The Trouble With Love: New York Times Bestselling Author Read online

  The Trouble With Love

  New York Times Bestselling Author

  Claire Contreras

  Claire Contreras

  Contents

  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

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Claire Contreras

  Chapter One

  One Year Ago . . .

  Bennett

  There’s a lot to be said about the way we handle betrayal. Some people lick their wounds and walk away, while others, like myself, lick tequila off some random woman’s stomach before downing shots of Patrón.

  I shake my head after the fifth shot. I haven’t done this since I was in college, which feels like a lifetime ago even though it’s only been a few years. One thing I’d definitely never done was go to a bar by myself. There’s something freeing about the experience of not having to share women with my friends, of not worrying about babysitting anyone, and the likelihood that I’d get into a fistfight was at a minimum without them around to start one.

  The woman on the bar sits up and smiles wide at me. I blink a few times to focus my eyes on her, and when I do, I hold up my hand in a peace sign, and walk away without giving her a second glance. Sliding into a booth, I ask for another drink—bourbon this time. I put my face in my hands and take a deep breath.

  My God. How did I end up here?

  The week started out promising, but on Tuesday night things took an ugly turn. Paola was crying when I got home and my initial thought was that she wasn’t pregnant—again. We’d been trying for two years now and had remained optimistic for most of that time, but I could tell it had been wearing her down for a while now. I hugged her and pushed her hair away from her wet cheeks, and then she dropped the bomb on me—she’d been seeing someone else for six months. She said it casually, as if married people were allowed to go off and see other people. Then she’d shown me the positive pregnancy test. I demanded proof that it wasn’t mine. She demanded a divorce. On Wednesday, she took those words back. I got drunk. On Thursday she started packing up her shit, saying she was moving in with Marcos. I called my lawyer. Got drunk again. And today I am on a similar trajectory.

  Movement in my booth makes me lower my hands from my face. I blink a few times as a blur of red slides into the booth across from me. She sets down a pitcher between us, pours two glasses, and slides one over. I take it.

  “You got a pitcher of vodka?”

  “Um. Sure.”

  I take a healthy gulp and cough, narrowing my eyes. “This is water.”

  “Surprised you can even tell what it is, considering the state you’re in.”

  “What state is that?” I frown. “And who the fuck are you to judge me? You don’t know my life.”

  “You’re right. I don’t know your life.” She raises an eyebrow. “Anything you want to talk about?”

  “Why would I talk to you?”

  She shrugs. “Better than talking to yourself like you’ve been doing for the last ten minutes.”

  “So, you decided you should come over here in hopes that I’d spill my guts to you?” I eye her suspiciously. Is she one of Paola’s friends? Is this a setup? I will my eyes to focus on her. No, I’d remember this woman. She has long, thick, wavy blond hair. The kind of long and thick I’d fist and grip as I fuck those beautiful full lips of hers. Her nose is small and thin and her cheekbones are defined and pink. I can’t really tell how old she is with all that makeup.

  “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-five.” She frowns. “Why?”

  “You sit here uninvited, bring me water, question me about my life.” I take a big gulp of the unwelcome water. The bourbon I ordered is taking too long. “It seems like a childish thing to do.”

  “Oh.” She glances away, sipping on her water as if it’s the finest Champagne.

  “You don’t drink? Is that it? You’re one of those?”

  Her eyes flash back to mine. “I drink when I want.”

  “Why aren’t you drinking now? You’re at this bar, wearing a fuck-me-red dress, with that fuckable pout and those long lashes, sitting across from me drinking fucking water. What’s your deal?”

  “I’m glad you find me so fuckable,” she says, looking right at me, into me even. “I’m meeting someone here and I don’t want to be drunk when he gets here, so I decided on water. You looked like you needed company, so I sat here. I can move if my presence is really bothering you that much though.” She reaches for the pitcher.

  I put my hand over hers, our eyes meet—both startled by my move—and lock. “Stay.”

  She takes her hand from beneath mine and sits back hesitantly. I drink more water. Get more sober. Watch her closer. She’s looking everywhere but at me now.

  “You think your date stood you up?”

  She shrugs. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

  “He’s a fucking idiot.”

  Her gaze flies to mine. I can’t tell if her eyes are brown or green, but they’re fucking gorgeous. She looks innocent. Definitely too innocent for me.

  “He is an idiot,” she says after a beat. “But he’s also busy.”

  “He shouldn’t be too busy for you.”

