Best Friends Forever_A Marriage Pact Romance Read online

  BEST FRIENDS FOREVER

  JESS BENTLEY

  Copyright © 2018 by JESS BENTLEY

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Introduction

  Wait!

  Please use the TOC (Table of Contents) to navigate your way through this book. If you’re zoomed out and you’re seeing a smaller version of the book and it is flipping through that way, please press the center of your screen to get you out of page flip mode.

  Thanks a million <3,

  Jess and Zoey

  Contents

  1. PREFACE

  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

  EPILOGUE

  Exclusive Bonus Novel: COLT - A BROTHER’S BEST FRIEND ROMANCE

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Epilogue

  A Nanny for Christmas

  Prologue

  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

  Epilogue

  Addicted

  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

  Epilogue

  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

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by JESS BENTLEY

  PREFACE

  Penny

  Jeannie spots me as I get out of the rental car, hollering yoo-hoo the whole way as she waves her clipboard at shoulder height.

  “Penny! It’s me, Jeannie! Over here!”

  Okay, this is it, I tell myself. Reunion starts now. Smile pretty for everybody.

  Glancing down, I check what I thought was a smile in my reflection in the car window. No, it looks like I’m in pain, which is much closer to the truth. After some minor adjustments, I declare this facial expression smile-adjacent and turn toward Jeannie just before she can tackle me in the parking lot.

  “Penny Gable!” she huffs, checking her clipboard and handing me a sticker that has been carefully decorated with watercolor calligraphy.

  “Jeannie Norris!” I exclaim, phony but probably not to her ears. “How have you been! It’s been ages!”

  “It’s been fifteen years!” Jeannie replies, her eyes wide with dismay. “Where has the time gone! I just blinked and—poof! Middle age is right around the corner!”

  I swallow. “Wow… I guess you’re right?” I mumble uncertainly.

  If she weren’t so festive, I would mistake her for an undertaker.

  “Well, I’m real glad you’re here!” she beams. “Just ahead right on in through the double doors and adjust course to report… That means left, ha-ha!”

  “Okay! A good thing you told me!” I answer cheerily, though I can see people shuffling into the doors and probably could have followed them.

  “Okay, Penny! Great to see you, but I gotta dash!”

  She hurries off, leaving me with a sticker in my hand and a knot in my stomach. I take a deep breath and force my feet to move.

  I didn’t go to my high school reunion. I don’t know why I would want to see people from high school anyway. Just as soon as we became adults, we all scattered like buckshot. This is college, and I have to admit I am a little bit curious about these people, but every time somebody looks at me my impulse is to avert my eyes.

  It’s not that I’m not friendly, it’s just that I don’t want to be inspected. I don’t want to be held up to the light, turned this way and that, investigated for flaws.

  I haven’t always made the right choices. That’s for certain. But neither has anyone else, I remind myself. Life is a series of wrong turns and corrections my mom says sometimes. Or she says something like that. Just keep swimming. Forward motion, that’s the key.

  With that spirit in mind, I circle around the perimeter, keeping my eyes moving. I don’t want to linger too long on any one person and attract their attention. Optimally, I will only have to see one human being all night long.

  My breath catches in my throat.

  And there he is.

  The crowd seems to kind of part around him, and he cuts through like a steam liner, with everyone pushed off to the side. Not that he notices. He strides through like he knows exactly where he’s going, which is the bar.

  He looks totally different. In college, Clay was tall, sure, but featherlight. Bony wrists, narrow shoulders, prominent and awkward Adam’s apple. Wavy hair that cascaded past his shoulders whenever he didn’t have money for a haircut, which was most of the time.

  This guy is… different.

  His hair has gone partly silver, though he’s nowhere near forty yet. Must be a genetic thing. It’s still wavy, shining under the pink and blue stage lights as he strides forward.

  His walk is confident, sleek. No longer skinny, now he has thick, prominent muscles that fill out his tailored shirt and trousers. I can practically imagine what he looks like naked…

  Oh no, I’m not going to do that.

