Nerdy: A Fake Relationship/ Surprise Pregnancy Romantic Comedy (Unexpected Lovers Book 2) Read online

  Smooth, Sebastian. So freaking smooth.

  I’m smiling like a mad thing as Sebastian leaves the café. Maybe he’s not as much of an asshole as I’d originally thought. I mean, he’s a caregiver, for goodness’ sake. How much of an asshole could he possibly be?

  It’s tempting to pack up my stuff and head home so I can crawl back in bed, but since I’m already up and wide awake, I should probably try to get some work done.

  My eyes focus on my notes, and I home in on one in particular. I set out to create something solely for me that I could be proud of and call my own. How many times have I thought that exact sentiment? It’s why I started my blog in the first place.

  I needed something for me that was just mine. I love my family, but I didn’t want to be just another spoke in the wheelhouse of the family business. I needed to carve my own path.

  Moss Publications, Inc. is one of the largest publishing houses in the country. Words are in my blood. And even though I love everything to do with the industry, I didn’t want to be a part of that particular aspect of the fiction game. So, I set out to make my own mark on the book world, and I have.

  When I met Sebastian yesterday, I thought he was the biggest asshole I’d ever met. When he yelled his coffee order at me this morning, I still thought that. But now… maybe not so much.

  I end up ordering a peppermint tea to go and head home to review the questions I wanted to ask Sebastian but didn’t get a chance to this morning.

  Once I’m inside my apartment, I kick off my shoes, grab the throw rug off the back of the couch, and hunker down with my notebook and my phone. Skimming through what I wrote during our conversation brings up a question I hadn’t previously thought of. So, I shoot Sebastian a text, just like he told me to.

  ME: Hey, it’s Emory. I have some new questions for you.

  Was writing something you always wanted to do? And as an extension of that question, did you pursue literary courses at college?

  I’m surprised when the little bubbles pop up immediately, letting me know he’s already replying.

  SEBASTIAN: No. I’d honestly never thought about writing before, let alone becoming a published author. And I didn’t go to college.

  He didn’t go to college? For some reason, I get caught up on that the most. Why didn’t he go to college?

  ME: Sorry. I’d just assumed you had.

  SEBASTIAN: It’s okay. Most people in America go. I’m just not one of them.

  ME: Do you mind if I ask why? If that’s too personal, forget I asked. I’m simply curious.

  This time, he doesn’t reply straight away. Shit. It was too personal. Or maybe he’s just busy, like he said he’d be? I chew on my thumbnail and watch my cell screen, hoping to see those little speech dots appear.

  But five minutes later, there’s still nothing.

  I’m staring at my phone when Lennon busts through the front door. “Oh, hey,” I call as she rushes past me and heads down the hallway. Her cheeks are rosy, her eyes are wide, and her hair looks like she’s been running her hands through it repeatedly. All of which is very out of character for her, so I get up and follow her.

  “Hey, you okay?” I ask, poking my head into her room.

  Len spins around with a hand over her heart, her eyes wide. “Holy shit! Where did you come from?”

  Frowning, I hook a thumb over my shoulder. “I was in the lounge. I said, ‘Hi,’ but you didn’t hear me. Everything alright?”

  Her shoulders drop, and her breathing evens out. “Yep. Just fucking peachy.”

  “Mm-kay,” I murmur because, clearly, everything is not peachy. “You want to talk about it?”

  She runs both her hands through her long, dark-purple hair and grips her skull. “No, I’ve talked enough, and I can’t talk about it anymore or I’ll lose my goddamned mind. I am so done with this day.”

  Right. This situation calls for drastic measures. I take a deep breath then run at Lennon, crash-tackle-hugging her. We fall onto her bed, and I wrap my arms and legs around her stiff body so she can’t get away from me.

  “Jesus, Emory, let me go!” she yells and squirms around.

  “Nope, you need a hug,” I say, tightening my hold.

  “I don’t need a fucking hug. I need a drink!” she argues.

