The Best You’ve Ever Had

Chapter 6

Chapter Six

Ben

Last night was a complete disaster. I feel like the worst son and grandson for deceiving my family. Yet, even stronger than that guilt is the urgency I feel to ease Mick’s worries before he passes. When he looked into my eyes and said his greatest sadness was that he wouldn’t get to meet my future wife or hold his great-grandchildren, it cut me to the very marrow of my bones.

The other disaster of the night was a pint-sized, fiery, auburn-haired woman. I was shocked when she finally agreed to my proposition. If someone had told me eleven years ago, when I last saw Layla, that she would return and become my fake girlfriend, I would have called them absolutely insane. Now here we are, knee-deep in lies, with a strange, giddy feeling that makes me want to keep pretending with her.

I’ve always known she isn’t just beautiful—she’s breathtaking. If I ever told her that though, she’d throat-punch me in two seconds flat. Pushing her buttons got me off in some fucked up way. And touching her was different than I had ever expected—I liked it. And I want to do it again.

Being around her feels different than it did when we were kids. There’s still that familiarity between us, the same as it has always been. But now, our energy has transformed into a new kind of voltage. It’s no longer just antagonistic; it’s charged with something more.

Bright and early the next morning, a loud knock jolts me awake. I groan and roll over, trying to ignore it, but the pounding doesn’t stop. Each bang grows more insistent than the last.

For a groggy moment, I contemplate calling the cops, thinking it might be a break-in. Deep down, I already know who it is. The shout from the other side of the door only confirms my suspicion.

“Wake up and open the damn door!” Layla yells through the solid wood.

I groan and roll out of bed, not even bothering to throw on more clothes. Because who is psycho enough to knock repeatedly at 6:30 a.m. on the weekend?

Layla Reed. That’s fucking who.

Opening the door, I find her with an impatient hip popped out, exasperation flaming in her expression. She’s dressed in running clothes, and I attempt to keep my eyes level with hers and not fixed on the most perfect ass I’ve ever seen in leggings.

“Did you run here? At 6:00 a.m.?”

“Sure did,” she states frankly, pushing past me to get into the house.

“But why? It’s freezing out.”

“Because I couldn’t sleep and needed to burn off some steam.” Gesturing to my bare chest, she adds, “And can you put some clothes on for fuck’s sake?”

I look around the house, as if I don’t know where I am. “Last time I checked this is my house and you’re the one who came over uninvited and rudely woke me up.” Then I throw her the cockiest damn smile I have in me. “Why? Does me being shirtless make you uncomfortable for some reason?”

She rolls her eyes, not impressed in the slightest. “It’s not the lack of shirt that’s making me uncomfortable. It’s your giant boner pointing right at me.”

I glance down, and see she’s right. I’m not only shirtless, but my inconveniently timed morning wood is jutting through my black sweatpants. “Fuck.” I grab a throw pillow from the couch and block my pelvis. “That’s not because of you by the way. Morning wood…” Who am I kidding, it’s absolutely caused by her.

“Ah, I see. You’re an early riser.”

“Did you just make a morning wood joke? Where’s the Layla I thought I knew?”

With a happy gleam to her eyes, she replies, “There are a lot of things you don’t know about me.”

“Tell me what I don’t know then.”

She walks away into the kitchen and shouts over her shoulder, “I need something in my stomach first.”

I hear the cabinet doors slamming shut as she rummages through them in search of food, coffee, or a weapon to kill me with. While she’s out of the room, I tuck my boner into the waistband of my pants, because her skin-tight leggings are not helping the situation. Grabbing a shirt from the pile I folded last night, I walk over to see what she’s doing since it has become completely silent. I find her with the stainless steel fridge doors wide open, staring inside with an intensity like she’s never seen food before.

“Why are you standing there staring at my fridge like that, weirdo?” I ask.

“It could be because I’ve just learned that you’re an ingredients only household. That’s some psycho shit.”

“I have no clue what you’re talking about.”

“You don’t have pre-made food—only ingredients. Raw eggs. Fruit. Vegetables. Flour and oil. What am I supposed to do with that? Where are the bagels or frozen waffles?”

“If I want waffles, I make them. It’s not that difficult.”

She crosses her arms. “It’s difficult if you don’t know how to cook more than cereal.”

“Excuse me? Do you not know how to cook?”

“Don’t act so surprised. I’ve never had time to learn how to between trying to survive law school and then getting thrown into working sixty hour weeks.”

“Sit down. I’ll make you breakfast.”

