The Real Thing: Flirt Romance
Cassie Mae
Contents
eBook Information
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Dedication
By Cassie Mae
About the Author
Advance Reader's Copy — Not for Sale
The Real Thing
Flirt Romance
Cassie Mae
Flirt
This is an uncorrected eBook file.
Please do not quote for publication
until you check your copy against the finished book.
Tentative On-Sale Date: August 19, 2014
Tentative Publication Month: August 2014
Tentative eBook Price: $2.99
Please note that books will not be available in stores
until the above on-sale date.
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Loveswept
An imprint Random House
1745 Broadway, New York, NY 10019
The Real Thing
Cassie Mae
New York
This is an uncorrected eBook file. Please do not quote for publication until you check your copy against the finished book.
The Real Thing is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A Flirt eBook Original
Copyright © 2014 by Cassie Mae
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States of America by Flirt, an imprint of Random House, a division of Random House LLC, a Penguin Random House Company, New York.
Flirt and the Flirt colophon are trademarks of Random House LLC.
eBook ISBN 978-0-553-39253-1
Cover design: Regina Wamba
Cover photograph: NAS CRETIVES/Shutterstock
www.readflirt.com
Chapter 1
Emilia Johnson
25 minutes ago
Today I get to see my best friend after THREE VERY LONG YEARS!—feeling excited with Eric Matua
24 people like this
***
Every morning, I get a text from the greatest man alive.
Good morning, bug. When you get to the beach, touch the ocean. I’ll touch the ocean here, and it’ll be like we’re together again.
I grin just as a big fluffy pillow that smells like hairspray slams against my face, then flops down on my keyboard.
“Put that damn phone on silent.”
I’ll give my roommate a pass since A) my phone’s given off around twenty-three message alerts, and it’s only nine o’clock; B) I’m on my laptop, so I don’t really need the cell to bing! every time an email comes in, because I can see it; and C) Eve is about-to-pop pregnant. She sleeps most of the time, but if she’s not sleeping, she’s complaining about being so damn tired.
I pick up my phone and make a big show of pressing the silent button, and then type in my response.
Very lyrical for a fisherman, Dad. ;) Love you.
Eve shifts on her bed, brows furrowed in a very “I’m not amused” expression, and curls into Paul’s arms. He sleeps just fine through the cell noise, but I’m pretty sure Eve has tired him out with the late night cravings. Last night he came into our dorm room with the Cookies & Cream Klondike bars Eve was begging for, only to have her eat a bite and tell him it made her stomach upset. I threw Paul a “don’t worry” look, because I was on those Klondike bars like white on rice.
My computer sends out a notification—bee-boop—and I quickly shut off the sound before Eve blows fire from her ass. I’ve made it through twenty emails, so only a few left, and I take a big bite of my cheese Danish as I click over to read email twenty-one.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Remember when
Mia,
If you opened this email, please keep reading! I want to apologize, even if it won’t do anything because I’m a total shit and hurt you so much I’ll probably never get your forgiveness. But I am sorry. And I want you to know I think about you.
A lot.
Hell, more than a lot.
I sat at one of my brother’s concerts the other night, smiling like an idiot because I couldn’t stop thinking about the last concert we went to. The poor schmuck behind us never saw your elbow coming. You were always so wild . . . and I mean that in the nicest way possible. The second the first chord hit, your arms went up and his nose went “crack!”
You kept telling me it was a natural reaction for guys to throw punches, no matter if the recipient was a girl or not. But no way in hell was I buying that. No one touches my girl, even if it was a “natural reaction.”
You were well worth the night at the police station, the bloody nose, and bruised knuckles. Especially when you curled up on my chest afterward, and said I looked sexy with tampons up my nostrils. (Something that stays between the two of us.)
It was the moment I fell in love with you.
I haven’t stopped.
—Scott
Um . . . hello, creeper spam alert! What the hell is this? Who the hell is this? I’ve had creepy emails before, comes with being involved in social media, but I haven’t had someone make up a past for us. I press delete, but there is a second or two when I seriously consider responding with a piece of my mind. Maybe a list titled “How Not to Impress a Girl: Your Creepy Email Edition.”
Instead of responding, I click from my email to my Facebook tab and laugh at the emoticon sticker my cousin just IMed. I type a quick response of LOL, then scroll through my feed looking for ebook deals. Usually my reader buddies post as many as they can find, and when I find the posts, I one-click like crazy. Better keep my Kindle stocked for this summer. My job isn’t full time, so I’ll have lots of lazy hours for reading. I consider this a very positive thing.
Oh! The book I’ve been waiting to get is only ninety-nine cents. I let out a, “Hell yes!” and dance in my rolly chair.
“Ugh, Mia,” Eve grumbles, scratching the top of her pink-blonde hair. “Aren’t you supposed to leave soon?”