  But she relaxes slightly, enough that I loosen my grip a little. “You don’t have to talk about it, but I’d like you to answer one question.”

  “What?” she grinds out.

  “Is this work-related or man-related?” I ask.

  She heaves a sigh and says, “Both.”

  “Damn, okay, drinks it is! I’ll call Kins and get her to pick up supplies on her way home.”

  Lennon grunts. “Good, now get off of me. I’ve got shit to do. I’m going to work from home for the rest of the day.”

  I smile, smack a big kiss to her cheek, then release her. She shoves me away with a roll of her eyes, and I leave her to her business.

  When I return to the couch and pick up my cell, there’s a new text.

  SEBASTIAN: It’s complicated. Next question...

  Well, that’s a disappointing answer. But it’s not like I need it to write my article about him; I was just being nosy. So, I accept his brush-off on the topic and move on to the next one.

  ME: Your characters Lacey and Hudson come from different backgrounds. Lacey is from a life of privilege while Hudson has had to fight for everything he has. They are essentially complete opposites. Do you believe in the age-old adage that opposites attract? Explain.

  After sending the text, I pull up Kinsley’s contact and call her.

  She answers on the third ring. “Hey, Em, what’s up?”

  I sigh. “Lenny had a bad day. We need wine and chocolate. Lots of it.”

  “I’m on it. I’ll stop and get stuff on my way home. I’ll pick up takeout too,” she says.

  “You’re the best!” I tell her.

  She chuckles. “You’re only saying that because I’m bringing home wine.”

  I laugh with her. “And food.”

  “I’ll pack up and head home around five. Text me if you think of anything else we need,” she says, then we end the call.

  Burrowing into the corner of the couch, I click on the Kindle app on my cell and open Sebastian’s book, Drown with Me. I keep my notebook handy so I can jot down any new questions that come to me as I lose myself in his words.

  “Everly, come back here!” I call after my rambunctious, almost-five-year-old niece as she sprints away from the playground after some other kid’s ball. I’d chase after her if I didn’t have Hazel strapped into the baby swing. Instead, I keep my gaze fixed on Ever’s little form as she kicks the ball back to the random kid then returns to me.

  “Don’t run off like that,” I chastise her as she approaches.

  She rolls her eyes at me. “I was getting the ball.”

  I give Hazel another push. She giggles and kicks her chubby legs as the swing flies through the air. “I know what you were doing, but you have to stay in the playground or we’re going home.”

  Everly sighs and tips her head back, looking up at the sky. “Fiiine” she says then takes off for the big red slide where her friends are congregated.

  God, she’s dramatic. I shake my head and go back to pushing Hazel who, at only a year old, is thankfully still too young to give me attitude.

  We stay at the park for another thirty minutes before Hazel rubs her eyes, indicating she’s ready for her nap. “Time to go,” I call to Everly as I strap Hazel to the baby carrier attached to my chest.

  Miraculously, Everly says goodbye to her little friends and comes to my side without argument. When her tiny hand slips into mine, I give it a gentle squeeze and smile down at her. She returns it with a toothy grin of her own.

  “Is Azel sweepy?” she asks as we start walking toward home.

  “She is. What about you? You’ve been doing some pretty hardcore playing this morning.”

  Her shoulders lift in a
shrug. “Nah, I’m otay.”

  By the time we get back to Storm’s house, ten minutes later, Hazel has passed out. Her little fist clenches my shirt in a death grip, and I have to carefully unfurl her fingers before I can place her in her crib.

  She stirs as I lay her down, and I gently caress her back, soothing her; then I wait a few moments to make sure she settles. I exit her room with the stealthy ninja skills I’ve developed over the years of mannying for my sister.

  Everly is waiting in the hallway for me. “You want a snack before your chill time?” I ask her.

  Her blonde head bobs in a nod. “Yes, pwease.”

