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Nothing.
Yes, I keep checking my phone. Yes, it’s blowing up with notifications, new followers, and posts from excited readers. I want to cry with joy.
And I want to cry with a What the fuck?
“What do you think it means?” I ask Jace, sitting beside me on a barstool while we sip virgin mint juleps. The club doesn’t serve alcohol. Vodka and random sex don’t mix.
Down the bar to the right, Vale’s chatting with some friends, Silas and Eily Van de May. They’re loyal customers of Delta’s. I glance left and Grant has a swarm of women on their knees worshiping his purple throbber.
But Jace?
He’s my buddy. He’s here for me, chuckling. “You want me to read Beau Bronson’s mind?”
“Yeah,” I answer. “Beau did this really sweet thing, but why? And why, when I should be happy about it, am I feeling like shit?”
A DUH neon sign just lit over Jace’s head.
“Because you’re in love with him,” he answers. “And he’s in love with you. You don’t do shit like that; you don’t make a woman’s dream come true unless you love her.”
“But Vale’s right. Beau’s still ghosting me.”
“Hang on.” Jace lowers his heavy brows. “You said you wanted it this way. Both of you. You and Beau were frenemies in college when you really wanted to fuck the hell out of each other and when he randomly showed up at our store on Valentine’s night after how many years?”
“Eight.”
“Yeah, eight years later,” he marvels. “You two finally had an epic night together. You said you tried to see who could out-kink the other and agreed it was a one-night-only. And that was four months ago, and obviously naive as hell because all y’all did was light a fuse. You’re a bomb begging to blow.”
“The only one begging to blow is Grant.” I point to Jace’s brother, fisting a blonde and a brunette, slobbering all over his knob like a giant grape lollipop. “Because I’m never blowing Beau Bronson again. It would be a disaster.”
Even though Beau is the first and last man I ever swallowed. Even though I’ve been with dozens, Beau’s the only man I let inside me bare. Even though Beau’s the only one I ever trusted with my fantasies, with my dreams, with my heart.
“Look, I get it.” Jace pats my back, and I choke on my drink. He forgets he’s a grizzly bear petting a rabbit. “Dating the top quarterback who lost the Super Bowl this year could be hell. It could ruin your life, but maybe he’s worth it.”
“But he doesn’t do girlfriends,” I repeat what Beau told me. “And I don’t do love,” I repeat what I told Beau.
And yes, it was bullshit.
Because with the way Beau kissed me goodbye and said, “I’ll be reading your books. Keep writing them about us,” before he left our hotel room? I knew his heart was mine.
Because with the way I snot cried about it when he left, and for weeks, I didn’t stop, even though I told him to leave? I knew it was love.
Because above all, I know what football means to Beau Bronson.
Everything.
We’ve always wanted to be together, but in college, when Beau wasn’t playing ball, he was committed to Reese. He made fixing her problems a game he would win, too. Then, days before graduation, Reese mysteriously ghosted us, and I never spoke to her or Beau again. Reese never answered my calls, and Beau, who was drafted in the first round from The University of Alabama, disappeared into his life with the NFL.
And though I love to hate football, I’ve secretly watched his journey.
I’m proud of him.
Beau’s well on his way to being a titan, a legend in the sport. The pundits call him “The Pope in the Pocket” because he’s calm and in control, almost spiritual when everyone’s rushing him, but he’s holding the ball.
So, I won’t get in the way of Beau’s dream. He said relationships are a distraction, and he’s determined to win the next Super Bowl. He came so close and lost it all in one baffling final interception that people won’t stop talking about.
And I get it.
Yes, relationships are a distraction.
