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Yes, You
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Yes, You
Carla Ryan
Contents
Preface
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
Author's Notes
About the Author
Also by Carla Ryan
Yes, You
Copyright © 2020 by Carla Ryan.
All rights reserved. This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States of America copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Published by ButterflyTattoo, First edition, v 1.1
Praise for Carla Ryan
“As always, Carla Ryan delivers a great book. Honestly, the author in general is just wonderful.”
Brooklyn
“Can't wait to read more from this author.”
Kat
“I’m glad to have found Carla Ryan and will be reading more of her writing. Thank you, Carla.”
Amazon reader
* * *
Preface
Love isn't what you're looking for when you fly across the country in search of the woman with gray eyes. It's been six years since she rejected your offer for a night of bliss, and your life has been nothing but successful -- in the boardroom and the bedroom -- ever since. But when an incredible business opportunity leaves you feeling empty instead of elated, you decide to lift your spirits by convincing the one that got away to finally say yes. If you can find her, that is.
Armed with nothing but a receipt and half a name, you track her down only to discover that the cost of winning her over is the one thing you're unwilling to lose -- your heart.
* * *
Experience romance like never before with this full-length second-person POV novel. That's right, YOU are the star of this book! Yes, You draws you into the story like no other romance can, making you the center of the action. Have fun falling in love with Yes, You!
Chapter One
Six Years Ago
You enter the hotel bar like you own the place. It's a nice piece of real estate -- intimate, the scent of citrus and brandy in the air, and a gleaming wood bar that curves out, in, out, like a woman lying on her back. You take a seat at the hip, order a dark 'n stormy, then swing round on your stool and survey the land for someone to celebrate with.
Unfortunately, it's a Wednesday night and the pickings are slim: mostly couples, some in love, some not, and a smattering of single men, some searching, some hiding. A man in a dark green suit and a bad toupee is sitting alone by the entrance with his back against the wall. He meets your eye with a knowing smile. You shake your head, one hunter to another, and he gives a good-natured shrug and moves on, unhurried, unaware that you're his competition.
The mopey MILF at the end of the bar looks like she could use some cheering up... but you'd have to listen to her depressing story first, and you're in no mood for that. The couch against the back wall is loaded up with a group of thirty-somethings Girls' Nighting it, but getting one to stray from the pack is highly unlikely.
"Here you go," the bartender says.
She's a possibility. You take a sip of your drink, letting the sweet rum and spicy ginger beer flavors roll over your tongue as you look her over. Too much makeup for your usual taste, but a tryst in the back room could be fun.
"...and here's me and Skimpy at opening day against Tampa," says a male voice behind you, breaking into your fantasy. "We bought the tickets a year ahead of time and got front row end zone seats." He laughs, a long honking noise, like a goose. "He got so wasted he fell over the rail and got kicked out."
"Oh," a woman says, her voice thick with boredom and judgment.
Peeking over your shoulder, you see her pick up her empty glass and stir the ice cubes with her straw, preferring this pointless activity to looking at the pictures on her date's phone. She's pretty but overdressed, in a black off-shoulder cocktail dress and a loose braided crown hairstyle. Her date's dressed up too in a dark gray suit, but his jacket is crumpled on the floor behind him.
"Oh, oh," he says excitedly, eyes glued to his phone as he scrolls through more pictures, "let me show you the ones from preseason. Checkers -- that's Skimpy's little brother, his real name's Ted but we call him Checkers because one time when he was a kid he called out 'Checkers!' in his sleep and then started humping the bed -- he works for this company that had a lottery to win tickets..."
Sliding off your seat, you take a few casual steps, drink in hand, and pause behind his chair. The woman, her eyes glassy, is stirring ice again, so it takes a second for her to notice you. Pointing down at her date, you thumb towards the door, your question obvious. Her gaze flickers back and forth between the two of you, but when the guy, oblivious to your presence, starts listing the menu for his tailgate cookout, she gives you a gentle, defeated nod.
"I'm sorry." You put a hand on his shoulder to halt his monologue, then turn your back on him, addressing her. "So sorry to interrupt, but I swear I know you from somewhere."
She squints up at you, cocking her head to the side. "Yeah, you look familiar too... Did you ever work at the Chow Fun Buffet in Oakland?"
Oookaay. You were thinking college classmates, but this'll do.
"That's it!" you cry in triumph. "You were one of the waitresses!"
"Dining room attendant," she corrects. "Buffets don't have waitresses."
Whatever.
"Right... that's what I meant. I haven't seen you in so long!" You lean down and give her a hug. She smells like hair spray. "Come get a drink with me." You start tugging on her arm. "You have to tell me everything you've been up to."
