiness? Relief? Whatever it is, it fills my chest until I feel I might float away with the lightness of it.

"Come here," Cade murmurs. I walk to my bed and let him arrange us so that I'm cradled against his chest, his arm a reassuring weight around my waist. My head fits perfectly in the hollow of his shoulder, as if I am right where I need to be.

We lie like this, heartbeats gradually synchronizing, breath slowing to match. The entire world has narrowed to this bed, this room, this moment. All the complications — Byron, our history, the uncertain future — seem distant and manageable from within this cocoon we've created.

My mind races with possibilities, with anticipation. Getting to know Cade — the real Cade, learning his habits, his preferences, his history. The thought sends a pleasant shiver through me.

"Cold?" he asks, mistaking my reaction.

"No," I whisper. "Just happy."

His arm tightens around me, lips pressing a gentle kiss to my temple. "Me too."

As sleep claims me, nested in his warmth, my last conscious thought is that I never expected this night to end like this, to have a common ground with him.

Something soft and warm traces a path along my neck, drawing me gradually from the depths of sleep. I arch instinctively toward the source, my body responding before my mind fully awakens. The solid heat pressing against my lower back makes itself known. Cade's boner pressing against me.

"Morning," he murmurs against my skin, his voice rough with sleep and want.

I turn in his arms, wincing slightly as daylight assaults my eyes. The movement sends a wave of nausea rolling through me, a sharp reminder of last night's drinking. But even hungover, the sight of Cade in morning light — hair tousled, eyes heavy-lidded with remaining sleep, stubble darkening his jaw — sets off butterflies in my stomach that have nothing to do with alcohol.

"I have homework to tackle today," he says, fingers tracing the line of my collarbone. "Would love it if you joined me."

The words are casual, but the implication isn't. This isn't just about sex anymore. This is about spending a normal day together, sharing space, existing in each other's orbits without the sex or the excuse of alcohol.

Before I can answer, another wave of nausea hits, stronger than before. I scramble out of bed, barely making it to the bathroom before I throw everything up. The cool porcelain of the toilet is a small mercy against my heated skin as I heave.

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