The Boyfriend Effect Page 2

  “Shit. Are you okay?” I ask, barely managing to get the words out.

  She chews on her lush lower lip. “I’ll be fine. I’m just a little sore. And don’t you dare breathe a word of this to my brother.”

  I hold up both hands. “Believe me, I don’t go around talking about your vagina with your brother, and I have no plans on starting anytime soon.”

  This gets a grin out of Maren. “It’s mortifying enough that you know.”

  I nod in agreement. Because now I’m picturing Maren’s smooth, bare pussy, and definitely feeling a little homicidal over the idea that she did this for some undeserving guy.

  “You don’t have to be embarrassed around me,” I say, opening up my arms to her. “Come here.”

  Maren moves nearer on the couch, sighing as she leans in close enough to rest her head on my chest. My heart thumps out an uneven rhythm as her scent—vanilla and fragrant shampoo—surrounds me.

  Her trust in me is like a silent punishment, something I have to endure, because being near Maren isn’t easy for me. A thousand pornographic thoughts I won’t let myself entertain come at me from every angle. Shutting them down is like a full-time job, one I’m very good at.

  When I release Maren from the hug, she sits up, and I raise one eyebrow.

  “Want me to take a look?” I ask, mostly kidding.

  “Are you insane?” She gapes at me. “No!”

  I shrug. “Trust me, this isn’t easy for me either. I just . . . what if you have third-degree burns or something. You might need medical treatment.”

  Her gaze darts away from mine again. “It’s not that bad. Just a little pink. And tender.”

  I lick my lips. Hearing Maren use words like pink and tender to describe her pussy is actual torture.

  Want me to kiss it and make it better?

  I clench my jaw and fight for control. Years of pent-up sexual frustration churn in my gut.

  “You want to talk about your latest breakup?” she asks, probably desperate to change the subject, and I know I am. “About . . . Samantha?” Maren says the name like a question, like she isn’t sure of herself.

  I sigh and lean back on her couch. “Not really. What’s the point?”

  She shakes her head and lets out a small sigh. “You go through women faster than I go through underwear.”

  I lick my lips. “Well, not anymore I don’t. I’m done.”

  She gives me a dubious look, like she can’t quite believe the words coming out of my mouth. To my group of friends, I have a reputation as a Casanova. Not a player, exactly, more of a serial monogamist, bouncing from one girl to the next. But that needs to change.

  “I need a break. No more relationships. No more women.”

  As I say the words, I know they’re true. I do need a break from women. If I can’t focus on a relationship, I shouldn’t be dating anyone. It’s as simple as that.

  Maren’s posture straightens as though I have her full attention. “For how long?”

  “As long as it takes.”

  2

  * * *

  MAREN

  I’ve never felt about Hayes Ellison the way I should have. Maybe it’s because I’ve had a front-row seat to his revolving bedroom door.

  That’s not to say he’s a manwhore, more like a serial monogamist, constantly dating someone new. Hayes is a romantic at heart, falling hard and fast, but most of his relationships seem to fizzle out after just a couple of weeks.

  In the last few months alone, there was the massage therapist he started dating and loaned several thousand dollars to start her own practice. Then she dumped him. Then there was the wannabe chef he helped get into culinary school, only for her to break up with him once the semester started. It’s always been this way. I have no idea what happened with Samantha.

  But even with all the confusing emotions I’ve endured, there’s one thing I always knew.

  Hayes Ellison will never be mine.

  My attraction to him is almost suffocating. To say we have a complicated relationship would be an understatement. When he’s near, I burn hotter than the sun. His big, broad body seems to suck up all the oxygen in the room until I’m dizzy and almost breathless.

  And now he’s here, sitting on my couch, telling me he’s swearing off women, and looking at me with pity over my poor, damaged hoo-ha.

  “Have you had breakfast yet?” he asks.

  I shake my head. It’s nine in the morning. I made coffee but I haven’t gotten around to breakfast yet.

  “Let’s go out and get something. Then I can tell Wolfie I fed you.”