"Night," she says to her date, picking up her clutch purse and making a run for it.
"Seriously?" he says, still holding his phone.
"Sorry sweetie," you say, shepherding her to the far end of the bar, "sisters before misters. I'll drive her home."
You keep a straight face as you take your seats, not wanting to completely humiliate the guy, but she's clearly unconcerned about his ego, laughing and hiding her face in obvious guilt.
"That was awesome, thanks," she says. "This was the worst night of my life." She throws her head back as she says it, causing her small but perky breasts to heave against her dress.
"Then let's celebrate the end of it," you say, waving the bartender over. "What are you drinking?"
"Sex on the beach," she says.
Yes please.
You keep your quip to yourself, not wanting to scare her off. Getting a straight girl to switch her allegiance for a night takes either a lot of finesse or a lot of booze. Luckily you have access to both at the moment.
"So what's your name?" you ask.
"Trisha."
You wait a few beats for her to ask your name, but she's watching the bartender make her drink and doesn't say a thing
.
Well if she doesn't want to know, that's fine. You probably won't remember her name tomorrow anyway.
"How'd you end up with that lunkhead?" you ask.
She rolls her eyes. "He's my friend Dina's step-sister's cousin or something? We met at a party the other night at Dina's. We were both plastered and did it on Dina's washing machine. It's true what they say, by the way, about that. It feels amazing. It was on, I mean. Anyway, I don't remember doing it but I guess I gave him my number because he texted me -- the next day -- and said we should meet up sometime. I almost said no because I didn't want to ruin that night since it was so perfect, but Dina convinced me to say yes. I think she actually likes him because she kept asking all these questions about his johnson and I was like, 'I don't know, it's average, I guess.' I was paying more attention to the washing machine, to be honest."
She smiles gently and runs a hand down her thigh, her eyes going foggy. The bartender serves her drink, and Trisha immediately takes the straw out, guzzling almost half of it straight from the glass.
"Anyway," she continues, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, "so he said he made reservations at this uber-fancy restaurant and told me to dress up extra nice, which I did." She gestures to her dress and hair. "But when we get there they tell us the reservation is for the thirteenth of October. Scott's so stupid he didn't know he was making reservations for next month! So he brings us here instead, saying his brother's the bartender and can get us free drinks, but his brother isn't even working tonight! Luckily they have decent onion rings, although the buffet's are better. No one has better onion rings than the buffet." She takes another gulp, then picks up her straw to start stirring the ice.
So maybe Trisha's not the crispiest onion ring in the batch. But you're not looking for a soulmate here, and that bit about the washing machine was quite promising.
"Well tonight was actually the best night of my life," you say.
"Why?" she asks, although her attention seems pretty heavily focused on her ice.
Raising your glass, you say, "After seven months of dead ends, I finally landed an investor for my start-up."
"A start-up?" Her glittery eyes snap back onto you. "Like with coding and stuff? A guy who used to work at the buffet went to school for coding and now he makes like a million dollars a year at Google or something. How much money did you get?"
Her greedy reaction pulls the stopper from your pride, and even though you were hoping to share your excitement with someone, now you wish you hadn't said anything. If Jabir's wife hadn't gone into labor at the last minute, you'd be toasting with him instead of this money-grubbing airhead.
Although Jabir doesn't have tits, and this airhead does, so...
"It's not that big a deal," you say, leaning in closer. "I want to hear more about this washing machine."
During the next hour it becomes painfully clear that the main reason Trisha didn't like that Scott guy wasn't because he talked about sports constantly, but because he had the impudence to talk at all. Over a few more drinks you learn that she's 23 years old but still has at least two years to go before getting her degree in theater, blaming the delay on her teachers not liking her. She's worked part-time at the buffet since she was sixteen, and the highlight of her life so far was when she found out that some social media celebrity whom you've never heard of went to her salon once.
"I was so depressed when I found out I missed her," Trisha says, sucking on an ice cube, "but then I was like, 'I'm breathing the same air she was. My feet are where her feet were,' and I realized I'm actually really lucky. I wrote a whole post about it that got a ton of likes -- way more than the one Dina posted of her cat wearing a dog costume."
You nod and smile, ignoring her words while watching her dark lips. You can almost feel them on your skin, leaving a trail of cold kisses on your mouth, your throat, your stomach. Her breath is icy on your thighs, and you shudder as her chilled tongue plunges deep into your steaming --
"I guess I should call a ride."
