The Player Hater (Accidentally in Love 1)

Around the room, eyes begin to dampen.

A few lips begin to quiver, including mine.

“Shit,” I mutter, lifting the napkin on my lap to swipe at my moist eyes.

“I don’t know what I’m saying—I didn’t come with a speech prepared. All I know is what’s in my heart and my heart was telling me not to wait a second longer to ask Mia to be my wife.”

I can’t hold it in any longer.

The floodgates open and I cry as hard as any woman in the room, blubbering into my napkin like a damn fool, among one of few men crying actual tears.

I’m sensitive, okay, I can’t help myself!

That doesn’t make me weak, it makes me…makes me…

Oh fuck, I never should have raised my eyes to look at Granny and I shouldn’t have raised my eyes to look at Juliet because hers are wide and shocked as they stare back at me.

“Oh wow, Davis, are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Don’t look at me, I’m hideous,” I grumble, wanting to ugly cry in peace.

God, why am I like this?

WHO MADE ME THIS WAY?

Juliet’s hand goes to my back as she gently massages my shoulders; it’s a move I lean into, basking in the physical contact. It’s been days since she and I kissed, days since we had sex, too many days.

“You’re such a sweet man,” she’s saying as she rubs my back, whispering that it’s going to be okay, which only makes me sniffle harder. “Are you sad your best friend isn’t going to be around as much?”

Huh? No.

“That’s not why I’m crying,” I pout with a stuffed nose.

“Then what’s wrong?”

“I just…” Ugh, how do I put this? “Love weddings.”

In fact, you can put money on the fact that I’m going to be a loud, crying, whimpering mess at Thad’s nuptials, guaranteed.

“You love weddings? Or you love love?”

Both, I guess. “Yes. I’m one sappy bastard.”

“That’s so cute.”

Cute? Sweet?

Blah!

Over Juliet’s head, my eyes lock with Thad as he raises his glass again—towards me—that knowing look on his face says it all.

The same thing that happened to him is happening to me.

CHAPTER 13

Juliet

“Thanks for bringing me home tonight, Davis, I had a really great time.”—Things you say on a date even if you don’t know whether it’s romantic or not.

He said all the right things: called me beautiful, told me I look nice.

Did all the right things: kissed my cheek, nuzzled my ear.

Smelled good. Sounded wonderful. Laughed and cried at all the right times and was a wonderful partner throughout the entire night.

We had a great time; even danced, something I haven’t done since, well—PROM.

We’re shuffling up the front walkway of my little rental, the lights on the porch come on automatically at six o’clock sharp, day in and day out. They’re glowing now in the cold, desperate for the holiday decorations I’ll be able to put out in a few months’ time without appearing crazy to the neighbors.

Twinkling lights.

Snowflakes.

Candy canes, who knows where the season will take me!

It’s not so cold I’m wearing my jacket; Davis insisted on walking me to the front door. Insisted on carrying my coat, too, like a true gentleman, and I can’t remember the last time a man has held a door, let alone my jacket.

I want to twirl and twirl, my mind reeling, wanting to kick myself for the negative thoughts I’d had about Thad and Davis when they both turned out to be decent dudes.

Better than decent. I mean, who knew Davis would be a crier?

Confession: I had a wee bit of secondhand embarrassment watching him sniffle through the last of the speeches, if I’m being honest…

As per usual, I’m barreling down the sidewalk before I realize there is no one beside me, the space where Davis once occupied is empty. Confused, I look around.

Find him down on one knee in the middle of the walkway.

“Juliet Robertson, I have something to ask you.”

It one hundred percent looks like he’s about to propose. Racing forward, I try to pull him to a stand, but he isn’t budging.

“Oh my god, what the hell are you doing? Get up.”

Davis rolls his eyes. “I’m not proposing, calm down.”

My body relaxes.

“Thank god.” I hasten to add, “No offense.”

“None taken? I don’t think. I mean, I’m slightly offended but I’ll get over it.”

But for real—what is he doing kneeling on the damn ground!

My heart and head are racing in tandem, neither one knowing what to do or how to make sense of this strange man in front of me.

Davis Halbrook—the man with two last names for a name—is a puzzle to me.

“I have to start over because I rehearsed everything I wanted to say on the car ride over and I think it has to be in order for me to get it right—I wasn’t expecting you to freak out like, immediately.” Throat clears. “Juliet Robertson, I have something to ask you.”