Next to You: Friends with Benefits, page 1
Contents
Blurb
Title Page
Copyright
Friends with Benefits
Dedication
Chapter One - Stan
Chapter Two - Sage
Chapter Three - Stan
Chapter Four - Sage
Chapter Five - Stan
Chapter Six - Sage
Chapter Seven - Sage
Chapter Eight - Stan
Chapter Nine - Sage
Chapter Ten - Stan
Chapter Eleven - Stan
Chapter Twelve - Stan
Chapter Thirteen - Sage
Chapter Fourteen - Sage
Chapter Fifteen - Stan
Chapter Sixteen - Sage
Chapter Seventeen - Stan
Chapter Eighteen - Sage
Chapter Nineteen - Stan
Chapter Twenty - Sage
Chapter Twenty-One - Sage
Chapter Twenty-Two - Stan
Chapter Twenty-Three - Sage
Chapter Twenty-Four - Stan
Chapter Twenty-Five - Sage
Chapter Twenty-Six - Stan
Epilogue: A Year Later
More books by Daisy
About Daisy
Acknowledgements
“If you want to date me, all you need to do is say the word. I’d never let you go.”
I added Sage to my rugby club’s annual list of women who are off limits thinking I could protect her from the gorillas I play with. Aspen's a small town in the off season when the dating pool shrinks to the size of a melted snowflake. Never did I think I’d be the one to break the code and date her.
Even if it’s all for show. A wager between friends. An excuse to hang out with her more.
Nothing more than that.
Right?
***
Who agrees to date their best friend over a green smoothie? Apparently this girl right here.
Now the man-bun-sporting South African rugby god next door is my fake boyfriend. I need to rebuild my confidence after some poor dating decisions. Who could be better to fluff my ego than Aspen’s hottest bachelor?
This situation is a win-win.
Right?
Next to You is a standalone Romantic Comedy/New Adult Romance about a rugby player and an heiress in Aspen. Stan and his man bun first appeared in the Modern Love Story Short, Take for Granted. This is a full-length novel told in dual POVs.
Next to You
A Friends with Benefits Novel
by Daisy Prescott
Copyright © Daisy Prescott 2016; All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover Design by ©Exquisitely Covered Books
Images from Stocksy and Depositphotos.com
Don't miss the other Friends with Benefits standalone romances wherever ebooks are sold:
The Billionaire's Ballet by Deanna Roy
The Billionaire Escape Plan by Ember Casey
Yours and Mine by Lacey Silks
Always You by Rachel Schurig
The Rock Star's Secret Baby by Blair Babylon
Going for Broke by Gretchen Galway
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To my readers who fell for the charming bartender with a man bun.
CHAPTER ONE
Stan
I hear the crunch of bone against bone before pain radiates from my ankle, buckling me to the ground in agony.
The mountain officially closed three weeks ago, but tell that to a bunch of wild rugby players who think we’re invincible. Nothing can take us down or stop us once we set our minds to something.
No lifts? We’ll hike to the top with our boots and skis tied to our backpacks. Snow the consistency of a frozen margarita? It’s still snow. Snow means skiing or boarding whenever possible. Who cares if there are rocks poking out and bare spots. Be a man. Ski over them.
The irony is I made it down the mountain without an issue. After taking off my ski boots, I switched to hiking boots. The ones with great traction.
Traction didn’t save me from the rock I tripped over that landed me flat on my arse.
A bliksemes rock.
Not even a boulder.
The damn thing was loose from the spring melt. It slid and I slipped.
Right into the base of a tree.
My ego and pride are lying in the mud while the assholes I call teammates laugh at me.
“How does it feel to be taken down by a goliath?” Logan asks between snorts. “Now you know how the rest of us feel when we face off against you on the pitch.”
“Vokkof.” Taking a deep breath, I brace myself on my left leg to stand. All right, not too bad being vertical again. Feeling cocky, I test out the other ankle.
“Vokken kak, naai, vok, moerskont,” I curse a storm in Afrikaans.
Stars, stripes, triangles, and a vortex of whirling pain spin behind my eyes when I attempt to put weight on my right foot.
“Impressive cursing, Barnyard.” Motherfucking Easley thinks he’s a riot with that wholly unoriginal nickname for my last name Barnard.
“Ek gaan vir jou n poesklap gee.” I threaten to slap the shit out of him. “Thula man.”
“At least you didn’t hit the tree with your pretty face. Think of all the money you’d lose.”
I have a pretty face. Sue me. Or better yet, complain to my parents. It’s their genetics to blame. Somehow over the years of playing rugby, I’ve never had my nose broken or earned a scar.
I wouldn’t mind a scar for character. Tell people I got it in a knife fight or a shark encounter. Something to toughen up my pretty boy image.
“Lee, you okay? You’re looking a little green.”