  I nod, feeling slightly ashamed. I’ve lived with the idea that Hayes is only nice to me to appease my brother, and only takes care of me out of familial responsibility. There’s no one I trust more, but Hayes isn’t an easy man to be around. He can be demanding and intimidating.

  But when he looks at me, there’s a softness in his eyes. He’s always been that way with me. I’m his one soft spot, I guess. Like all the times I sought solace in his arms—when my high school boyfriend broke my heart, when my father died . . .

  I shove those thoughts away because now isn’t the time to take that trip down memory lane. “Can I shower first? I’ll be quick.”

  His square jaw clenches. Apparently, I exhaust him. Like a small child. “Sure,” he says finally.

  And I do. With my hair up in a bun, I take the world’s fastest shower. The warm water stings the raw skin between my legs, but it’s nothing compared to the agony of having to tell Hayes about my injury.

  Why did I tell him the truth? I could have easily made up some bullshit about pulling my hip flexor doing yoga. But instead, I came clean. One look into those whiskey-sweet eyes, and I’m suddenly confessing my darkest secrets. A tingling sensation twists through my lower belly.

  Well. Not every secret.

  If Hayes knew how attracted I am to him, it would go one of two ways. He would either laugh at me until he was red in the face, or he’d feel super uncomfortable and then avoid me for the rest of time. Both options sound like hell to me.

  I sigh, scrubbing my skin a little harder than usual. But no matter how hard I scrub, I’ll never wash myself clean of my thoughts of Hayes. I’ve spent hours fantasizing about kissing that sensual smirk off his face, wrapping my arms around his broad shoulders, pushing my hips against his rock-hard . . .

  Okay, whoa. The more I let myself fall down this rabbit hole, the more maddening the pulsing heat between my heart and my core grows. My fingers run absently over my slick, tender skin.

  Would it be incredibly sinful to masturbate in the shower with Hayes less than ten feet away from me, separated only by a thin door?

  I push the thought away, dipping my face under the sudden blast of cold water coming from the showerhead and reaching for the knob. There’s always a brutal rush of cold water right at the end. I usually get out of the tub before turning off the stream, but this morning, I need the wake-up call, and to cool down my now overheated body.

  With Hayes waiting, I finish getting ready in a flash. I pull on a T-shirt and a pair of leggings from the drawer, once again mentally kicking myself for skipping laundry day this week. Work has been somewhat stressful. I look at the row of polo shirts hanging in my closet, each with the embroidered Riverside logo, and a lump forms in my throat. Whenever I think about what’s happening to Riverside, Chicago’s oldest retirement home on the north side, all I want to do is curl up in bed under ten blankets, watch my favorite movies, and cry.

  I don’t have time for this.

  Precious moments wasted, I scramble to make myself look presentable. After a dozen swipes of mascara, a few corrective lines to my eyebrows, and a vigorous finger-combing of my tangled hair—now I’m ready to go. I reach for the doorknob, already preparing my apology to the patiently waiting Hayes.

  And I stop short. Deodorant!

  I swipe the stick under my arms aggressively, shaking my head at my own reflection. Twenty-five years old, and I still
don’t have my morning routine down pat. Hayes’s presence this morning has turned me into a frazzled mess. I really wish Wolfie wouldn’t intervene so much in my life.

  When I emerge from the bathroom, less than twenty minutes after I bolted inside, Hayes is still on the couch. But instead of looking at me with those big, warm eyes, he’s dozed off, his long lashes casting shadows across his cheekbones.

  I tiptoe toward him, debating between each step which kind of little sister I’m going to be. Sweet and loving? Or an annoying pest? A thought as clear as Chicago’s summer sky warms me with both excitement and shame.

  I don’t want to be Hayes’s little sister.

  Gently, I brush his jawline with the back of my fingers. “Hey, sleepyhead.”

  His eyes shoot open, blazing. His hand rockets up to mine in a shocking grasp, squeezing.

  “Don’t do that.” His eyes burn with something intense, his pupils smoldering like honey dipped in molten lava.

  “Sorry,” I whisper, my eyebrows furrowed in confusion at his reaction.

