Diary of a Bad Boy(80)

“You know, I like you, Sutton,” Bram says. “I think she should stay. She might have good input.”

“Of course, she’s staying, but you’re leaving.” Roark reaches for Bram but he sidesteps out of his reach.

Holding up his hands, he says, “Don’t get handsy with me.”

“Christ, Bram, will you just fooking leave?”

“No. I need help.”

Tense and irritated, Roark says, “Here’s some help, tell her you’re a dumb-arse and then hand her the ring. Solved.” He points to the elevator. “Now get out of here.”

Poor Bram.

Resting my hand on Roark’s arm, I gently say, “Why don’t we order some food, sit down with Bram, help him, and then we can have a nice evening?”

“Yes, that’s a great plan.” Bram walks over toward the kitchen, pulling his phone from his pocket. “And because I’m a nice guy, dinner is on me.”

“You’re fucking right it’s on you,” Roark says, exasperated, before taking my suitcase to his room.

He is so not happy. Oddly, it makes me giggle. I like angry Roark, because it only leads to good things for me.





“So, are you going to keep stuffing your face or are you going to tell us why the hell you’re in my apartment right now?” Roark asks, sitting back on the couch, his arm draped behind me.

Mid-bite of Thai noodles, Bram sets his bowl down and dabs a napkin across his face. “Looks like my welcome has expired.”

“Your welcome expired the minute I got home, so get on with it already.”

Brows pinching together, he says, “You know, I’m in dire need of a best friend right now, it would be nice if you weren’t a dick for a second.”

I rest my hand on Roark’s thigh and try to soothe the anger that’s building inside him. His gaze snaps to my hand and I realize maybe my placement wasn’t the best, maybe a little too high. I retract my hand, and before he can yell at Bram again, I lean over and whisper into Roark’s ear.

“I know you want nothing more than to be alone with me right now, but if you show a little compassion to your best friend, I’ll put on that little shirt for you tonight.”

Eyebrows raised, a smirk on his face, he says, “Is that a promise?” I nod and like the desperate man he is, he brings his attention to Bram. “All right, spill.”

Bram eyes me, a thankful look on his face. “Whatever you whispered to him, I appreciate it.”

I smile and link my hand with Roark’s, resting my head on his shoulder, enjoying the comfort of being close to him. Did I want to fall into bed the minute we arrived here? Yes. But seeing one of Roark’s best friends is good as well. Seeing him relate to a friend, not a client, and not someone he’s trying to bed, gives me more insight into who he is as a man. Bram trusts him. Trusts in him. That speaks volumes.

“I had everything planned out, dinner, wine, her favorite cheesecake from a bakery downtown. It was all set up and perfect. She came home from work, I was dressed like a goddamn GQ model, apron around my waist. What woman doesn’t want to come home to that?”

“Sounds like a nice image to walk home to,” I say, trying to ease the worry etched all over Bram’s face.

“It was and everything was going great. The ring was in my pocket, we were eating my dinner, talking about our days, and when the time came . . . I choked.”

“Were you scared?”

He shakes his head. “No, I physically choked, on a Brussels sprout.”

“Oh God, are you okay?” I ask.

He shakes his head, his hand rubbing his forehead. “I mean, obviously I’m still alive, but in the midst of Julia giving me the Heimlich and freaking out, I”—he pauses, twisting his hands together—“I might have peed my pants a little.”

“What?” Roark lifts off the couch and busts out in laughter, clearly not worried about making his friend feel better. “You fucking pissed yourself?” Bram’s face doesn’t move as Roark slaps his knee and continues to laugh. I try to hold it together, but Roark’s laughter is too infectious. I cover my mouth, not wanting to be rude. “She squeezed the piss out of you.”

Okay, I snort.

Sitting there, lips pursed, Bram waits until Roark calms himself, wiping the tears from under his eyes. “Oh shite, that’s great. You pissed yourself during your proposal. You really fucked it up.”

“That wasn’t even the bad part.”

“Wait? There’s more?” Now truly invested in the story, Roark sits up, hand on my thigh. Poor, poor Bram. “What happened next?”

“After she dislodged the Brussels sprout—thanks for the concern by the way—I stood there, unable to move because I had pee in my pants. She asked if I was okay and instead of answering her, I waddled to our bedroom.”

“Fucking waddled. Oh, that’s great. You know what? I’m glad you stayed, this is one of the best stories I’ve ever heard.”

“What did I say about not being a dick?”

Another wipe under his eyes. “Sorry. Continue . . . please continue.”

Exhaling, nostrils flaring, Bram says, “I went to the closet to change for obvious reasons. It wasn’t a lot of pee, but just enough to warrant a new pair of boxers and therefore jeans too, just to be safe. When I was bare-assed, bent over, nut sac on full display, looking for another pair of jeans, Julia walked up and gathered my pants, asking if everything was okay.”