  “Yeah, well.” She shrugs and licks that perfect pout again. “You’re here by yourself?”

  “Yep.”

  “Do you always get this drunk?”

  “Again with the judgments.”

  “Sorry.” She bites her bottom lip.

  “You have the most incredible fucking lips.”

  She looks away, but the blush that covers her face is impossible to hide.

  “You’re really twenty-five?”

  “Twenty-three.” She licks her lips again. “Today’s my birthday.”

  “Well, shit. Happy birthday, twenty-three.” I exhale. I remember my twenty-third. Barely, but I know it was fun. “What’s your name?”

  Her eyes shift to mine again. “Elizabeth.”

  “Is that your real name?”

  “Middle name.”

  I chuckle. This girl is way too innocent. She can’t even lie about using a fake name.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Ben.”

  She nods, sipping on her water. “You look like a Ben.”

  The waitress comes over with my drin
k. Fucking finally. I’m definitely closer to sober than drunk now and suddenly I don’t want to get obliterated. I sip this drink slower than I did the last. The waitress addresses Elizabeth across from me.

  “You sure you don’t want anything harder?”

  “Thank you.” Elizabeth smiles, shaking her head, her eyes on the waitress as she walks away.

  “I can give you something hard right now,” I say.

  Her eyes widen as she turns to me. “Did you seriously just say that?”

  “I did.”

  “Wow.” She shakes her head. Her laughter sounds more like disbelief than amusement as it huffs out of those lips, but her eyes are twinkling. “I’ve heard some shit, but that right there is classic douchebag.”

  “Classic douchebag?” I bite back a laugh. “I wasn’t aware there were different types of douchebags.”

  “Oh, there are plenty,” she says, “but normally out-of-this-world good-looking guys stick to classic douchebag.”

  “You think I’m out-of-this-world good-looking?”

  “And a douchebag.”

  “I think I’m okay with that.” I sip my bourbon and set it down. “You want some?”

  She eyes it like she does, licking her lips as she examines it.

  “It’s only bourbon. It’s not spiked or anything,” I say, in hopes to settle her nerves. If anything, it makes her eyes widen as if she hadn’t considered that possibility.

  “I’m fine.” She sits back, shaking her head.

  I call the waitress over and order Elizabeth a drink to match mine.

  “You didn’t have to do that,” she says under her breath. “But thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Her drink comes at lightning speed. The waitress smiles at her and walks away again.

  “You know her?”

  “Jana?” She glances at the waitress’s retreating back, a smile on her face. “Yeah. She’s good people.”

  “Seems like you’re good people.” I drink, eyes on her as she sips on her own. “I’ve been coming here for years and I’ve never seen anyone get VIP treatment,” I say. “And this is coming from a VIP douchebag.”

  She snorts. “VIP douchebag.”

  “Happy birthday.” I lift my glass and clink it against hers. She blushes like she didn’t remember she’d said that.

  “Thanks.”

  “So, birthday girl, what do you want for your birthday?” I ask. “And how long are you going to wait for the non-classic douchebag who stood you up?”

  “He’s worse than any douchebag.” She sighs. “I’m done waiting. And the only thing I really want is a good lay.”

  My brows shoot up. Little Miss Innocent is straitlaced and straightforward and it’s such a fucking turn-on. “That can be arranged.”

  “You’re too drunk to be a good lay.”

  “I take offense to that. Even in my most drunken state I’d probably be a better lay than half the men you’ve slept with.”

  She laughs. “You’re so full of yourself.”

  “I’m not. It’s the simple truth.”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  I set the bourbon down and slide it away, then reach for hers. She slaps my hand away.

  “Don’t you fucking dare.”

  Her outburst makes me laugh. “I’ve been turned on from the moment you sat across from me, but this is taking it to another level.”

  “That’s interesting.” She cocks her head. “Considering you looked like you were either crying or falling asleep when I sat across from you.”

  “So why sit here?”

  “Because I’d rather sit across from a guy who looks like he’s on the verge of a breakdown than sit alone anywhere else in this bar and have to deal with lame pickup attempts.”

  “How are you going to get laid if you don’t let people try to come on to you?”

  She shrugs again, taking another sip of her bourbon. “And there lies the crux of the story. I want to be wanted, but I don’t want to be pursued.”

  “That’s such a woman problem.” I shake my head. “Why are women so fucking needy anyway?”

  “Women are needy?” Her eyebrows shoot up. “Men are the reason the word needy even exists.”