Her words cut through your vision, alerting you to the imminent danger of losing your chance. "So do you think you'll go out with Scott again?" you ask.
She makes a sound of disgust while picking up her phone. "I don't know. Probably. He's not that bad. Stupid, but nice enough. His johnson really is not that big though."
"There isn't a guy out there that can compete with my vibrator," you say, polishing off your drink. "You should see this thing -- it's perfect. Long, fat, and when it vibrates, my whole body shakes and buzzes, as if I were lying on one of those vibrating beds, or maybe a..." You pretend to search for the right word as her eyes slowly slide from her screen to you.
"A washing machine?" she says.
"Maybe," you say with a casual shrug. "I've never done it on a washing machine. But you must have a vibrator -- is it the same kind of thing?" Before she can answer, you wave your comment away. "No, it can't be the same. Doing it yourself is never the same as having someone else do it to you. Have you ever tried one of those strap ons? Those come as vibrators too, you know. I bet people come a hundred times getting pounded by one of those."
Her round eyes glaze over. She shifts on her seat.
Moving closer, you cast a furtive glance around. There's hardly anyone left in the place, other than the MILF who's being chatted up by the man in the green suit, and a couple of the single men, who you're pretty sure haven't moved from their seats since you got here.
"To be honest," you whisper, "my roommate snuck one of those into my suitcase as a prank while I was packing for this trip and I..." You let out a breathy giggle. "...I kind of want to try it." You laugh again and hide your face, acting bashful. "No guy would ever do that though, and there's no way I could do it with one of my girlfriends. It would have to be someone I barely know; that way I'd never have to see that person again if I didn't want to, you know?"
Trisha's gaze refocuses on you, and you can see her following your bread crumbs, and slowly -- really, freaking, slowly -- reaching your conclusion. She studies your face as if seeing it for the first time, then takes in your body. You're still in the clothes you wore to the meeting with the investor, and you know you look good. You always look good. Pretending you're tired, you stretch your arms up, arching your back and letting your hair cascade behind your shoulders.
Now comes the hard part: the trust fall.
"I better close up the tab," you say, looking for the bartender. "I've got a plane to catch tomorrow."
"You're not from around here?" she asks, her phone forgotten in her hand.
"No thank you. I live in Boston, and I'll be happy never to come back to San Francisco -- or even the West Coast -- again. It is way too laid back for me. My room's right upstairs though, so at least I don't have far to go to find a bed. Where's the bartender?"
Her eyes heavy with calculations, Trisha says, "I have to go to the bathroom. Don't leave without me though, okay? I want to talk to you about something."
You want to do a lot more than talk, sweet cheeks.
"I'm giving you a ride, remember," you say innocently. "I can't leave without you."
You watch her ass as she walks away, then follow her lead, hunting for the bartender. The door to the back room is open, but you can't see anyone inside.
"Hello?" you call, leaning over the bar. "Bartender? I need to close out my tab."
"Sounds like the drinks are free tonight," Green Suit Man jokes.
"Fine by me," you say, "but she worked too hard not to get a tip at least."
"Aww," the MILF says, tearing up, "that's so thoughtful." She dabs at her eyes, causing Green Suit Man to roll his.
"Hello," you call again. When still no one comes, you duck under the bar service entrance, but you've barely straightened up when a woman appears in front of you.
"What are you doing?" she snaps. She can't be more than an inch taller than you, but her gorgeous, stormy gray eyes make you feel small and guilty, like a child caught cheating on a test.
"Neither are you." She closes the door behind her and takes a step in your direction. You back up, bumping hard against the counter. Swinging the service entrance open, she waits for you to leave. She's not wearing any makeup or jewelry, except a simple leather bracelet laced through a small copper key.
"I need to pay my tab," you say, not wanting to move away from her.
She gestures for you to exit. "I can take care of that."
"What about her tip?"
Her eyebrows tighten as she regards you with fresh disapproval.
"I only want to make sure she gets it," you say, hastily adding, "Not that I think you're going to take it. She worked hard for it, is what I mean. Not that I made her do anything out of the ordinary. All I did was order drinks."
"A few too many it would seem," she says, a mix of judgment and worry in her intelligent eyes. "Are you driving home?"
"I'm staying right here." You laugh at yourself, an awkward, desperate laugh that doesn't sound like you. "Not here, here. In the hotel, here."
Very suave.
What is going on? Two watery drinks is definitely not enough to cause a brain meltdown of this magnitude. You try to think of something to say, something that will redeem you and show this goddess that you're not a dumb drunk, but your mind is too saturated with visions of her beneath you, calling out your name, crying out for more.
Yes, You