  But I can’t help myself. The last time that we saw each other—really saw each other—we promised that we would always keep space for each other in our hearts. We made a pact that if life didn’t work out for us, we would find each other in fifteen years.

  Is it possible that life hasn’t worked out for him, though? I mean look at him. He looks like a movie st
ar. He looks like a spokesperson for a luxury car line or something.

  I can’t believe that muscular, confident, charismatic guy with all the women’s eyes on him was my best friend... that shy, scrawny, awkward do-gooder that I never even really took the time to appreciate.

  But this time, it’ll be different.

  Chapter 2

  Clay

  Fifteen years before...

  All four burners are on at once, sending little spasms of alarm through my body. I stare at the stove as each pot bubbles rambunctiously, chewing my lower lip.

  “This is fine, right? I’m sure this is fine,” I mutter to myself, scowling.

  Tearing open the cardboard box of pasta, I measure out a healthy handful just like my mother taught me. I’m sure this is enough for Ryan and me. As sure as I can be. Anyway, if he’s still hungry, he can always fill up on salad and garlic bread…

  Oh shit! The frickin’ garlic bread!

  Spiking the pasta noodles into the boiling water, I fling open the oven door milliseconds before the loaves go up in flames. They look like charcoal briquette skis, neatly lined up on my battered and rusty cookie sheet. Acrid curls of smoke waft up toward my face, burning the inside of my nose.

  “Dammit, dammit, dammit, ow, crap!”

  My hand jerks back automatically when I reach for the pan without an oven mitt. My fingers drift toward my tongue, already stinging as I realize I didn’t even set a timer for the spaghetti. How long has it been? A minute? Ninety seconds?

  Sighing, I twist the oven knob to turn it off and just kick the door closed with the charcoal skis inside. I’m sure I can clean that up tomorrow. Whatever.

  The bottle of wine that I convinced my neighbor—okay, bribed my neighbor—to buy for me at the liquor store stares at me from the counter. I really would like a sip of wine right now. That seems like the appropriate course of action when you’re on the verge of ruining dinner, right? A nice glass of wine as the ship goes down in flames? Sounds positively Mayberry-esque.

  But of course I can’t forget that wine represents what were the last pennies in my food budget for the month. I’m going to be eating ramen and hard-boiled eggs for another six days because of it. I can’t waste a drop.

  Shrugging, I stab the timer button with my thumb to give myself six minutes before I’m going to check the pasta. Six minutes sounds about right, I figure. I can always taste it. I know what a noodle is supposed to taste like. Of all the food groups, it’s definitely the one I am the most comfortable with. How can I screw it up? It’s just water and noodles. It’s not rocket science.

  Glancing at the clock, I realize I’m already late. It’s 7:05, and our date should have started five minutes ago. Hurriedly I stuff the pasta box back into the cabinet and shove the half jar of premade sauce to the back of the refrigerator. I don’t know if he’s the sort of guy who would care that this is grocery store marinara, but I want everything to be nice. I grab the Italian sausages out of the boiling water and transfer them to a sauté pan where they instantly start to snap and sizzle, hopefully on not too high of a flame. The last thing I need are charcoal briquette UFOs that I will have to hide in the oven with the skis.

  “Please, just be okay, guys? Please don’t burn.”

  Pivoting on my heel in the tiny kitchen, I grab the wine bottle and salad bowl and place them in the middle of the small, Formica table. I don’t have any candles, but at this point I figure more open flames isn’t going to save me anyway. I’ve got some bottled blue cheese dressing that I hope is good enough too. I mean, I hope the whole thing is good enough.

  Slinky red dress? Check. Well, I guess everything is sort of slinky on a body that’s built like an actual toy spring. Mom keeps reassuring me my “figure will come in,” like I’m a row of underperforming tomato plants or something in a garden.

  Wine? Check. Romantic lighting? Close enough. Handsome date? Well, sure, if he ever gets here.

  Way too fast, the timer goes off and I dump the pasta into the colander in the sink to drain it. The steam billows back up into my face, and I can feel my hair going frizzy around my ears. Oh well. I wonder what I look like right now? But there’s no time to find out! I have to stay focused on the mission.

