28 Dates Read online

  28 Dates 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 Loveswept Ebook Original

  Copyright © 2019 by Stacey Lynn

  Excerpt from Knocked Up by Stacey Lynn copyright © 2018 by Stacey Lynn

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  LOVESWEPT is a registered trademark and the LOVESWEPT colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Ebook ISBN 9781984800275

  Cover design: Diane Luger

  Cover illustration: majdansky/Adobe Stock

  randomhousebooks.com

  v5.4

  ep

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  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

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Epilogue

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  By Stacey Lynn

  About the Author

  Excerpt from Knocked Up

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Caitlin

  I stretch my limbs, hips, and stomach muscles aching in that beautiful, well-used way. Grinning, I roll to my side, one of my legs and hands already seeking heat from the body of the man who is sleeping soundly next to me.

  Jonas’s lips are parted, and like he always sleeps, he has my sheets pushed down to his waist. One leg is bent, exposed, and one of his hands is shoved beneath his head. His other hand rests on his abdomen, covering his beautiful planes and ridges. His mess of dark hair brushes his shoulders. I brush the edges of them, smiling at the reminder of my fingers digging into his hair tie and yanking it out as his mouth brought me to climax for the first time.

  He showed up at my place last night after work, like he’s done so many times over the last two years, after I had lunch with my friend Teagan at Jonas’s bar, Dirty Martini’s. And just like so many other times when he arrived, we wasted little time before clothes were stripped, leaving a trail across my apartment, stopping at my couch, then the hallway, before we finally succumbed to my bedroom.

  My fingers at the tips of his hair brush along his shoulder, down his arm, veined with trim and firm muscles, to his hand at his abdomen. I’m lost in my lazy exploration of him, eyes on what my fingers are doing, casually dropping to his waist, where at least one part of him is aware of my touch. I don’t realize he’s awake and watching me with a sleepy smile on his face until I brush my hand back up to his chest.

  “Good morning.” Jonas rolls toward me, trapping one of my legs beneath his, tangling us together as his arm slides across my body.

  “Mmhmm.” His arm drapes over my back and slides down to cup my backside. It takes the smallest touch from Jonas to awaken my body, and his fingers brushing against the top of my crease are like touching my on switch. It’s one of the reasons why after almost two years, I still welcome him to my bed. “Sleep well?”

  The scruff from his unshaven jaw scrapes against my chin as he presses his lips to my throat. “Always do with you.”

  He peppers my throat with kisses, dropping to my collarbone and to my shoulder, and my hips arch, seeking him as they’re trained so well to do.

  It’s early, the sun just beginning to peek above the horizon, and soon I will need to start getting ready for work, but kicking Jonas out of my bed is always a difficult task.

  His lips brush against my jaw, back to my ear, and I press against him, seeking the kiss I know is coming, closing my eyes, reveling in the sensation of what his touch and scent do to me, when he whispers, “Go on a date with me. A real one.”

  His request comes as a surprise, and I flinch, unable to smother my reaction before my back tenses beneath his hand and my head jolts away from him. It’s minuscule, but so obvious the room temperature drops ten degrees.

  “Damn it, Caitlin.” He groans and the heat from his body disappears.

  Crap. My eyes close and my heart races. Why would he ask me this?

  “Jonas—” I reach for him, but he slides to the edge of the bed. His feet thump to the carpeted floor.

  My heart makes the same sound as it drops to my stomach.

  He’s naked and beautiful, and the sight of him that always sends my pulse into overdrive still reacts even as he hunches over and grabs his boxers from the floor. “Please.”

  He can’t be upset with me. This is what we agreed to years ago. I’m busy and uninterested in commitment. He’s been working his ass off to someday buy Dirty Martini’s from the current owner, who’s made several statements of wanting to retire to Arizona soon. What we have works.

  And damn it. He’s ruining it.

  Or maybe I am. What is wrong with me? This is Jonas. The man I’ve spent more time with for the last two years than even my best friends. Sure, ninety percent of that time is naked and sweaty, but that’s one of the many reasons why I like him so much.

  Jonas shoves his hands through his hair and reaches for an elastic on the nightstand. Quickly wrestling his hair up and into a bun, he stands and turns to me. Hands on his hips, my gaze stops at his chest, his muscles contracting as he breathes heavily.

  “It’s been two years,” he says, and I can barely bring my gaze to meet his.

  By the tone in his voice, thick with disappointment and frustration, I will see nothing good. The scowl on his face as I force myself to look him in the eye confirms it.

  I pull the sheet up to my chest, covering myself. For two years I’ve felt no shame or embarrassment or need to protect any part of myself in front of him, but now it’s necessary. The sheet is a flimsy excuse for armor.

  “It’s been two years,” he repeats, and his hands slide to his hips. “I want more, Caitlin. Go on a date with me.”