  His gaze travels slowly down my body, like he’s taking his time before settling on my face once again. His expression is bored, disinterested, as he says, “You know better than to wake a hungry man.”

  And then his expression changes. There’s that infuriating smirk, stretching soft smile lines from his plump lips and his impossible-to-read eyes.

  It’s my turn to blink. I can’t look at him for too long before I run the risk of doing something incredibly stupid like kissing him.

  “Being hangry is no excuse for being mean.” I pout my lower lip, flexing my hand as if it’s been injured.

  No, he didn’t hurt me. But that doesn’t mean I won’t let him think he did. I look down to the floor, and back up at him through my mascara. I’m an expert eyelash batter. It’s the first thing you learn when your brother has hot friends.

  But Hayes is immune to me. He’s already standing, fishing in his pockets for his wallet and keys. Eliciting a response from this emotional seesaw of a man only ever gets me knocked on my butt. And my ego has been bruised enough by him over the years.

  “Ready?” he asks.

  I give him a weak smile. “Yep.”

  “After you, dove.” Hayes flashes me a grin, and we head out together.

  My brain is a traitorous bitch. Things I shouldn’t let myself imagine pop into my head without my permission, and usually at the worst moment imaginable.

  When he opens the door for me to the corner diner, I find myself visualizing his big body moving on top of mine. When he takes his first precious sip of steaming coffee, I feel his hot mouth pressed to my throat. When he reads his favorite menu items to me from the laminated tri-fold menu, I hear the dirty words falling from his lush lips as his fingers work between my thighs. All that sleek, male muscle claiming me, owning me, using me . . .

  “Maren?”

  I realize with a jolt that Hayes is waiting for me to respond to something he just said.

  “I’m sorry. What did you say?” My gaze meets his, and whoa, Hayes looks ticked off. If I didn’t know him so well, I’d be seriously concerned.

  “Savory or sweet?”

  Sweet. Always sweet.

  “Sweet, I guess.” I shrug, dropping another sugar cube into my coffee.

  The tension etched in his clenched jaw relaxes as his expression eases into a smirk. How he goes from zero to sixty, and back again to zero, will always remain a mystery to me.

  “You haven’t changed a bit since you were eight, have you?” He sighs, leaning across the table. Even just a few inches of space eliminated between us feels like the weather in this dingy little diner has shifted. Tropically.

  With flaming cheeks, I roll my eyes. “Whatever, Hayes.”

  I both love and hate when he brings up our history. Love, because it makes me so happy that we know each other’s personalities probably better than anyone else ever could. Hate, because I’m selfish. I want the chance to make a new first impression. Too often, I wonder if I’d turn his head while walking down the street, if he didn’t already see me as his best friend’s little sister.

  What would our first date look like?

  “Just because you’re hangry doesn’t mean you get to be mean,” he says with mock offense.

  Taking in his wide eyes, downturned lips, and hand placed over his heart, I can’t help but laugh. I quickly lift my coffee mug to my mouth to hide my rogue lips from smiling.

  “Very funny,” I whisper, rolling my eyes for the umpteenth time today. We’ve been together for what, an hour? I don’t think either of us have gotten a word in edgewise without teasing.

  If he really liked me, he wouldn’t make fun of me so much.

  That’s in direct contradiction with one of my dad’s favorite “no boys allowed” lectures. When boys tease you, that means they like you, Maren. But I shut his voice out of my head with a scalding sip of coffee. That’s only my subconscious, trying to salvage a crush that’s two decades stale. No, Dad. When a boy teases you, he’s just teasing you.

  When a server appears, we place our orders. I ask for my usual French toast with a side of fruit, and Hayes settles for scrambled egg whites with spinach. We’re creatures of habit, so when Hayes asks for a side of pancakes, my eyebrows shoot up in disbelief.

  “I’ve had a rough morning, okay? First, I practically got thrown out of a window. Then I discover that you’re deathly ill.” When I scoff, he levels me with a pleading glare. “I deserve this. Okay?”