  At 7:15, I heave a sigh of relief. Everything is done. The corkscrew is right next to the bottle. Ryan can open it for us. I smile to myself, imagining this masculine gesture on his part. He can pour the wine. Maybe propose a toast? That would be nice.

  At 7:25, I put a plate over the spaghetti in the colander so it doesn’t get too cold and gummy, then turn off the other burners. The Italian sausage looks great, and my jaw aches as my mouth waters. Actually it all looks perfect. Sure, there’s no bread, but this is good! This is a proper, full-fledged, romantic dinner.

  I did it.

  Yay, me.

  At 7:40, I take a seat on the sofa. I’m pretty sure I told him seven o’clock. I must have? Yes. I specifically told him seven o’clock, and I knew his shift at the DQ ended at six, and I figured he would want time to clean up before he came over.

  I could probably call the DQ, but if he’s already gone, what are they going to tell me? And they will probably just laugh at me for trying to track him down. I’m not that kind of girlfriend. It’s the new millennium. We are very modern people.

  At 8:00, I flip on the TV. We had planned to watch Scary Movie after dinner anyway. When he shows up, I can catch him up.

  But it’s really hard to concentrate. Carmen Electra keeps choosing the exact wrong thing to do during the chase scene, and it should be hilarious, but I can’t really keep my mind on that. Should I be looking for him? Should I be worried? I am worried. I can’t help it. It’s probably just a misunderstanding, I keep telling myself.

  Suddenly I hear the dog across the hallway begin to bark and a few shuffling footsteps outside my apartment door. My chest gets very tight as I walk to the door, wondering what I’m going to say. Should I freak out? Should I be relieved?

  Just be cool, I tell myself. Maybe try to pretend you hadn’t even noticed he’s almost two hours late?

  His hand hovers in midair, poised to knock when I open the door. Immediately he gives me that slanted smile, the one that generally melts my panties right off. This time, my panties refuse to budge.

  “Hey there, Copper Top,” he smirks. I notice the nickname grates on me instead of charming me like usual. “What smells so good? Is that you?”

  I open my mouth to answer but then choke the words back as he stumbles into my tiny living room, squinting toward the kitchenette. A waft of pungent herb smell rolls over me.

  “Oh, wow, you made dinner,” he sighs vaguely.

  “Have you been smoking pot?” I ask, genuinely confused.

  He quirks an eyebrow at me. “Why? You want to turn me in?” he snarks.

  “No… It’s just that…” I stammer, totally flummoxed as he pivots from left to right, taking in the mess in the kitchen, the set table, and the bottle of wine.

  It’s just that I made you dinner! I scream inwardly. For our date! That you have apparently blown off!

  “Are you okay?” he squints at me. “Your cheeks are all red. Have you been cooking?”

  “I’ve been—” I start, but the words won’t come out. “Where were you? I thought you got off work at six? Like three hours ago?”

  He rocks back a little, pulling an exaggerated grimace. “Where have I been?” he repeats mockingly. “Have I been smoking pot? What are you, my parole officer?”

  “Of course not,” I snort. “It’s just that I thought—”

  “Why don’t you arrest me, officer?” he continues, walking toward me with his wrists extended as though ready to be handcuffed.

  “Ryan, quit it,” I shrug, walking past him.

  I snatch the bottle of wine off the table and push it to the back of the counter. For some reason, I don’t feel like letting him open it anymore. Turning around, I cross my arms over my chest and lean my hips against the kitchen counter to loo
k at him. He is smiling vaguely, twisting in slow-motion toward the television.

  “Oh, hey, Scary Movie is on,” he smiles as he shuffles toward the couch. “Hey, you already started. Weren’t we going to watch this together?”

  He sits on the sofa and stares at the TV for thirty seconds or so before glancing back up at me. Then his expression changes, and he glances back at the TV, and then back at me.

  “Oh, wait, no,” he mumbles to himself as he looks around.

  I don’t say anything. I just watch him like he’s my very own TV show, in the scene where the main character realizes her life is a ridiculous lie.