An all-new standalone Romantic Comedy is coming tomorrow from author Emma Hart, and I have a sneak peek for you, as well as a chance to win a signed paperback copy.
“You put me to bed. Pulled off my jeans. I remember now.” I was getting close. “I asked you something about doing it again.”
I had a bad feeling about this.
He nodded, his messy hair flicking back and forth. “You were very, very adamant you couldn’t tell me what you meant by that, so I tucked you in and turned off your light.”
I was remembering.
“And then I said I’d tell you if you promised not to tell Luke.” I was frozen. I couldn’t move. Except my heart. That was running a fucking marathon inside my ribs. “And you promised.”
“And then,” he said slowly, his intense gaze holding mine, “You told me that you and I had had really, really bad sex last weekend.”
The water bottle slipped out of my hand. Kaput. Right to the floor, where it exploded, spraying water all over the floor and the cabinets.
“Oh God,” I breathed.
And then I’d told him I couldn’t tell him because of our friendship.
And that I’d had a dirty dream about him.
Slowly, I brought my hands to my face, covering my mouth and nose when all I really wanted to do was climb up onto the kitchen counter, open the window, and haul myself out of my fourth-floor apartment.
My head hurt enough that it wouldn’t matter. The asphalt sidewalk might just finish me off. I was going to die of embarrassment anyway.
“Oh no,” I whispered into my hands, the gentle sound being muffled.
Luke grimaced, rubbing the back of his neck. “I have a confession to make.”
“Go ahead. This can’t get much worse.” I dropped my hands, only to bring them back up and fist my hair.
“Last Saturday.” He scratched behind his ear, glancing away from me for a second. “I remembered it. I didn’t know how to bring it up, and when you made up that story, I just figured you couldn’t remember and made up something random.”
I shook my head. Once. I really couldn’t do that much.
“Obviously, now I know that you made it up because you didn’t want to bring it up.”
“I thought you’d forgotten!” I said, my voice a little too shrill. Like a villain in a Disney movie. “You asked me what happened, and I panicked! I was never supposed to admit it. Oh, my God. Oh, my God.”
I pushed off the counter and walked into the living room. This wasn’t happening, was it? It had to be a drunken dream. I was still drunk. Still sleeping. In my room.
I hadn’t really told him that, had I?
I had. Oh, God. I had.
I’d told him we’d had really bad sex.
This was the worst day of my life.
I turned to face him.
“If it makes you feel better, I’m under no illusions about how bad that sex was for you,” Luke said, spinning on the stool. “Only pornstars cum in two minutes, and that’s because of smart editing.”
I couldn’t help the tiny laugh that left me, even though my cheeks burned. “I’m sorry.”
“For what? I’m the one, who, to use your words, was a tap-tap-squirt.”
Oh, God, it could get worse.