From breakout New Adult author Monica Murphy comes the exhilarating conclusion to Drew and Fable’s story—the star-crossed young romance that began in One Week Girlfriend.
Lost. Everything in my life can be summed up by that one sickening word. My football coach blames me for our season-ending losses. So does the rest of the team. I wasted two whole months drowning in my own despair, like a complete loser. And I lost my girlfriend—Fable Maguire, the only girl who ever mattered—because I was afraid that being with me would only hurt her.
But now I realize that I’m the one who’s truly lost without her. And even though she acts like she’s moved on and everything’s fine, I know she still thinks about me just as much as I think about her. I know her too well. She’s so damn vulnerable, all I want to do is be there to help her . . . to hold her . . . to love her.
I just need her to give me one more chance. We may be lost without each other, but together, we’re destined to find a love that lasts forever.
“I thought you said you were hungry.” He glances up, his gaze catching mine. “What are you in the mood for?”
You, I want to tell him, but jeez. I had him not even an hour ago. What’s wrong with me? I go without Drew for a couple of months and now I act like I need him every minute of every day.
“I don’t know.” I open the menu to check out my options. I’ve never eaten at this restaurant. It’s close to Drew’s apartment and I’m rarely in this part of town. “What’s good here?”
“Fable.” His deep, quiet voice makes me glance up and I find him watching me, his dark brows drawn, a little frown curving his mouth. “Are you okay?”
He’s got both elbows propped on the table now, his hands clasped together, and I want those hands on me. His black long-sleeve shirt clings to his arms, accentuating his bulging biceps, those broad shoulders, that wide chest. I’ve explored every inch of his body the last few days and it’s still not enough. I can’t believe he’s really mine.
And I can’t believe I’m his.
“I’m not very hungry,” I admit.
His frown deepens. “You’re the one who wanted to come here.”
I shrug, feeling silly, my gaze locked on his hands. They are so big. Long fingers, wide palms, a little rough, a little smooth. I love how they touch me, sometimes gentle, sometimes with force. I like it best when he wraps my hair around his fingers and tugs. Oh God, I really love it when he does that . . .
I want those hands on me. Now. “I guess I’m not as hungry as I thought.” My stomach is fluttering with nerves. I don’t want to eat. I want Drew. I feel sort of crazed with it. Like I need to have him as much as possible before he slips through my fingers and I lose him forever.
But I’m not going to lose him. We’re in this together. I need to remember that—and believe it.
“You’re being weird.” Worry fills his eyes. “Are you mad? Did I do something?”
Just his breathing—that does it for me. “I’m not mad. I’m, um . . .” I let my voice trail off, feeling like an idiot.
“I’m looking at your hands,” I admit with a little sigh. Can I admit out loud that I’m horny? That would sound ridiculous.
Those dark brows shoot up practically to his hairline. “Why?”
My cheeks are hot. I squirm in my seat again. “I’m . . . remembering what they did to me earlier.”
The frown is gone, replaced with a wicked smile that sends my body temperature skyrocketing. He leans across the table, his voice so low it vibrates through me and settles between my legs. “Maybe we should go back to my place so I can do that to you all over again.”
Oh my God, that sounds like the best idea ever. “Maybe we should.”
The smile never leaves his face. In fact, it grows bigger. My quiet, hesitant Drew has morphed into some sort of cocky sex god. “You don’t want to order anything?”
I slowly shake my head. “Can’t we just get pizza again? Later?” We had it last night, too. “From somewhere different this time. You know, just to mix it up. Or maybe Chinese? I love Chinese.”
He laughs, the sound husky. “You said you wanted to get out of the house for a while because you worried we were becoming addicted to each other.”
“Is that what I said?” I honestly can’t remember. What’s wrong with being addicted to each other? Aren’t we still in this pretend mode where we’re normal people who like to have sex without hangups or issues? I wonder if Drew has ever had sex like this. Carefree and so . . . normal.
“Yep.” He nods.
“Maybe I like being addicted to you,” I admit softly. We haven’t said we loved each other yet. I can’t work up the nerve. Maybe he can’t either. Silly, considering how consumed with love I am for him. He is just . . . amazing. Sweet. Attentive. Funny. Smart. Sexy.
I understand him. He understands me. We’re perfect for each other.
Maybe we’re too perfect together. Too perfect doesn’t really exist. This could all be a façade. Just like our week together over the Thanksgiving break.
That week felt fake, though. Surreal. There were real, grounding moments, but for the most part, we were caught up in an act. Maybe we’re pretending right now too, but I’m trying to be as real as I can with him. Without the baggage and the heartache and the trouble hanging over us. For at least a little while.
It’ll all come crashing down upon us soon. That’s a reality I don’t want to face quite yet.
He reaches across the table for my hands and takes them in his. “I really like being addicted to you.”
The smile I send his way is so big it hurts my cheeks. We are so in this addiction together.
For once, I know I’m not alone.
“Let’s go home and play true confessions,” I suggest because I’m feeling silly. “Nothing heavy, though. We can keep it light and easy.”
“True confessions? I’m intrigued.”
“You should be,” I say coyly. “It’s going to be a sexual true confessions.”
He stiffens the slightest bit and I squeeze his hands in my grip. We need to be open with each other and while the sexual connection we have is amazing, I know sometimes he holds himself back. I understand why. Sort of.
That’s where we’re complete opposites. I was the type who gave it away just so I could feel something, anything, for a little while. He’d rather box himself up and feel absolutely nothing.
“Fable . . .” His voice trails off and his smile fades. “I don’t know if I’m up to that yet.”
“It won’t be anything crazy, I promise.” I lean over our linked hands and bring them to my mouth, pressing a lingering kiss to his knuckles. “No pressure. Just fun.”
“Just fun?” He brushes his thumb over the top of my hand and my entire body reacts.
“Always fun,” I whisper.
About the Author:
New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Monica Murphy is a native Californian who lives in the foothills below Yosemite. A wife and mother of three, she writes New Adult and contemporary romance for Bantam and Avon. She is the author of One Week Girlfriend and Second Chance Boyfriend.