“I don’t have to leave till, like, eleven,” I say, scrolling through my Amazon recs.
“It’s 10:58.”
What?
I slam the lid to my laptop down and slide it into its case. “Crapcrapcrapcrapcrapcrap . . .” Tossing the strap over my head and grabbing the handle to my large suitcase, I lean over Eve and pepper her forehead with kisses. “Love you, love you, love you . . . call me if you need anything.”
“I will. Have fun with your high school sweethear
t.”
“Eric’s not a sweetheart,” I say, double-checking the front pocket of my luggage to make sure I have all my chargers. “Well, he’s a sweetheart, but he wasn’t my sweetheart.”
“You talk to him all the time. I sure as hell hope he’s something.”
My cheeks warm, and I can feel my lips forming a dorky grin. “He’s my best friend.”
“Whatever!” Eve kisses my cheek and then smacks it. “Just have fun and get out of here.”
I laugh and zip the pocket on my suitcase back up. I will be so happy to have not-pregnant Eve back. “I will. Love you, again!”
Paul snores from behind Eve and mumbles, “I love you too, baby.”
Eve rolls her eyes, but a smile forms on her face as she rubs her boyfriend’s hair. “Love you,” she mouths to me, and I roll myself and my suitcase from our dorm, last time I’ll see it till school starts up again.
I’m going to be so late. I should’ve packed my laptop earlier, because it sucks me in every time. I lose track of the clock, and a “quick check on my Facebook” becomes an hour or two of social networking. I can’t help it. It’s the only time I really feel connected to people. With Dad moving to Alaska when I jetted off to college, I got used to being alone. I keep in contact with my high school friends via Internet, though.
Most of them flitted away, too busy with their own lives to mess around online, but Eric was one who didn’t. My big, cushy, smoking-hot, ready-to-drool-just-thinking-about-him Samoan best friend. Eric played linebacker on the high school football team. Well, backup linebacker. Damn, I wanted him. Badly. But he had a girlfriend, and I was too scared to tell him how I felt.
After his graduation, Eric went to Samoa to spend time with his uncle, and I trudged through my senior year, constantly checking my Facebook just so I could talk to him. I told him to take pictures and post them, and he did, but never of himself. Eric’s a little self-conscious about his weight. His profile pic is the cover of a Dr. Seuss book, which he changes every once in a while. Currently it’s Hop on Pop.
When he told me he was watching his mom’s beach condo on the Florida coast for the summer, I squealed so loud I may have scared a few people in Starbucks. An IM conversation later, I have an entire summer with my best friend—with serious hope for more, since I’m pretty sure he’s not taken now—at his condo, right next to my job at the SnoGo on Daytona Beach. Since Dad will be spending the summer on the Pacific Ocean fishing, I found this alternative much better. I’m okay spending it on land by the ocean. But never will I set foot in the water. Nope. Couldn’t pay me enough to do that.
My piece-of-shit Camaro needs gas, and I mutter “Damn it” under my breath. I’m going to show up even later than I’d planned. I told Eric I’d be there at oneish, and according to Google, it’s going to take three hours and twenty-seven minutes to get from Keiser to Daytona. I pull my phone out after I’ve shoved my heavy-ass suitcase into the trunk and IM Eric, hoping he looks at it before I get there.
Running late. So sorry! Be there more like 2ish. Can’t wait to see you!
Now if I can just stop myself from looking at my Facebook feed again before getting on the road.
* * *
My excitement level peaks when I pull into the condo parking lot. It’s 2:34, so I’m still a little late, but I blame the stupid tolls. My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I’m tempted to check it, but I’ll wait till the car is at a complete stop since I have no idea where the hell I’m going.
The building numbers are faded and cracked, but I think the one I pull up to is building 14. Eric said he’d be waiting outside, but I don’t see him. And honestly, he’d be easy to spot . . . from what I remember.
I slap the Camaro in park and yank out my cell. My shaking finger is on the Call button when a tap comes at my window.
“Holy shit!” My phone flies from my hand, and I squint at the cute guy smiling at me through the window. It takes way too long for me to realize this cute guy is . . . my cute guy.
I pop the door open and Eric swings it the rest of the way, sticking his hand out to help me from my seat.
“Eric?”
He laughs before wrapping me in a bear hug. The buttons on his tight, black shirt press into my cheek as he squeezes me tight. Butterflies explode from my stomach and escape my mouth in the form of a embarrassing high-pitched squeal. In high school, we’d start most of our greetings this way—me getting swallowed in his massive arms. But after three years . . . his arms are different. His stomach, holy shit, where did it go?
I push back and can’t keep my jaw from dropping to the asphalt.
