Maybe Not (Maybe #1.5)(33)

She flips me off, so I grab her hand and link my fingers through hers. “I need to ask you something else.”

She falls onto her back. “So help me God, Warren, if you ask me to marry you I’ll cut your nuts off.”

“I don’t want to marry you,” I say. “Yet. But . . .”

I crawl over to her part of our home and lie next to her. “Will you go on a date with me?”

She looks away from me and stares up at the ceiling. “Oh, my God,” she whispers. “We’ve never been on a date before?”

“Not a real one.”

She slaps a hand to her forehead. “I’m such a whore. I already moved in with you and we haven’t even been on a date?”

“You’re not a whore,” I say to her with mock reassurance. “We haven’t even had sex . . . oh, wait.” I grimace. “You are such a whore. A huge, slutty whore who wants me to try anal with her tonight.”

She laughs and shoves me in the chest.

I shove her back.

She shoves me harder.

I push her until she’s at the edge of her bed.

She lifts her legs to kick me.

I kick her back, pushing her off the bed until she’s lying on the floor. After several quiet seconds, I scoot to the edge of the mattress and look down at her. She’s still lying flat on her back in the same position she landed.

“You could give Brody a run for his money,” I tell her. She reaches up a hand to hit me, but I grab it and pull it to my mouth. I kiss the top of it and hold her hand while I lock eyes with her.

She’s in an unusually agreeable mood right now, which leads me to believe that maybe . . . just maybe . . .

“I have one more question, Bridgette.”

She cocks an eyebrow and slowly shakes her head. “I’m not telling you the name of that porn.”

I drop her hand and roll onto my back. “Fuck.”

Maybe not.





Acknowledgments

A huge thank-you to so many people. First, my family. Without you I could never finish anything. To my publisher, Atria Books, and Judith Curr, for not saying no when I said, “I want to write a novella about Warren. And I want it to be a surprise!” A special thanks to my editor, Johanna Castillo, for being the absolute best! I say it with every book, but we really are a great team. To my brand-new publicist, Ariele, for being top-notch at her job. Yer er der berst, Erererl! And to my agent, Jane Dystel, and her team of amazing people. To Murphy and Stephanie for always keeping my head above water. And last but not least, my readers. Without you, none of the people just mentioned would have a job, including me. Your passion for reading gives us the ability to live our passion. For that, we ALL thank you!





Enjoy an excerpt from Colleen Hoover’s Maybe Someday, the novel that inspired the characters in Maybe Not

   Copyright ? 2014 Colleen Hoover

   All song lyrics displayed in this book written and owned by Griffin Peterson (ASCAP) ? 2013 Griffin Peterson / Raymond Records, LLC—All rights reserved.





prologue

Sydney

I just punched a girl in the face. Not just any girl. My best friend. My roommate.

Well, as of five minutes ago, I guess I should call her my ex-roommate.

Her nose began bleeding almost immediately, and for a second, I felt bad for hitting her. But then I remembered what a lying, betraying whore she is, and it made me want to punch her again. I would have if Hunter hadn’t prevented it by stepping between us.

So instead, I punched him. I didn’t do any damage to him, unfortunately. Not like the damage I’d done to my hand.

Punching someone hurts a lot worse than I imagined it would. Not that I spend an excessive amount of time imagining how it would feel to punch people. Although I am having that urge again as I stare down at my phone at the incoming text from Ridge. He’s another one I’d like to get even with. I know he technically has nothing to do with my current predicament, but he could have given me a heads-up a little sooner. Therefore, I’d like to punch him, too.

Ridge: Are you OK? Do u want to come up until the rain stops?

Of course, I don’t want to come up. My fist hurts enough as it is, and if I went up to Ridge’s apartment, it would hurt a whole lot worse after I finished with him.

I turn around and look up at his balcony. He’s leaning against his sliding-glass door; phone in hand, watching me. It’s almost dark, but the lights from the courtyard illuminate his face. His dark eyes lock with mine and the way his mouth curls up into a soft, regretful smile makes it hard to remember why I’m even upset with him in the first place. He runs a free hand through the hair hanging loosely over his forehead, revealing even more of the worry in his expression. Or maybe that’s a look of regret. As it should be.

I decide not to reply and flip him off instead. He shakes his head and shrugs his shoulders, as if to say, I tried, and then he goes back inside his apartment and slides his door shut.

I put the phone back in my pocket before it gets wet, and I look around at the courtyard of the apartment complex where I’ve lived for two whole months. When we first moved in, the hot Texas summer was swallowing up the last traces of spring, but this courtyard seemed to somehow still cling to life. Vibrant blue and purple hydrangeas lined the walkways leading up to the staircases and the fountain affixed in the center of the courtyard.