“Honestly, I’m thinking about puking right now.” Vokken kak. Fucking shit.
Logan takes a giant step back, slips in the mud, and falls on his arse. Good.
“Listen, one of you mind driving me to the hospital?”
“No walking it off?” Easley hands me one of my ski poles.
It’s not crutches, but it’ll have to do. Logan and Easley pick up my gear and follow as I hobble down the small slope to the parking lot.
I find my keys in the backpack and toss them to Logan.
“You’re going to let me drive the Rover? You sure you didn’t hit your head?”
“I’ll be in the backseat, watching and judging your every move.” I open the back passenger door and awkwardly hop inside, trying to not knock my ankle against anything. The tightness of my boot tells me my ankle is swelling rapidly.
Logan drives like an old woman while Easley gives him shit as his co-pilot. Every turn and bump in the road on the short drive from Buttermilk to the hospital shoots stabs of pain up my leg.
I’m almost hoping it’s a break and not a torn ligament or severe sprain. Bones heal better and faster.
How am I supposed to train for the summer rugby season if I can’t walk?
* * *
Given it’s the start of the off-season, the hospital is quiet for a Wednesday. The bunch of us are pretty well known around here for the contusions, scrapes and dislocated shoulders we get during rugby season. Being a ski town, broken bones and torn ligaments are standard procedure for the emergency docs.
I send the guys away while I wait for an exam and X-rays. No need for them to linger around like mother ducks. One of them can leave my car at the condo’s garage. Even if I only sprained my ankle, I won’t be able to drive. Hopefully I’ll be on some amazing painkillers and won’t care.
Three hours later I exit with a pretty black boot on my leg, the worst pair of crutches ever, a script for pain pills, and instructions to stay off the ankle for six weeks.
Total number of broken bones: two. Not counting the hairline fracture in my fibula. Non-weight bearing, it doesn’t count. I’ve played with hairline fractures before.
I’m Goliath taken down by a rock.
The hospital calls a cab for me. Stoner Darren shows up, a hemp and patchouli scented cloud spilling out the side door of the mini-van when he opens it for me.
“Thanks, D.”
“Man, what’d you do?”
“Broke my ankle.”
“Skiing?”
“Kind of.” I stare out the window at the brown mountains and bare aspen trees. Technically not summer, the first week of May is closer to winter here in the Rockies. Hell, we could ski more if we get a freak June or July snow. It’s snowed on the 4th of July before.
Stranger things have happened.
Darren offers to run into the drug store to pick up my pain pills. The Vicodin they gave me in the ER works nicely, but will wear off soon. It also makes me drowsy. My lids feel heavy, so I let my eyes close while I wait for Darren in the warm car.
I should call my mum to let her know I’m injured but okay.
Then again, she’ll worry I’m lying, like the time in university when I was concussed and told her it was only a flesh wound. She miss
ed the Monty Python joke and flew to see me the next day.
It’s an even longer flight from Cape Town to Aspen.
I spoke to her a few weeks ago for her birthday, so I owe her a call.
My father won’t care. He’ll tell me to toughen up and work harder. If he answers his phone. Otherwise his secretary will act sympathetic, and send a card with a forged signature, which will arrive weeks late.
Not worth the bother even if he is closer in Chicago instead of half a world away.
With a confused jolt, I wake up when Darren tosses my prescription bag into my lap.
“You should consider becoming a nurse, Darren. You have a real gift for empathizing with people’s plights and pains.” I sit up, forgetting about my ankle until the pain reminds me why I’m napping in the back of Darren’s van.
“Why do you think I’ve driven a cab all these years? For the big bucks? Nah, I love people. L-o-v-e love them all.”
“You love the tips and money the same as me. Do I want to be making fancy cocktails for people all my life?”
“I thought you were one of the glitterati.” Darren smirks at me through the rearview mirror. “Athlete, model, scion …”
Frowning at the “scion” label, I accidentally shift my ankle and grimace from the pain. “You’ve been reading my press releases again. I’m flattered.”
My father, who also happens to be my former manager, put out press releases the way some parents sent Christmas letters bragging over every mundane accomplishment their children achieved over the course of the year. Only his were more impersonal and full of exaggerated half-truths. One had my age wrong by two years.
His bragging slowed when I chose to go to university instead of playing rugby professionally. The press releases stopped around the same time I moved to Aspen.
There is a reason I live in Aspen year round. Actually, there are many, but in regards to my father, he hates the mountains. Everything about them: the cold, the height, the thin air. The roads are too windy, the flights too bumpy, and the hotels too short. My father prefers to look down on the rest of the world, not be intimidated by nature. Complain, complain, complain.
If it keeps him away, I’ll live here forever.
When we arrive at my condo, I see the Rover parked in front of the garage. The numskulls couldn’t follow simple directions.