  I want more. It rattles around in my brain and I can’t answer. At least not quickly enough for him to catch the fear that must slide across my face.

  He huffs and his head drops, inhaling a deep breath and blowing it out. It cuts through the air like a gunshot at point-blank range, sending a flash of pain to my heart.

  “Okay,” he says, nodding. His eyes scan the room, avoiding me, dropping to the floor, and he swivels on his heels, leaving me alone. I’m too stunned at his sudden departure to move.

  This is how it ends? After two years? Not even a conversation? I shift to the edge of the bed, my arm braced against my chest holding the sheet in place, when he returns.

  He already has his jeans on, the top button undone, and he’s shoving his arms through his short sleeves.

  “Can I talk you into thinking about it?” he asks, tugging down the hem of his shirt.

  A sudden sense of loss rolls through me, as if my body knows it’s the last time I’ll see his.

  We’ve always been honest with each other. Frequently we’ve fallen into bed together—sometimes once a week, sometimes once a month. Sometimes so often we’ve spent entire weekends together, only coming up for air when our stomachs rumbled in a way we c
ouldn’t ignore. He’s never approached the subject of wanting more, and his sudden attempt to do so makes my head spin.

  My skin burns hot and my hair swishes across my cheek, into my face, as my head shakes. “I don’t need to. But Jonas—”

  “I met someone.” His gaze pierces mine. All the air in my stomach plummets to my toes. “I like her. And I haven’t been with her yet. I can’t…it’s not right when…” His hand slashes out toward my messed-up sheets and my still-naked-yet-covered body. “I also want you, but I want more than just this.”

  I scramble for words. Rearrange letters in my brain until I find something to say that won’t hurt him any more than the pain already tightening around the edges of his lips and his eyes.

  I press the sheets harder to my aching chest. I can barely look at him, and my chin is trembling. This hurts. Him leaving. Him wanting someone. Him wanting what I can’t give him.

  I don’t know what to say. “I hope it works out.”

  He flinches like I’ve struck him. Obviously they’re not the words he was hoping for.

  He nods abruptly. Just once, and all his emotion, all his pain is tossed into the air like a physical thing that I could probably reach out and touch.

  He stares out my window and his shoulders drop. Turning back to me he nods one more time, and a mask slides down over his face. I see it drop one brief moment at a time, until his pain is gone and there’s a cocky grin on his face and a sparkle in his eyes.

  “We’ll still be friends though, right?” I imagine my returning smile mirrors his own along with my expression. “Would hate for Dirty’s to lose their best customer.”

  It’s an attempt at something. Salvaging our friendship? Do we even have one without the benefits I at least have grown so accustomed to? “I’ll see you there, sometime. Definitely.”

  “Take care, then, Caitlin.” He slaps his hand to the doorframe. Turning and putting his back to me, he pauses for a moment. A part of me urges me to call out to him, to run to him and tell him I have changed my mind. I can take this chance. I want more, too. But none of the pleas sound right so I stay silent. And just when I think, or hope, he’ll turn around and tell me never mind, he’s okay with what we have, what I have to give, he takes a step away.

  And he leaves without a goodbye, without a glance back at me, and I stay in my bed for what feels like hours, sheet clinging to my chest, feet on the floor, staring at the doorway.

  How did a beautiful night, a sweet morning, end up going so horribly, hurtfully sideways?

  Chapter 1

  SIX MONTHS LATER

  Caitlin

  Working for my best friend is one of the best decisions I’ve ever made. Granted, it’s not like job offers were falling into my lap after college graduation regardless of how many résumés I sent out and interviews I went on. I might have gotten the job with Trey due to a hefty dose of nepotism, but with a double major in marketing and finance I’m more than qualified to be his assistant. Sure, sometimes it means I’m running to the dry cleaner to pick up his fashionably pressed shirts. Other times it means taking chicken soup to his penthouse suite ten floors above my own apartment because he’s so entrenched in work he doesn’t remember the last time he ate. My job is an equal mixture of managing Trey’s professional life down to the very second and acting like his pseudo-mom. Like when he’s so lost in his work as an app developer, he’s forgotten to shower or shave in days.

  I can’t beat the perks, though. Being able to do most of my work in my favorite striped, fleece pajama pants, sipping coffee while binge-watching my favorite shows on Netflix, is definitely near the top of my list. Handling conference calls with lawyers on the East Coast dressed in my robe and fresh out of a shower at too-damn-early-o’clock also makes the top five.

  I love Trey’s friendship and working for him. Which is why when he knocks on my door before the sun has risen over another dreary winter day in Portland, I’m able to tamp down the urge to strangle him. Disheveled and dressed in a wrinkled white T-shirt, navy blue athletic shorts, and mismatched ankle socks—one orange and the other black—he shoves his tablet in my face before I have the door fully opened.

  “Look at this.”

