Maverick Cruz and I started off as pen pals and became besties when we went to the same sports camp at age twelve.
He rooted for me at my soccer games.
I cheered for him at his hockey tournaments.
Through heartbreaks, new relationships, and failed friendships, we knew we could always count on each other.
That's why no one is more surprised--or panicked-- than I am when I start to develop different feelings for him. But Instead of telling him the truth, I agree to help him find a girlfriend.
Someone who is not me.
Someone who is so opposite of me that I have to make a list for the charade. The problem is, he wants to practice his dating skills with me. The corny pickup lines, the hand-holding, the door opening, the staring.
Before this, I thought sharing a house with him was an excellent idea. Who wouldn’t want to room with their best friend? Now, the close proximity is killing me. What’s worse is that I can’t stop looking at him like he’s a Greek god, and he can’t stop seeing me as his virginal little sister. Still, I push it aside, until one night, when he’s lying beside me in bed and I’m the one who forgets the rules and crosses the line between friends and something more.
It’s a horrible idea. He’s a player. I’m a virgin. Yet, I can’t seem to stop myself.