A light snow begins falling as I exit the backseat with my crutches and goody bag from the pharmacy. I thank Darren for the ride and over-tip him. No matter how much he claims to love people, the man barely scrapes by.
Word is he lives in a trailer down valley. Probably of his own choosing. He could be a millionaire hoarder or something. Stranger things have happened in Woody Creek, former home of Hunter S. Thompson. That’s all anyone needs to know about the area.
I’m now thinking about all the drugs Hunter probably did over his lifetime. I wonder what peyote feels like. Or LSD. Or mushrooms. Or cocaine.
Working as a bartender in a high-end hotel means I’ve seen a lot of things. Some unimaginable to most people. Been offered designer drugs, sex, invites to threesomes, foursomes, full-blown orgies, to be kept, to be flown to Dubai. It’s crazy what people think money can buy them. Everything and everyone has a price.
Wow. I’m really high and philosophical right now.
Music blasts from my neighbor’s condo. I lean against the wall in between our front doors, resting my shoulder on the rustic wood siding. The rough texture fascinates me, so I run my hand over the bumps and knots. My crutch slips out of my grip, falling into the door with a crash.
The music pauses and I hear footsteps approaching. Why is someone inside my house? I reach for my keys, dropping the other crutch. Now standing on one foot, my head on the door and my shoulder braced on the jamb, I almost fall over when the door swings opens.
“Sage? What are you doing in my house? Are you stealing my biscuits again?”
My beautiful, ethereal next-door neighbor is wearing tiny yoga shorts and a loose sweatshirt, which falls off her shoulder, revealing the absence of any evidence of a bra. To confirm this, I let my gaze settle below her collarbone.
No bra, but the material is too thick to see much more than the small swoop of her breasts. I’ll need to move the fabric out of the way to have a peek. My hand lifts and I watch it move toward the neckline with an out-of-body feeling.
I might be having an out-of-body experience. Sage and I have lived next door to each other for two years. She’s one of the few women friends I have in Aspen who I haven’t slept with or hasn’t tried to seduce me. I could even say she’s one of the few friends I have here. Period.
A soft cough and a gentle hand on my arm make me pause.
“Hey Stan. Eyes up here. Are you high?” She steps forward, but trips on something. Looking down, she asks, “What’s with the crutches?”
I blink at her a few times. “Crutches?”
When she bends over, I have a straight view down her shirt and get confirmation she is most definitely not wearing a bra. Her movement is too fast to get more than a glimpse.
“Lee?”
“You always call me Stan, not Lee.” I focus on her face. Her brow is scrunched up and her lips are pursed in a pout.
“Are you okay?” I like her voice. It’s soft, and has a solid American accent from the Midwest. I think.
“I like your accent.”
“Said no one ever about a Midwest accent. Come inside.”
“I broke my ankle.”
Her thin arms wraps around my waist. “I can see your boot. That explains the crutches. The hospital sent you home by yourself?”
“I didn’t drive. Darren gave me a ride home. Landon and Easley parked my car in the driveway when I asked them to put it in the garage. They kind of suck as friends.”
She laughs. “No comment.”
“Why did you ever go out with Landon? He’s not good enough for you.”
“Come on, inside.” She push-pulls me toward the open door.
“Not until you tell me why him.” Landon’s fine for a mate, but he’s a womanizer and a prick. “He’s not good enough for you.”
“You already said that. Where were you last year with this brilliant advice when I went out with him?”
I take a step and remember my boot. “I need my crutches.”
She hands them to me, and I hop over the threshold. Leading me to the small living room, she fluffs the extra pillows on her couch and pats the cushion. “Sit down.”
I obey her bossy orders. “You should have asked me about Landon. I would’ve told you he’s an arsehole.”
“So you’ve said. Repeatedly. After he broke up with me.”
I slump down on the couch and rest my bad ankle on the end. “You need a longer couch.”
“You’re funny today.” She puts a crazy patterned rainbow pillow under my boot.
“I’m stoned. They gave me some shot at the hospital.”
“I can tell.”
I remember the bag from the pharmacy. “I have more drugs. Darren got them for me.”
“I’m going to assume you mean prescriptions and not the other stuff Stoner Darren can get you.”
“Have you ever done peyote? I’ve never done any of the good drugs.”
With a chuckle, she walks a few feet away to the kitchen counter and then to the sink.
I watch her move around. She’s vokken graceful and beautiful. Landon is a stupid prat. “Why did you go out with Landon and not me? I’m much nicer and better looking than he is.”
Her sweatshirt slips farther off her shoulder as she brings me a glass of water.
I reach up and touch her exposed skin. “So soft.”
“I, um …” She coughs. “Do you need anything? Soup?”
“I’m not sick. Broken bone.” I lift my booted leg. “Remember?”
Because she’s close and I’m curious, I touch the skin of her leg to see if it’s as soft as her shoulder. “Your leg is soft, too.”
