Page 8 of The Playboy's Playbook

And I kept that promise for seven years. Seven years of bliss in a new state with new people and new adventures. Seven years discovering myself because I didn’t peak in high school.

Seven years of happiness.

And all of that went to shit the minute I turned away from the very charming and charismatic little boy to face Matthew Foster.

Why couldn’t I be so lucky to have one of those romantic meet-cutes I read about in my romance novels? Why couldn’t I turn around and a handsome bull rider who’s just given it his all to get the best time and win the competition is behind me and we ride off into the moonlight together and live happily ever after.

I guess a happy ending is just not in the cards for me because I’m always the bridesmaid and never the bride.

But Matthew Foster is most certainly not a groom or a groomsman. He isn’t even invited to the wedding.

He and I first met in the second grade and we were best friends. We had a friendship just like any other elementary school kids did.

We played with each other at recess, walked with each other in the line to and from places. We sat next to each other in music class and would talk about the next book we’re going to check out from the library. We were practically inseparable the entire year, but then summer came. I counted down the days, hours, minutes, and seconds to see if he and I would be in the same class again.

I was heartbroken when I found out we weren’t.

When we’d see each other in the halls, I’d smile and wave at him, but he would ignore me. Our classes had recess together, but he spent time with his new friends, leaving me alone on the swing set. Before Erica and I met, I was alone and missing my “best friend.”

When we got to high school, Mathew and I still didn’t see much of each other. In fact, I tried to avoid him at all costs, which wasn’t too hard. He went on to play football and I was the girl in the bleachers.

Matthew dated the prettiest girls in class, but they had the ugliest personalities. They were full of themselves and shallow, much like him now that I think about it. He didn’t care about others or their feelings.

Seeing him for the first time since we graduated high school has me feeling a lot of things, but nothing that makes my heart skip a beat with giddiness.

“Matthew,” I say curtly for the sake of a kid being here. Otherwise, I would’ve told him that he’s number one with my middle finger.

“It’s been a long time, Laila,” he says, his deep voice filling my ears. I step back slightly to give myself space because he’s taking all of the oxygen out of this already stuffy arena.

Matthew scans my face, trying to assess me. Surprisingly, I don’t feel awkward under his gaze and I swear his eyes sparkle as he traces my features. While he analyzes me, I take the time to look at him.

His blond hair is longer, but still curly. He’s much more filled out, like he’s spent a few years lifting weights because his muscles are about to burst out of his black t-shirt. His skin is tanned to perfection and his blue eyes still remind me of the ocean. He’s towering over me, so I have to lean my neck to look him in the eyes. I have to admit, he looks good. The years have been very kind to him.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” Clay calls out as he steps in between Matthew and I.

“Yes,” I say, squatting to his height. This kid is so mannerable and as cute as a button.

“I think that my Uncle Matty was scared to –”

“Alright, Clay. She looked like she was on her way out. We’ve still got to watch the barrel riding,” Matthew cuts him off as he guides Clay by the shoulders.

“Fine. It was nice meeting you, Miss.” Clay sticks his hand out for me to shake again, which I happily do.

“It was nice meeting you, too.” I shake his small hand and return to my full height before looking up at Matthew to find he’s already staring at me.

“It was nice seeing you, Laila,” Matthew says, his voice low as he turns and guides Clay to the main arena. I watch them walk off and when I’m about to turn and leave, Matthew turns and looks at me before smiling softly at me.

I quickly turn from him and march out of the arena to my car, texting Erica that I’ll meet her at Brody’s Bar because I’m going to need so many Cosmopolitans to get rid of the way I feel after this encounter.

After waiting for an agonizingly long time for Erica to fight traffic to get to the bar, I finally spot her black car pulling into the parking lot. She exits, her blond locs secured in a bun on top of her head. We’re dressed similarly in white crop tops and jeans, but she has on a pair of sneakers and I still have on my boots.

“I saw a sign that says it’s free cover for the next thirty minutes,” I say as we walk to the bar’s entrance.

“Ooh, come on! You know Brody doesn’t play about the free cover times,” Erica says as she drags me inside the already crowded bar.

We smile and wave at a few people we recognize, mostly our classmates who we saw earlier. It’s slammed packed in here, which we expected it to be since the rodeo is in town.

Brody’s Bar is a standard country bar located in the heart of Oakridge’s downtown district. It’s in an old brick building that used to be a shoe-shine shop when the town was first founded. The outside has two big windows covered with a reflective film, so it’s hard to see inside the bar. The interior of the bar is moody, with wood-lined walls and creaky floors.

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