Page 62 of No More Bad Boys
Blake dips his head and gives me the sweetest possible kiss, a kiss that shows me the truth of what he’s just said. That he loves me. But…
“What were yougoingto tell me?”
He lifts his head, and that troubled look is back in his eyes. “I don’t know if now’s the time to talk about it. It never seems to be the right time.”
I kiss him gently then draw back, staring into his eyes. “Remember what I said? You can tell me anything. So don’t be afraid. Whatever you have to say won’t change how I feel about you.”
“Well…” A long pause. He takes a deep breath, “I hope that’s true because—”
“Cadence?” A new voice enters the conversation—one that millions of Americans know and love—because it belongs to Larson Overstreet, my sister’s fiancé.
“Shit,” Blake mumbles, his face stricken and draining of all color.
I turn my head to see Larson and Kenley standing beside our table.
“Kenley,” I exclaim.
The timing isn’t ideal, but I’m excited. Here, without planning anything, I finally have the chance to introduce her—and her true love—tomytrue love.
But she’s not looking at me.
Instead, her eyes are locked with Blake’s, and she looks absolutely devastated.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispers to him.
FOURTEEN
Now I Get It
“Kenley?” I stare at her, struck to the core by her horrified expression.
Glancing at Larson’s face, I see he’s as clueless as I am.
Then I turn back to Blake. “Blake? What’s going on? Why is she telling you she’s sorry?”
And then it hits me.
They’ve met before.
They know each other.
Very well.
Reading his eyes as well as the face of the open, transparent girl I’ve known my entire life, I know what Blake was afraid to tell me.
HeisKenley’s Blake after all.
Even though he claimed to have gone to a different college, even though he never admitted it—shewas the girl he was so hung up on in school, who dumped him when she found out about his impoverished background.
She was the one he was so upset over losing.
My heart liquefies and drains out the soles of my feet. I am second-choice once again. The consolation prize. An also-ran who happened to win the race because the lead horse tripped and broke an ankle.
He didn’t wantme—he wantedher—and I am the closest available substitute for her perfection.
I scramble out of the booth and charge past Kenley and Larson, ignoring her pleading voice as she calls my name.
The bar is even more packed than when we arrived, and I feel like I’m trying to get down the lacrosse field toward the goal with aggressive defense players blocking my way.