  We tiptoe to the kitchen where I cut up an apple, some carrot sticks, and a few cubes of cheese then set her up with a movie in the living room. “What are you in the mood for today?” I ask as she sits at her tiny table beside the couch.

  She purses her lips and wrinkles her brow. “Bwave,” she eventually decides.

  “Okey-dokey,” I say, clicking through the movie selection until I come to Brave. “You feelin’ like a badass princess today, huh?”

  Ever nods, chewing on a carrot stick. “Yep. I’m dunna be wike Merweeda when I drow up.”

  “Good girl,” I tell her, ruffling her silky-smooth hair. She swats at my hand and glares at me. I chuckle and flop down on the couch, pulling my phone from my pocket. I still haven’t replied to Emory’s last question.

  My thumb taps away at the screen as I formulate my response.

  ME: Do I believe opposites attract in real life? Yes, I do. Take my sister and her fiancé, for instance. My sister, Storm, is crazy smart—like, genius levels. She’s an aerospace engineer. Her fiancé, Jake, is an average Joe, so to speak. They are night and day, yin and yang. But they fit each other perfectly. He draws her out of her head, and she makes him want to act like a grown-ass man. It’s the perfect relationship, in my opinion.

  I hit send just as Ever climbs onto the couch and snuggles into my side, resting her head on my bicep as she watches her movie. She’ll probably fall asleep, as she usually does after we’ve had a playdate at the park.

  She snuggles back into my chest then reaches for my arm to wrap it around her. We snuggle together and watch the wild princess on the screen as she fights for her independence. And for some reason, I think of Emory. It’s probably just the red hair.

  I smile and kiss the back of Ever’s head as she begins the slow blink that will inevitably lead to her snoring softly in the next few minutes.

  Emory’s question from this morning comes back to me. Would I leave this all behind if my book became a huge success? Never. I would never give this up. Not for anything. Which is exactly why Jayla and I broke up.

  She wanted me to pursue a career, to go out and make something of myself. But the thing is, I am exactly where I want to be. My role in Everly and Hazel’s life is more important to me than any career could be.

  And screw Jayla for not seeing that.

  My head hurts, and my mouth feels like it’s been stuffed with cotton wool as I roll to the edge of my bed and slap a hand around on my nightstand. I’m sure I had a bottle of water on there. Peeking one eye open, I squint until I spot my drink. I snatch it up, unscrew the lid, and down half of it.

  Why did I drink so much wine last night?

  Sighing heavily, I wriggle out of bed and shuffle to my en suite, a hand resting over my angry belly as I go. I swear the best thing about this apartment is the individual bathrooms. My head throbs just thinking about how impossible it would be to share one single bathroom between myself and my two roommates.

  After I pee and wash my hands, I stare at my reflection in the mirror above the sink. I look like a train wreck. Black bags circle my eyes, my skin is dry and itchy, and my hair looks like a flock of seagulls had an orgy up in there.

  Stripping off my clothes, I crank up the hot water in the shower then stand under the spray for a solid ten minutes before soaping my body down. Washing my wild hair takes another ten minutes.

  When I eventually exit my room, it’s almost noon, and unsurprisingly, it looks like I’m home alone.

  Kins has been spending all her spare time with Atticus, which is super freaking cute, and I really can’t blame her. The dude is H.O.T. Hot. And Lenny’s probably at some sporting brunch or something with one of her clients.

  I make myself a cup of coffee and toast a bagel. I slather it with garlic butter and cream cheese then kick back on the couch and begin to surf Netflix. I’m flicking through the latest additions when my phone chimes with a text.

  A smile curves my lips when I see Sebastian’s name on the screen. But my smile quickly falls when I begin to read the message.

  SEBASTIAN: Umm, so I’ve been trying to think of a way to answer last night’s barrage of questions, but I’m pretty sure it would be inappropriate for me to do so. Also, I’m not sure what the size of my dick has to do with you writing an article about my book? But in saying that, I feel I need to answer at least some of them. So, yes, I am very good at sex, and yes, I am straight.

