A viral shitstorm, that’s what.
No way did I want thousands of subscribers to read my confessions—yet, that’s precisely what went down last night after four too many Cosmos with my girls.
Now, Damage Control is my new middle name because my diary confessional has my roommate, Lucas Stone, written all over it.
I’ve been in love with him forever—well, ever since I saw him sprint across campus naked during our first year of college.
And now that Lucas knows how I feel about him?
Well, things are destined to get awkward.
Because Lucas Stone, my BFF—the man who sleeps only one room over—just got engaged.
And his fiancée isn’t me.
Mr. Evasive’s text message lit up my cell shortly after 8 p.m., right as my head hit the pillow. Anytime before midnight would have normally been considered too early of a bedtime for me. After-dark hours were dedicated to online coursework, and since I had a sociology paper due, my ass should have been sitting at our kitchen table, energy drink and carb-filled snacks at the ready. Given the day’s events, however, sleep beckoned with a demand for me to squeeze my eyes shut and dream the world’s biggest shitstorm day away. Besides, in order to complete online assignments, I needed my stupid laptop, and that dirty little accomplice to bloggergate had yet to be found.
Grimacing, I eyed his tardy text, contemplating whether or not to ignore it, just as I’d ignored the patter of his footsteps meandering past my bedroom door when he arrived home twenty minutes earlier.
To be honest, I’d grown downright irritated with Lucas Stone. I mean, what kind of a best friend allowed twelve hours to saunter by before he finally responded to a text with some breezy, non-fucking-chalant “Hey, I’m home. Can we talk?” bullshit?
Blood simmering, I fired off a quick reply.
Good one, right? One-hundred percent straight and to the point.
Text bubbles bounced on the screen, my heart thumping in anticipation.
Lucas: Why not?
Thumbs pounding the cracked screen, I keyed in my response.
Me: Because you’re a duck.
Seconds later, Lucas deployed an army of duck emojis to my phone.
Ugh. I swear, autocorrect had a personal vendetta against me.
Me: DUCK! I meant to type, you’re a duck!
This time my smart-ass roombestie replied with a Donald Duck GIF. There was no use trying to quell the snicker that slipped free; shit was hilarious.
Beats skedaddled by before another message came through.
Lucas: Hey, I’m sorry. I should’ve replied to your text earlier, should’ve had the decency not to leave you hanging.
Tears pricked my eyes, a fury of the day’s emotional roller coaster coursing through me. He was trying to butter me up and, dammit, I hated how easily it worked.
Me: Fine. Apology accepted. But I’m not quite ready to talk.
The half-truth set my belly ablaze. Part of me wanted to talk, longed to get everything officially out in the open, evaporate the cloud of awkwardness destined to linger over us forevermore.
Lucas: No talking. Just ice cream. I picked up a gallon of our favorite from CreamWorks.
Me: Mocha Mania?
Lucas: You know it. Meet me in the kitchen in five? I need to start a load of laundry first.
He knew I’d cave, clever to coax me with my favorite ice cream as though I were Eve, unable to resist forbidden fruit.
Me: Okay, but you’re still a duck.
Of course, I typed duck instead of dick on purpose, knowing damn well he’d have some smart-ass reply.
Lucas: Quack, quack.
Author of sexy rom-coms and feel-good contemporary romance, Joslyn Westbrook’s novels feature sweep-you-off-your-feet heroes and the sassy, classy, badassy heroines who can’t seem to breath without them. When she’s not writing, Joslyn can be found binge-watching Netflix, cooking, shopping, and spending time with her husband and children at home in sunny California.