  “Right.” I scoff. “If needy is synonymous to men, how would you describe women?”

  “Survivors.”

  She says it with such sureness, that I almost think she might be right. Then I think about Paola and the situation we’re in because of her particular neediness. You’d think I didn’t try to fuck the woman nightly. She rejects me more than she accepts, and that’s why this is so much more difficult to process. I look at the woman sitting across from me. She probably won’t go home with me tonight, with the way she’s analyzing the fuck out of me, so I might as well have a normal conversation until I’m sober enough to take her to a diner. I’d kill for chicken and waffles right now.

  “Have you ever cheated on a boyfriend?”

  Her eyes widen. “No.”

  “Does it disgust you? The thought of cheating?”

  “I mean . . .” She sighs heavily and takes another sip of bourbon. “My parents were cheaters and my ex was a serial cheater, so yeah, it bothers me.”

  “Which is why you’ve never cheated on a partner?”

  She frowns. “I guess I’ve never understood the point of cheating. If you don’t enjoy the person you’re with, you might as well move on and sleep with other people at that point. It’s really not that difficult.”

  I scoff. When she puts it that way, it seriously pisses me off. Fuck it. I bring the bourbon back, and just as I’m lifting it to my mouth, Elizabeth reaches out, her thin fingers tentative on my hand, her big brownish-greenish eyes on mine as she lowers the drink from my lips.

  “Hey, Ben.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Let’s go have sex.”

  Chapter Two

  Present Day . . .

  Morgan

  You know that feeling you get in the pit of your stomach when your whole life is about to change? That’s exactly how I feel as I approach the building of SEVEN. I’ve beaten the odds in every other aspect of my life—escaping my shitty life in Vegas, getting into my dream university, putting myself through said university, and landing great internships as well as working with incredible companies. This moment, though? It feels like the biggest moment of my life thus far.

  I take a deep breath and let it out, shaking my arms and legs the way boxers do in the ring before a big fight. I got this. I got this. I totally got this. I remind myself that it’s not even a legit interview, which honestly scares me a little more than it should. I’ve never been one to accept a handout, but when my brother spoke to Mr. Cruz about me he’d been so impressed that he offered a job without even meeting me. I’d be an idiot not to take the opportunity. Ever since I was in college, I had my eyes on SEVEN—a tech company that creates everything from websites to apps and also invests in the making of robots and different kinds of technology. As a person who’s obsessed with apps, from building them to the way they cater to specific people, this company is my dream. Aside from not wowing Mr. Cruz, the other thing I’m worried about is them giving me a temp job instead of a permanent position, but honestly, right now, I’ll take what I can get. I exit the elevator and smile at the receptionist, letting her know I’m here for a meeting with Mr. Cruz.

  “Junior or Senior?” she asks.

  “Um. Senior?” I frown. “I think. I hope.”

  I’ve seen Mr. Cruz Junior only once while Devon roomed with him in college, and it was definitely an experience sixteen-year-old Morgan would truly love to forget. I’d walked in on him and a girl making out—heavily making out. His hand was underneath her shirt and she was grinding against his crotch. I’d been secondhand embarrassed, yet felt like I was burning from the inside. I ended up having to tell Dev I had to go home immediately because I felt like I’d come down with a cold. Needless to say, I never met the guy face-to-face and I’m still men
tally preparing myself for the moment it finally happens, mostly because I’ve thought about the sounds they were making and the passion they’d shared more times than I can count. Reconciling his face to that experience may completely ruin it for me or fuel it further.

  “He’s ready for you,” the receptionist announces. I walk forward and stand by the door to his office. “You can walk right in.”

  When I do, I’m met by the smell of old books. I inhale and instantly feel a little calmer than I felt five minutes ago. An older man stands behind the desk. He’s wearing jeans, a polo shirt, and a huge smile on his face. Definitely not what I was expecting.

  “Miss Tucker,” he says as he rounds the desk. “I’ve heard so much about you, I feel like I know you.”

  I extend my hand and let out a surprised, “Oh,” when he doesn’t give me a business handshake, like I’m expecting, but rather a hug. He pulls back, the crinkles around his eyes prominent as he smiles.

  “I see the resemblance,” he says. “Devon has become like a son to Barbara and me. I hope you feel comfortable enough here to come to see us as family as well.”

  “Thank you so much, Mr. Cruz.” I smile. “And thank you so much for this opportunity.”

  “Charlie,” he says, waving a hand as he walks back to his chair behind his desk. “Call me Charlie.”