  “What do you want, Trey?” I cover my mouth with my hand, yawning. Good grief, it is freaking early. I’m blurry-eyed, exhausted, and I barely had time to throw on a robe before stumbling to the door.

  “Need your help.”

  His dark eyes are wild, which only means one thing.

  “You finished it?” I’m already reaching for the tablet. His excitement is contagious. I’ve known Trey for years, ever since he and our other friend, Corbin, saved me from a scary encounter with a drunken asshole in a stairwell in our college dorm.

  After that, they became my protectors. Then they became my brothers. That was years ago, but the experience bonded us in a way that’s unbreakable.

  The only time Trey looks like he spent time in the clothes washer on the extended wash cycle is when he’s near the end of a project.

  “Yeah.” He pushes his way through the door, his large and muscled frame entering like he has every right to be here, and not even considering the fact I can deny him entrance.

  Which I won’t. I step back before his body shoves me back, and shut the door behind him.

  Through another yawn I don’t bother disguising, I shuffle behind him to the kitchen. “How long have you been awake?”

  His head is bent, fingers swiping across the screen. He doesn’t look up as he asks, “W-w-what day is it?”

  He stutters slightly and I frown. He typically hides it well, his stutter making an appearance only when he’s overly exhausted or extremely nervous. It’s been months since I’ve heard it. It’s also so damn early, I blame the time and him waking me from a really good dream to remember. The dream is now a hazy memory, but I woke up with that heavy, aroused feeling between my thighs.

  More reason to curse Trey and his early arrival.

  “It’s Monday.”

  “Right. Monday. Still January?”

  “God, Trey. You’re a wreck.” I shove his shoulder, knocking him off balance, and chuckle as he falls into the barstool I aimed him for in the first place. “Need coffee?”

  With laser focus on my Keurig, I pull out a K-Cup from the drawer beneath the machine that brings the elixir of life. I get it settled and grab two mugs.

  “Maybe. I don’t know. I think I had some. A few hours ago? M-m-maybe?” I turn just as Trey scratches his cheek. His scruff is out of control and he’s usually cleanly shaven. He scowls at his hand, like he doesn’t understand why his face is scratchy in the first place, and finally sets down the tablet. “I think I need to sleep more. Maybe.”

  He shrugs, and it’s adorable. Which is not a word he likes me using to describe him. Trey Kollins is built to be in the middle of a boxing ring. He’s also a huge geek. Brains and brawn with a quirky smile and a protective streak when it comes to me that stretches the entire West Coast.

  “Then go sleep.” I fill my mug and set a second in the machine. He might be jittery and need sleep, but it’ll take him hours or days to crash if he’s really finished his current app. “Personally, I’d like to. Can’t this wait a few hours?”

  He lifts his head. Eyebrows are scrunched together, and his jaw drops. Right. How dare I, his beloved assistant and friend, not understand his excitement? I know him enough to know he’s shocked at my lack of interest.

  “Fine.” I take another sip of my coffee and reach for the tablet, sliding it my way. “What do you need my help with?”

  His palms drum on the countertop. “I want you to try this.”

  “Never gonna happen,” I mutter.

  I’ll never understand how Trey of all people, who rarely sees a woman for longer than a week or two, is for some reason obsessed with creating dating apps. He’ll say it’s because it’s a big moneymaker and he goes to where the dollar signs are, but I think he’s full of crap. Trey likes women, and personally I
think the only reason his relationships, as short as they are, don’t work out is because he’s too scatterbrained and singularly focused on his job to remember he has a woman waiting for him when he gets entrenched in his work.

  Me, on the other hand? I swore off serious relationships years ago.

  This particular app is a spin-off from one he made over a year ago called PerfectMate. He’s been working on building and refining that app into PerfectMatch. For months, he’s been scrambling algorithms and coding and whatever other techie words he uses to do his job that go over my marketing- and numbers-minded brain.

  Essentially, he’s been trying to design and create a dating app that’s focused not on short-term physical appeal but on long-term relationships. You fill out a questionnaire that dissects every possible thing about your life and beliefs and interests and goals, and the app creates a ninety-percent-match rate before you ever see a person on your swipe up or down screen.

  If there’s a man who matches ninety percent of everything I want in life and is slated to be my forever, my goal is to stay as far away as possible.

  “Come on, Caitlin.” Trey pushes away from the counter and helps himself to the coffee I readied for him. “I need help with this. I could have totally messed it all up, or it’s going to be the hugest app in the world for people who want more than a quickie fling.”

  “Exactly.” I grin and tip my mug in his direction. “Which is why I am not your girl on this.”

  “Yeah, but you’re like the only normal girl I know.”

  I’m not sure that’s a compliment, considering how messed up I am when it comes to relationships and men. “Thanks.”

  He laughs, and it’s rough and gritty, like he’s smoked two dozen packs of cigarettes and hasn’t drunk water in a month. The smoking would never happen with him, but the lack of water undoubtedly has.