Page 32 of Don't Puck Your Best Friend’s Girl

My mind replays every moment in vivid detail — the flush of her skin as she undressed, the sound of my name on her lips, the way her body moved against mine in a way I hadn't expected. Nothing about it felt accidental. It felt…inevitable. Like something that had been building beneath the surface of our mutual dislike for longer than either of us realized.

The truth rises within me, uncomfortable but undeniable. I could lie to her, to Byron, to myself. Chalk it up to drunken mistake, apologize, move on. The easier path, certainly. But haven't I just lectured her about taking accountability? About being honest even when it's painful?

I shake my head slowly. "No," I admit, the word barely audible. "No, I don't think it was an accident."

Her breath catches, eyes widening slightly at my honesty.

"If I'm being completely honest," I continue, knowing I'm stepping into dangerous territory but unable to stop now, "I would probably do it again."

The words hang between us, a confession that changes everything. I wait for her reaction, for disgust or anger or dismissal.

Instead, she holds my gaze steadily. "Probably?"

A challenge in that single word. The ghost of her usual spark returning.

"Definitely," I amend, honesty flowing easier now that the first barrier has been broken. "I would definitely do it again. Sober. In a heartbeat."

The room feels ten degrees warmer as she processes my words. I watch her expression shift, caution warring with desire, guilt grappling with curiosity.

"Would you?" I ask, turning her own question back on her. "Or are you still a hater?"

She laughs and then hesitates, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. "Probably," she echoes my earlier hedging, but there's a warmth in her eyes that contradicts the uncertainty in her voice.

I look at her lips, remembering how soft and plump they were against mine. I search her eyes, wondering what the fuck happens next.

We have a much bigger problem on our hands than I thought.

But first things first. One crisis at a time.

"We need to tell Byron," I say, bringing us back to the immediate issue. "It'll hurt him. But he deserves the truth, and it'll be worse coming from someone else."

She nods, agreeing. "Okay," she whispers, the word small but significant. "Okay, we'll tell him."

Relief washes through me. This is going to be fucking hard — one of the hardest conversations of my life.

Chapter 8

"We'll take my car," Cade says, his voice steady in a way mine could never be right now. "I'll call him, pick him up at his house."

I nod, not trusting myself to speak. The decision has been made, and now we're hurtling toward a moment I can't take back, can't hide from, can't pretend isn't happening. My specialty — denial — isn't an option anymore.

"Give me five minutes," I whisper.

He closes the door behind him, and I walk to my closet, staring blankly at the array of clothes that suddenly seem like costumes from a life I no longer recognize. What do you wear to destroy a relationship beyond repair? What outfit says, "I slept with your best friend and I'm sorry"?

I grab the most anonymous things I own — faded jeans and an oversized gray hoodie. Armor of the most basic kind. Something to disappear into. My fingers tremble as I pull my hair out of the bun, and it falls around my shoulders. I avoid my reflection in the mirror. I don't want to see the person staring back at me.

When I emerge, Mina and Chloe are waiting in the living room, concern etched across their faces.

"Where are you going?" Chloe asks.

"To talk to Byron," I mutter.

"Are you sure?" Mina asks, surprised. "You don't have to talk to him today."

But I do. The momentum is building, and if I wait, if I retreat back into hiding, I'll never find the courage again.

"Cade's waiting," I say, which isn't an answer but is all I can manage.

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