Page 46 of Just for the Plot

“This one hundred percent was your fault.”

“No, I told you to get someone douchey, not an Adonis with a fucking jackhammer dick. That’s on you.”

“You said douchey, and Graydon said he was douchey. How is this my fault?”

“It’s called research,” Nolan says as he takes another sip of his Powerade. “Did you even look the guy up before sending her the info?”

“No,” I say, hating how hasty I was.

“That’s right, because if you did look him up, you would have seen just how massive he is. And you’re a big guy yourself, but to him, you’re an ant. If you actually saw what he looked like, you never would have sent his phone number over.”

He’s right about that. If I took one goddamn second to look Cougar up, I’d have seen just how “good-looking” he is and I’d have never sent his information over to Bower. I’d have asked Graydon to try again.

But I didn’t do that. No, I served Cougar up on a silver platter to Bower, practically dabbing her face with a napkin and handing her the utensils to chow down.

What a fucking moron.

“Fuck,” I say, dragging my hand down my face. “What have I done?”

“Something incredibly stupid.”

“Maybe…maybe they won’t hit it off.”

“They will.” Nolan downs another Powerade. “Because I know Cougar, and there isn’t one person that he doesn’t hit it off with. Your only prayer now is that he won’t like her. Any hope in that angle?”

I shake my head because Bower is perfect. How could he not like her? She’s fun, beautiful, smart, quick on her feet, and outgoing. Nothing seems to bother her. And she’s up for pretty much anything.

“She’s…she’s amazing.”

“Says the guy with hearts in his eyes when he speaks about her.”

“She is,” I say, slouching more in my chair, defeat reigning over me. “They’re going to hit it off, date, and he’ll end up fulfilling all of her sexual fantasies, and by next year they’ll be engaged and I’ll be asked to give a speech at their wedding about how I set them up despite being completely and utterly infatuated with her.”

Nolan pauses for a moment, staring me down through thoseridiculous sunglasses. After a few seconds, he nods. “Yup, that seems very accurate.”

“I fucking hate you.”

“Don’t hate the plan, my man.” He cracks open another bottle. “Hate the execution.”

Head buried in my pillow, I take a deep breath and then sigh.

It still smells like her.

If you’re thinking,Whoa, dude, that’s coming off as pathetic, then you would be right.

It is pathetic.

And yet, here I am.

This is what I have left of her. The faint smell of her in the fabric of a pillowcase.

With one more big sniff, I get myself out of my bed and head to the bathroom, where I take care of business and brush my teeth before slipping on a pair of sweatpants that ride low on my hips from how much I’ve been training.

My waist has become narrower and my shoulders broader. I’ve seen the change slowly happen over the last two years since I’ve been training and eating differently. My muscles are more pronounced, my skin almost feels tighter around my bones, showing off every curve and indent. Sure, probably in the best shape of my life, but what good has that done me?

None.

Absolutely zero.