  What the actual shit…?

  My thumb scrolls through our chat, and my heart lodges in my throat when I see the questions he’s referring to.

  I drunk-texted him.

  A lot.

  Sweet baby Jesus in the manger, why didn’t you save me from myself?

  ME: You write some pretty intense sex scenes in your book. Did your own sex life inspire them? Like that one scene in the lighthouse? ’Cause holy shit, it’s hot.

  ME: I can’t help but wonder what it’s like for a straight man to write about another man’s penis thrusting into a wet vagina. So, I’m thinking you must be describing your own penis when writing these scenes, right?

  ME: There I go assuming again… are you even straight? If not, that brings up a whole lot of new questions.

  ME: You must be hung if you’re using your own penis for inspiration.

  ME: You’re taking a really long time to respond…

  ME: I bet you’re really good at sex. I wish I was getting it as good as the heroine in your book.

  ME: My roommate is getting good sex on the regular now, and I’m totally jealous. But don’t tell her I said that, because I’m also crazy happy for her.

  ME: I need to find someone to have good sex with.

  What the hell am I supposed to say to him now? Heat rushes to my face as I reread the thread over and over again.

  Taking a deep breath, I do the only thing I can right now. I text him back with the truth.

  ME: I am SO sorry, but I swear that wasn’t me texting you last night. That was copious amounts of wine.

  I read Emory’s reply and smile.

  It was pretty damn obvious she was drunk last night, which was why I didn’t reply at the time. But I can’t resist the opportunity to mess with her a little.

  ME: Really? That’s what you’re going with?

  EMORY: It’s the truth! I had no input into that particular line of questioning. It was all my good friend, Sauvignon Blanc. Swear on my favorite book.

  I snort to myself, and my sister side-eyes me from the other side of the kitchen counter.

  “What’s so funny?” Storm asks with a raised brow.

  Grinning, I pass my phone over to her and let her see for herself. Her eyes light with amusement, and her lips curve in a massive smile.

  “Oh my god, this is gold.” She chuckles.

  Taking a swig of my coffee, I nod. “I know, right?”

  Storm hands my phone back and grins. “So, who is Emory anyway?”

  “A book blogger. She’s doing a write-up on Drown with Me. It was Calliope’s idea,” I explain.

  My sister nods and goes back to making a huge stack of sandwiches for our lunches. “How’s it going? Apart from the obvious drunk-girl questions, that is.”

  I shrug. “We only met on Thursday; it didn’t go so well. But we met up again yesterday morning, and it was better. I think she’s a little crazy—definitely borderline eccentric. But I kin
da like that about her.”

  A new kind of interest shines in my twin’s eyes, and I shut that shit down immediately. “No. Nope, don’t even go there, Storm.”

  “What?” she asks as fake innocence blankets her features.

  I narrow my gaze into a glare. “I know what you’re thinking, and it’s not going to happen.”

  She widens her eyes at me. “I have no idea what you’re going on about.”

  My lips raise in a smile; I can’t help it. “You’re mental, you know that?”

  Storm bursts out laughing. “I just want you to be happy. What’s so wrong with that?”

  “I am happy,” I tell her. “I don’t need a girlfriend to accomplish that.”

  “I never said you did. But it wouldn’t hurt either. At the very least, it wouldn’t kill you to start dating again,” she says. “It’s been over six months since you and Jayla broke up. She told me she’s bringing a plus-one to the wedding…”

  This little tidbit gives me pause. Jayla’s bringing someone to the wedding? “Who?” I ask.

  Storm shrugs and pops a piece of cucumber in her mouth. She chews slowly—too slowly.

  “Storm,” I grumble.

  “Fine,” she huffs. “She’s bringing Jordan.”

  My eyes widen. “As in that guy at her firm that used to follow her around like a total creeper? The one she used to complain about on the regular? That Jordan?”

  Storm chuckles and nods. “The one and the same.”

  “Okay, well, good for her,” I say.