Page 41 of Fabulous Filthy Friend

Meanwhile, here I am, getting upset because my date used a nickname.

Let it go, Rach. Enjoy the night for what it is. And know what it isn’t.

This isn’t the kind of attraction I expect with someone I’m going to have red-hot sex with.

It’s nice. It’s comfortable. I’m having a good time and definitely think Dan is attractive. That’s been enough in the past. I’m just not so sure it’s enough now.

I down the rest of my beer and grab my ball. Part of me wants to take it easy on him. It has to be tough watching your date decimate you. But my competitive side won’t let me lose if I have the potential to win. That’s a Fury trait I haven’t been able to shake over the years. And Dan seems to be taking the beating like a champ.

“Get the strike!”

His encouragement spreads a grin across my face. I line up and send the ball spinning down the lane. It collides with the front pin, and the rest explode, but the seven pin stands, mocking me.

Dan claps behind me. “You got this, Rach. Go for the spare.”

“Oh, I will.” I flash him a grin before I send the ball straight for the final pin. It ricochets around the back and drops before I turn to him.

“You make that look too easy.”

I wave off his comment and sit next to him. “But it’s not. Years of practice.”

“Well”—he leans into me slightly, his intent clear—“I would really appreciate it if you give me a rematch.”

It’s the least I can do. A second date. To see if things spark. And sometimes, the best way to see if that happens is to make that final move. I close the distance between us and press my lips against his.

* * *

FLYNN

I peek through the blinds for the hundredth time, but Rachel’s house doesn’t look any different than it did twenty minutes ago. The porch light still glares. All the interior lights are still off. No visible movement or signs of life.

She’s still not home from her date, and it’s almost one.

Fuck.

It likely means they’re having a great time. Hitting it off. Doing exactly what should be happening on a date with someone who—at least on paper—should be your perfect match.

That shouldn’t bother me so much.

Shouldn’t, but it does.

It really fucking does.

Since I stood in this same spot hours ago and watched Dan ring her doorbell on that same porch, my entire body has been twisted up in knots. My shoulders tense. My hands clenched. My stomach churning. My blood rushing loudly in my ears.

I’ve always been a little jealous of the other men who took her out—okay, a LOT jealous—especially the ones who brought her home and got invited in. I couldn’t even think about what was likely happening inside without getting physically ill.

But this feels different somehow.

Worse.

This is pure envy—another of the deadly sins I’ve apparently become so intimate with. All consuming. A violent storm of wanting what I can never have which feels even more powerful tonight.

Maybe because I arranged it as the ultimate proof to myself that I can move on and be a good friend, if nothing more. Instead, it’s only become a form of personal torture I hadn’t expected. Or maybe I did.

I might be a masochist and never knew it until this very moment.

Cade was right the other night when he said I needed to make a decision, and I thought I had. I thought I had chosen what was best for both of us. To make a concerted effort to move on—get her dating someone good, someone I can trust will treat her right, and start doing it myself if the opportunity presents itself.

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