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"For what it's worth, I think she's good for you."

I swallowed. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. You're still a dick. But you're a better dick when she's around."

"That's beautiful, man."

"I know. Almost made myself cry."

He disappeared down the hall. I stood there for a long moment. Then I looked at my phone.

No messages. I opened our conversation anyway. Typed three words.

Me: I miss you.

Stared at them. Deleted them. Then I put the phone in my pocket, picked up my tie, and looked in the mirror.

I'd never been afraid to go after something I wanted. Until now. The problem was, I wasn't worried about getting rejected.

I was worried about getting exactly what I wanted.

And then fucking it up.

27

ONE NIGHT STANDS VS. MATCHING ROCKING CHAIRS

Damon

I'd attended enough weddings to know someone always cried before the bride made it down the aisle. Someone always drank too much champagne and said something wildly inappropriate about the bride or groom’s sex life. And love made otherwise intelligent people do incredibly stupid things.

Like spending thirty thousand dollars on flowers that would be dead by Tuesday. Or promise to spend the rest of their lives with one person. One. Person. Forever.

I'd eaten the same breakfast three days in a row once and started feeling claustrophobic. I’d always thought of marriage in an abstract way. I thought one day I would be married, but anytime I tried to think of myself entering into that union, I came up blank. And got hives.

And yet, there I sat, watching a woman in a wine colored dress adjust her cousin's train and wondering what the fuck was wrong with me. Because I wasn't looking at the bride. I wasn't looking at the groom. I wasn't even looking at the bridesmaid whose dress had apparently been designed by someone with a personal vendetta against breasts.

I was looking at Mikayla Parsons. And I couldn't seem to stop. She stood a few feet from the altar, her dark hair swept up in some complicated arrangement that probably required seventeen bobby pins and an engineering degree. A few loose strands framed her face, and every time the breeze caught them, she tucked them behind her ear.

I'd watched her do it four times. Yes, I did realize I was keeping score. But in my defense, I'd spent the better part of two years paying attention to that woman.

I'd noticed the way she tapped her pen against her bottom lip when she was thinking. The way her eyebrows pulled together when someone said something stupid. The way she always ordered sparkling water with lime and then took sips of other people’s beer while insisting she didn't like it.

I'd noticed the way she walked into a room and changed the atmosphere, lighting it up. I'd noticed everything. And somehow, I'd managed to convince myself it didn't mean anything.

Because noticing women was what I did. Flirting was what I did. Making people laugh, keeping things light, and avoiding any conversation that included words like “commitment,” “vulnerability,” or “where is this going?”

That was my specialty. If it’s true that it takes ten thousand hours to master something, l had passed that threshold years ago. I was an expert.

I'd spent my life treating emotional vulnerability like a suspicious package. Don't touch it, don't open it, and definitely don't let it into the house. But lately, my game had been slipping. And it was all Mikayla's fault.

Well, technically, it was her cheating ex-boyfriend's fault. And her former best friend's. And possibly mine, for agreeing to pretend to be her boyfriend for four days.

At the time, it had seemed like a brilliant idea.

Four days of spending time with the woman I'd been fantasizing about for two years. Four days of making her laugh. Four days of watching her ex realize he'd traded a Ferrari for a used golf cart.

Sign me up.