  His tone is stern, begging me to disagree with him. Not that I would. Eating a carb once in a while won’t kill him, despite what he might think.

  “I don’t think I’ve seen you eat pancakes in a decade.”

  Hayes is pretty vigilant about his physique, which shows to an annoying degree. Meanwhile, I could probably find room in my bottomless belly for both of our meals. Especially if I could lick the syrup off of his—

  “Maybe you don’t know me as well as you think you do,” Hayes mumbles into his coffee, his eyebrows waggling. He’s trying to be silly, but it’s undeniably sexy.

  I cross my legs, self-conscious about the ache between my thighs. “Can we not do this for like five minutes?” I huff, crossing my arms over my chest.

  Hayes lifts an eyebrow. “Do what?”

  “Play games. Tease, make fun, et cetera.” I’m the one mumbling now. I’m known to start a fight and then wave the white flag of surrender within the first round. I’ve always been a peacemaker. It’s just my personality. “Can we just be nice to each other?”

  “Okay, we can do that. We can be nice.” Hayes sits up straighter and whips his cloth napkin off the table, the silverware inside clattering everywhere, just to tuck it into his shirt collar.

  I snort with laughter, covering my face and praying that no one in this diner is staring.

  He waves my napkin in front of my face. I snatch it with a giggle, tucking it into the neckline of my polo.

  “Tell me, Miss Maren, how are you on this fine morning?”

  “Is this supposed to make us feel proper? Because I just feel dumb.”

  “You’ve never looked better. How’s work?”

  I don’t have time to react to his compliment. My smile falls into a solemn frown. “It’s okay.”

  “It doesn’t . . . look okay.” Whether he means to or not, Hayes matches my frown, his forehead furrowed with deep lines of concern. He pulls the napkin from his collar, then reaches to pull mine out too. Suddenly, the joke is over. “What’s wrong, dove? Talk to me.”

  I sigh. I haven’t told anyone about this yet. I guess it’s fitting it should be Hayes. How can I say no to those honey-colored eyes?

  “There was a meeting at Riverside yesterday morning. I guess one of the big donors we usually count on to make a yearly contribution decided to give it to the art museum instead. Which is, like, great for the art museum. They need money too. But . . .”

  “Is Riverside going to be okay?” he asks, knowing
how important it is to me.

  I shrug, blinking back tears. “I don’t know. The meeting was so serious. Usually, Peggy brings coffee cake or something, but yesterday . . . she was wrecked. I could tell she’d been up all night, crying. They outright told us to start looking for other jobs.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah.” Now there’s snot dripping from my nose, so I wipe it away with the cloth napkin.

  Hayes reaches across the table, almost as if he’s going to take my hand. But his fingers halt inches from mine. Close, but not close enough.

  Sadness stews deep inside me, ready to bulldoze right through me again.

  In that moment, our server reappears with plates of steaming food that make my mouth water. I wipe my tears away with a sheepish smile, accepting my plate. It smells delicious, and as I inhale, my sadness fades.

  “Note to self. If Maren is sad, bring her sweet things,” Hayes says with a chuckle.

  I don’t even care that he’s making fun of me again, because these pancakes are amazing. And as concerned as I am about Riverside, I know worrying right now won’t solve anything.

  But that place is so much more than just a job to me. It’s almost like a second home. And I do it all, whatever needs to be done . . . answer phones, return emails, follow up on insurance claims, the list goes on. But my favorite thing to do is to talk with the residents. Find out their stories.

  “Hey,” Hayes says, pulling my attention from my plate until I refocus on the man across from me, whose expression is strange. Beneath the concern, there’s something like . . . determination? “We’re going to figure this out. I’ll help you save Riverside.”

  I blink back my surprise. “Are you actually going to help me?”

  “I said I would. What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “This isn’t going to be like that time you ditched me at the movies to go get some with Missy Carter?” I smirk at him.

  “Okay, I did ditch you, but back then, seventeen-year-old me wanted his dick sucked by Missy more than I wanted to live through senior year. I did go back and get you when the movie ended,” he adds with a smile.