“Where’s the rest of you?” I laugh and walk around my Eric. Is this my Eric? He looks so different. So different. His squishy, adorable love handles have disappeared into his shorts. His ass, holy shit, and his face went from round to square. He laughs as I step back in front of him, poking his stomach. He jerks back, and that’s when I know it’s really him. Eric is the most ticklish person on the planet.
“Holy shit.” Seems to be the phrase of the day.
He smiles and my heart balloons. I’ve missed that smile.
“I must’ve left the rest of me in Samoa.”
I throw myself back into his bear hug, clasping my wrists and laughing. “Oh my gosh . . . I can wrap my arms around you.”
This is not what I expected. Eric was my squishy teddy bear. Now he’s this muscular teddy bear. I run my hands over his back just to get a feel for it. Unreal. I stay in his hold for probably way longer than is considered normal.
“Let’s get your stuff inside,” he says over my head. “I promise we’ll hug more later.”
I feel insanely empty when we break from each other. We talk every day. We chat and we email and we talk on the phone, but I never get to hug him. So I can’t help but hold on to his arm and bounce as he pulls my suitcase from the trunk.
I’m too damn excited to let go of him now.
Chapter 2
Eric Matua
4 hours ago
Am I supposed to buy a new roommate a gift? Not really sure what the etiquette is on that.
Emilia Johnson likes this
***
She’s still as cute as she was in high school.
Scratch that.
She’s cuter.
Shit, she’s sexy as hell.
No . . . scratch that, too. Hell is a walk-in freezer compared to Emmy.
She just spent three hours on the road, in a car with AC that’s crappy at best. Her brown hair is tied in a loose ponytail, and her bangs cover her forehead and spread down around her cheeks. Her freckled skin looks amazing. Em never tanned. Burnt to a crisp whenever we were out in the sun and cursed at me for having “burn-proof” skin. Her lips would scrunch up in this damn cute way as she looked at her reddening shoulders.
She clings to my arm as I hoist her suitcase from the trunk. I can’t believe she’s still driving this piece-of-shit Camaro. It’s been three years, but I feel like we were hanging out yesterday, since we’re online all the time. Never skyped though. Always came up with a lame excuse so I wouldn’t have to be on camera. I was worried as hell about seeing her in person. I’m still not down to the weight I want to be at, but her reaction gave my ego a good boost.
She presses up against my side and my whole arm flames hotter than the sun beating down on us. I have to get her to stop squeezing her body against mine unless she wants to find out just how much I like it.
I don’t know what she packed, but I feel like I’m lugging twenty medicine balls up the concrete stairs into the condo. I try to be smooth about it, like it doesn’t weigh anything, but my heavy breathing gives me away.
“You know, I can carry my laptop bag,” she says, cocking an eyebrow at my less-than-smooth moves up the stairs. My fingers slip on the handle of her suitcase because, damn, that expression was sexy. I don’t know how I’m going live with her this summer if I can’t even walk up the stairs without fumbling.
Em was the fantasy
girl. She was my best friend—is my best friend, but I’m not sure she ever knew that. The fat, shy kid I was didn’t have a ton of friends outside my teammates, and of course Em had me slapped in the friend zone. Then there was Ali . . . but I don’t really count her as a friend. Even though we dated. Sort of. Hell, I don’t even know what to call that relationship. I try to block it out.
Emmy picks up speed on the second landing, giving me a nice view of her ass in cutoffs. She probably doesn’t even know what she’s doing to me, or she does and doesn’t care, but my hand slips on her luggage again.
“What number is it again?” she asks, tucking her fingers in her front pocket and taking out her phone.
“Fourteen H,” I pant. Damn it. “Just one more flight up.”
“Yeesh. I’ll be getting my workout for this summer. No reader butt for me this year.”
My eyebrows pull in. “Reader butt?”
She turns to face me, a dimpled smile on her lips. “I read a lot. My butt is paying for it.” She smacks her backside and then starts climbing. I take a good look at that ass—again—and I’m thinking if reading is making it look like that, then bring on the books.
We get to the door, and I gratefully let go of the suitcase to grab the keys in the pocket of my cargo shorts. Emmy leans against the doorframe, entering something in her phone with a smile on her face. She’s so distracting I miss the keyhole four times.
“What’re you doing?” I nod to her phone.
She taps something, then turns it around to show me. She’s on Twitter, and just typed in #summerofawesomeness with #bestbud has now begun! Three people have already favorited it.
“Best bud, huh?” I tease, relaxing into friend mode, since, duh, that’s what we are. I can’t keep checking her out, because I’ll set myself up for disappointment.
“Since age fifteen.” She pulls the phone back and slides her finger around the screen. I glance down to watch her type. Wow, she’s a pro. I’m still trying to figure out how to defeat autocorrect.
