The Bachelor Society Duet - Sara Ney Page 0,143

weeks or four months matters. I just have this feeling about her—you know?”

Brooks sighs. “Yeah. Unfortunately, I do know.”

“She’s a good person, I know it.”

“Do you? Know it? Do you know and he knows and everyone knows?” Blaine cackles. “Oh my God, you two are so toasted.”

“God you’re a pain in the ass.”

I have no idea what I’m trying to say. My friends aren’t wrong; I did just meet Spencer. I just…

From the second that first crumb fell from her mouth to her sweater, I knew.

I mean—I wanted to put a muzzle on her, and she drove me nuts, and was hella distracting, and come to think of it, what did I actually get done this week? Nothing. Nothing got submitted or reported and I visited exactly zero job sites. Visited zero subcontractor showrooms, looked at zero materials.

I groan.

She’s already making me weak; the only thing I’ve had any desire to do this week is spend time with her. The fact that I was jammed into her cramped space? That made it effortless.

I miss her.

I hate knowing I hurt her. I hate knowing she thinks I’m a flaming bag of dog shit.

“What should I do?” ’Cause right now I want to shrivel up and die. “Forfeit?”

The more thought I give that idea, the more it appeals to me. Being a member of this club hasn’t benefitted me once; it’s done nothing but make me miserable.

I can liberate myself. Instead, I’m full of libations.

Ugh.

“You’re not forfeiting,” Brooks tells me authoritatively.

“But it worked for you.”

“Yeah, but I was in love. You’re in like—it’s too soon.”

Is it though? “I need to talk to her about this.”

“Definitely drunk-text her,” Blaine suggests vehemently, biting into a mozzarella stick. “That always gets the conversation rolling in the right direction.”

“Do not listen to him,” Brooks counters. “Do not.”

“I haven’t drunk-texted anyone since I had a flip phone,” I inform them, staring down at the phone number I got from the company directory. “Plus, it’s not my style.”

“What is your style?” they both want to know.

“I don’t know.”

But I’m going to figure it out.

19

Spencer

The kitchen sparkles and shines.

The bathroom? Twinkles.

I can now see my reflection in every surface of my apartment, including the fabric ones. I’ve scrubbed every nook and cranny from top to bottom.

Twice.

I don’t throw pity parties. I don’t wallow. And I don’t whine. So what do I do when I’m angry and upset?

Clean.

Quick, someone check my temperature—I’m coming down with something!

I rest my hip on the corner of the couch and let out a sigh, the first deep breath I’ve taken since yesterday at the office. It seems as if I’ve been holding it since the moment Phillip walked out without looking back.

Jerk.

You’re the fool…

I knew it was a huge mistake to entertain the idea of a work romance, and my gut was correct. Did I listen? No. Thank goodness it was only the span of a week, and not weeks or months. I can’t imagine how much harm that would have done.

There’s a rag in my hand and sweat on my brow. I blow the stray strands of hair out of my face and glance around the living room. It’s never been neater. Totally decluttered. A pile of crap I no longer want or need sits by the front door, waiting to be placed in totes—which I’ll have to run out and get this weekend.

The donation center will be happy to see me; the taxi cab driver who has to haul all this shit there with me? Not so much.

Tearing through my apartment should have felt cathartic, and it did, for an entire three hours. Now that the adrenaline has worn off, though, all I’m left with are my thoughts.

Overthink it, overthink it, my brain screams.

No worries! Got that part covered…

Ruefully, I smile. Heavily, I sigh again, unsure about what to do next. Pack everything into plastic bags until I can run to the store for totes? Leave the piles where they are? Start rearranging the bookshelves in my tiny home office?

Maybe I should arrange my books by color rather than author and series. Would that just frustrate me if I have to search for a specific title? Book nerd problems.

I move from my perch in the living room, into the kitchen, and scowl at the pigeons shitting on my windowsill. Are they pretty birds? Absolutely. Are they ruining the aesthetic of my view? Also yes.

“Shoo!” I instruct the little family of gray poultry.

They ignore me.

“I said git!”

Why do I care? They’re here every

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