The Last Guy

“I guess,” I say, pushing off the couch. I skulk to my bedroom thinking of perky Savannah and hoping those little princess brats make her look at least twenty-five.

Chassy frowns. “Cheer up, Bee. If you can’t love yourself, how the hell you gonna love somebody else? Right?”

I force a watery-eyed smile. “Right.”

It’s quiet when I open my eyes again. My headache is significantly diminished thanks to the wonders of ibuprofen, but I feel like I swallowed a gallon of sand. Tossing back my blanket, I scoop Chas’s Kim K robe off the chair where I left it this morning. I don’t even care that the white feathers lining the collar tickle my nose. The black satin is soft around my aching body. Speaking of ache, with every step my cheeks heat at the ache deep in my core.

“Oh, God!” I whine softly under my breath as shame flashes down my spine.

My arms go over my head. I slept with Cade right here in my house . . . so many times . . . and it was sooo good. Shivering, I grab my phone and hit the Door Dash app. Alone in this apartment, I can’t face what I’ve done without tacos.

“The New Rebecca Revolution starts tomorrow. Tonight it’s Doritos Locos Tacos. Ooo! Cool ranch!”

I tap the menu items to add them to my cart. My eyes linger on the Cheesy Gordita Crunch, but before my worst nature can kick in, I hit “complete order” and toss my phone on the couch. It helps that I know gordita means chubby girl in Spanish.

The New Rebecca Revolution might start tomorrow, but I can’t enjoy a “chubby girl” thinking of Marv scowling at me the whole time while he’s giving my dream job to Savannah. Doritos, on the other hand, are allowed in this final wallowing session.

My comfort food arrives in less than fifteen minutes—I love modern times! I don’t even care that the pimple-faced, chicken-chested guy delivering my salvation looks at me like I’m a demented Norma Desmond in Chas’s satin and feathered robe. I take the food and go straight to the couch, bouncing in place as I crunch through my little pile of heaven.

“Tomorrow,” I reassure myself. “I’m setting my alarm for seven, and I’m going for a jog around the neighborhood before I get ready for work.”

Hangover food consumed, belly nice and round, I take a quick shower before heading to bed at a reasonable time. I don’t linger in the shower, thinking of how I smoothed my lavender-covered cloth down those chiseled ridges of his abs . . .

Much.

And I definitely do not pull the pillow Cade slept on to my face and sniff it repeatedly, searching for any leftover traces of his cologne . . .

More than once.

I responsibly set my alarm, click out the light and close my eyes. I do not slip my hand between my thighs and rub one out while fantasizing about him gripping my ass or the feel of that massive member stretching me in the most erotic way or the low vibration of his voice as his soft, full lips traced a burning trail up the side of my neck followed by the scuff of that beard . . .

I do not have a mini O dreaming of the bigger, more enormous O I had last night with my sexy coworker.

I go straight to sleep.

It’s a truth universally acknowledged that every wakeup alarm created for the iPhone sounds like the screaming bells of hell.

“Why? Whyyy?” I cry, slapping the face repeatedly to make it stop.

My eyes are still closed as I drag New Rebecca out of bed and across the room to the drawer containing my sorely neglected workout gear. If God had wanted us to run this early in the morning, he wouldn’t have invented pancakes.

Jog-bra on. Ultra-tight spandex running pants that support ass and supposedly improve stamina in place. Too-tight tank top that makes me look like a sausage also in place. Running motivation . . . still asleep in bed, most likely burying face in pillow searching for final traces of delicious Cade-scent.

I force myself to think of those motivational posters Nancy always quoted and not If you see me running, call 911.

“Sweat is fat crying,” I say, not even pausing to look in the mirror on the way out the door.

My old two-mile route with Nancy used to take us from our loft on Texas Avenue east to Minute Maid Park. We’d do a couple laps around the stadium then head back home. For whatever reason, today I don’t want to do the old route. Maybe it’s just too depressing being alone.

Instead I head south then east to Discovery Green and around the jogging trail there. It’s in the more posh part of downtown, and I’m on the sidewalks more than I should be on my way back. The morning traffic is heavier on this route.

“Should’ve gone the other way,” I mutter to myself.

I’m heading up McKinney when I spot a woman walking what looks like a herd of dogs in all shapes and sizes. They’re taking up the entire sidewalk, and I look around frantically to see if I can cross in the middle of the busy intersection.

“Shit!” I swear through a labored breath.

Cars are everywhere, and I’m directly in front of One Park Place, one of the most expensive apartment complexes in the city. I’m wavering on whether to go left or right. The mob of dogs is getting closer, and it’s clear they’re pulling the woman holding the leashes rather than the other way around.

My eyes strain for a break in the traffic when I see a man coming out of the revolving doors at the front of the historic building. The brass doors turn, and all six-foot-awesome emerges, complete with dark waves, beard, and steel blue eyes. It’s Cade Hill, and I want to die. I’m covered in sweat in my sausage shirt, and I just know little hairs are flying out of my ponytail.

As I’m panicking, I see a perky blonde is right behind him. She runs up to him, catching his arm. He stops, and she turns into his chest, sliding her fingers into his dark beard and pressing her lips flush against his.

It all happens so fast, I forget to hide. My eyes bug, my jaw drops, and I’m frozen in place across the street watching the man I’d ridden like a pony two nights ago kissing a young, blonde stick insect.

“What the hell?” My voice is louder than I intend, and I’m surrounded by dogs. The herd is on me, and it’s all leashes wrapping around my waist, around my legs, combined with frantic yapping.

“I’m so sorry!” The sweaty dog walker raises her arm in an attempt to untangle them.

“Ow!” I duck as she clocks me in the forehead. “Oh no!”

A shaggy gold dog jumps up, putting his paws on my shoulders. He’s licking me right in the mouth, and I’m spitting and shaking my head, trying to get him off.

“Down, Buster! Heel!” The woman shouts.

YIP! A loud noise from the smaller dog I just stepped on makes me jump out of my skin. “I’m sorry!” I cry.

I’m stepping and struggling, and my mind is screaming Run! Hide! Get the hell out of here!!! I glance back across the street, and I see Cade. His brow is clutched, and he looks pissed.

A traffic signal must have just changed, because a barrage of cars pours down the street between us. I’m finally free of the leashes and all five million dogs, and I’m reeling from the fact that it took less than forty-eight hours for him to replace me with a new blonde bimbo in his bed.

I hiccup a breath and do the only thing I know to do. I take off running full-speed, around the corner, and back the way I came. All the way to my place.

Cade

A WET NOSE pokes at my closed eyelid, and I know it’s my rebound-after-Maggie-Grace-left-me cat. I open my lids and she gives me her wake up and pet me stare. White and fluffy with pale blue eyes, she’s the prissiest damn cat I’ve ever seen. The moment Trent, Mom, and I had spied her at the pet store, they’d insisted I bring her home.