Pulling her phone out of her pocket, she waves me off and begins to scroll. “No, it’s fine. I’ll just have food delivered here.”

I snatch her phone. “I’m making you food. If there’s one thing firefighters are good at, it’s cooking.”

Springing to her feet, she makes a grab for her device. “Shouldn’t firefighters excel at, I don’t know, extinguishing fires or rescuing people?”

I hold it out of reach above my head, acting like an immature teenager. “That goes without saying. But we take our food seriously too.”

“Give me that back,” she demands, reaching up for it.

“After you promise not to order food. Let me cook for you, damn it.”

“You will do no such thing, Benny.” She says that damn childhood nickname like it’s a challenge, knowing I hate it. She hops on me, legs circling around my waist, as she makes another grab for her phone.

I hold her up by the ass, burying my nose into her hair as I whisper, “What’d I say about the next time you called me that?”

“I’m not scared of threats. I’d like to see you try to do anything to me.”

With that, I carry her to the couch and toss her down. Her small body bounces on the cushions, her auburn hair splaying out around her. Leaning down, I cage her in with my arms, the weight of my body causing us to sink into the couch and each other. With our faces only inches apart, I take in the sight of her—challenging blue eyes, the sprinkling of freckles across her nose, and the cupid’s bow of her full lips. In an instant, the energy in the room shifts from playful to electric. The erection that had gone away only minutes ago, comes back with a vengeance. And she instantly is aware of it, taking a sharp inhale when she feels the weight of it against her abdomen. We both stare at one another, surely contemplating what the hell is up with us and our newfound attraction.

Do we do something about it? Even if we are sworn frenemies?

Her pelvis rocks against my length for a fraction of a second, turning me completely feral. But before I have the chance to ruin thirty years of never even coming close to crossing the line, she pushes off the couch with a huff.

Ignoring what just happened, she straightens out her shirt and crosses her arms. “Fine. Make me food if you want to so badly.”

Reluctantly, I set her phone down on the table nearby and proceed to get out all the ingredients. She stands there, smack dab in the middle of the family room, watching me with a mixture of curiosity and scrutiny on her face. Like she’s ready to cut me down at the knees with insults, but too hungry to attempt any serious damage.

As I measure out flour I ask, “So, want to tell me why you ran to my house at six in the morning?”

Inspecting her nails as if she doesn’t give a damn, she simply replies, “Nope.”

But out of the corner of my eye, I see her bite her full bottom lip. To anyone else, it might seem insignificant, but I’ve known her long enough to understand her tells. Biting her lip is her giveaway, the thing she does when she’s flustered, even if she tries to hide it.

With my attention focused on mixing the batter, I avoid meeting her eyes, attempting to not emotionally spook her. “We both know that’s not true,” I remark. “You’re forgetting I know you better than almost anyone. Tell me.”

“Goddamn you,” she groans. “Fine. First off, this morning I heard…noises. Noises I’d never want to hear again for as long as I live.”

“What kind of noises?”

“Ones of the sexual nature. From my mother’s room.” The look on her face is haunted, but all I can do is laugh since thank fuck it didn’t happen to me.

“And the second reason?”

“I found out my mom is moving in with Paul soon. Can you believe that? They only recently started dating.”

“It’s not recent to them—it’s just new to you. I remember meeting him at my dad’s birthday party last year.”

She bristles. “I don’t understand why she didn’t tell me sooner.”

“Maybe she wanted to make sure it was serious before she introduced you two. Or she was scared of how you would react?”

“Scared? My mother would never be scared of me.”

“You sure about that?” I counter. “Don’t you always say men are good for nothing except for opening jars and sex?”

“Opening jars, sex, and moving heavy furniture.” She tries not to smile at her own absurdity. “Don’t want you to feel ripped off. Can’t forget that one.”

Scooping a cup of batter, I pour it onto the Belgian waffle maker and close the sizzling appliance. “Case in point, your mom was probably nervous to tell you. Paul seems like a good guy though, right?”

Kicking off her all-white running shoes, she plops down on a chair at the dining table. “That’s the thing. He’s too good. There has to be something wrong with him.”

“Elaborate what you mean by ‘too good.’”

“He buys her flowers once a week, for no reason.” Holding up a finger, she begins to count the reasons off. “Washes the dishes and does chores around the house without being asked. Holds doors open, and shows her affection without an ounce of embarrassment. I don’t know. It all feels a little too good to be true.”

“That’s not that crazy. Sounds like what a partner should be doing in a relationship.”

From her seat, she raises one perfectly sculpted brow and gives me a skeptical look. “You’re telling me that you do all that when you’re in a relationship?”

I shrug. “I mean, yeah, I’m a good boyfriend.”

“Huh. Then why are you single?”

“I’ve got a fake girlfriend now, remember?” I wink, watching her groan and sink deeper into the chair, as if the memory of our faux relationship is a weight pulling her underwater.

“Don’t remind me. Another reason why I ran here. We need to figure out how we’re going to keep up this charade.”

I take a golden-brown waffle off the iron, carefully transferring it to the plate beside me. I can feel her eyes on me, watching for any signs of weakness, waiting, gauging my reaction to this twisted debacle I’ve dragged us into.

“Have anything specific in mind to make it look legit?” I ask.

“No, no, no, Mr. Perfect Boyfriend. This whole fiasco is your doing, which automatically means you have to figure it out.” Slapping her knees she comes to a stand, walks over, and snatches the waffle off the plate. As she takes a bite, she tilts her head and chews it slowly, determining if it’s edible. Much to my surprise, she closes her eyes and lets out the most sexual moan I’ve ever heard aside from porn. I remind my dick to stay down, but it seems to be an impossible task.

“Can you tone it down with the porn sounds?”

With her mouth full, she replies, “Stop being gross. How on earth did you learn to cook like this?”

“It’s literally waffles. It’s not rocket science.”

“Yeah, tell that to my dozens of failed attempts.” She points the waffle at me. “So go ahead, tell me what your plan is for this whole fake dating debacle?”

“I don’t have a plan. Try your best to act like you don’t loathe me, and I’ll do the same.” It’s a lie. I don’t hate her at all. In fact, arguing with her has somehow become the highlight of my week.

She narrows her eyes. “Maybe you’ve forgotten, but I’m not exactly a ‘wing it’ kind of girl. At the very least, I need a ten-point plan with objectives and a full timeline.”

“We don’t have to go overboard with it. The only objective for now is to convince them it’s real and we’re together. In regards to the timeline, we’ll say we’re doing long distance and can break up after…you know.” I trail off, and she nods, knowing exactly what I mean without needing it spelled out. After Mick passes.

“And when we break up? What’s the exit strategy?” she asks.

“We’ll say the long distance was too much. Keep it simple, mutual, and end on good terms. No drama.”

“Good terms? No drama? We’re talking about us , Ben. They’ll be shocked if there isn’t bad terms and drama.”

“You’re right. Drama’s kind of our thing.”

“Exactly. I’ll say I dumped you, and you’re heartbroken.”

“Heartbroken? Let’s not get carried away. I’ll say I’m mildly disappointed, maybe.”

She gives me a pointed look. “I’m the one doing you a favor here. You’ll be devastated, and I’ll walk away unscathed. Final offer. Besides, it works in your favor. Some sweet small-town girl will probably line up to nurse your broken heart.”

I don’t say it, but that’s the last thing I want. The dating pool here is too small, and the people too predictable. Every woman I’ve been out with recently just tells me what I want to hear. But that’s not what I’m after. I want someone who has her own opinion. Someone who’ll push back and will challenge me where it matters.

“Fine. Guess it’s settled then.” I lean back against the counter, trying to shake off the strange feeling this whole plan is giving me. “Let’s see how this plays out.”

After finalizing our fake dating plan, she moves around the kitchen with effortless energy, like the conversation never even fazed her. She brews cup after cup of coffee, wipes up splatters of waffle mix, feeds my cat, and teases me relentlessly about my bedhead. All the while, she raves about the lemon blueberry waffles as if I’ve served her a Michelin-star meal.

It’s the first time we’ve come this close to getting along. And definitely the longest we have gone without getting into an argument. Typically I’m water and she’s oil—two liquids that have never been able to peacefully coexist or blend. But either it’s because we’ve both grown up, or the sense of familiarity that feels comfortable. Being around her is no longer intolerable. It’s actually nice. Really damn nice.

While she is still a fiery little thing, I now appreciate the depth and intensity she brings to every situation. She’s like a spicy food that I’ve recently acquired the taste for.

And even though I can tell she still loves pressing my buttons, it’s clear she feels the shift too. Especially by midday, after hours of conversation as she perches on the arm of my couch, with no sign of leaving.

Suddenly, this frenemies pretend-dating situation feels a whole lot riskier now that I don’t loathe my fake girlfriend.

I actually kind of like her.