Barely even friends, p.1
Barely Even Friends, page 1
“Barely Even Friends delivers the PROMISE OF THE PREMISE of a horny Beauty & the Beast retelling . . . There was such a beautiful theme of finding home not only in a place but with another person.”
—Alicia Thompson, USA Today bestselling author of With Love, from Cold World
“With big-hearted characters you can’t help but root for, Bennett’s debut is both modern and fresh, yet still hits all the classic notes to perfection.”
—Amy Lea, international bestselling author of Exes and O’s
“Steamy, cozy, and hopeful, this is the perfect modern Beauty and the Beast retelling I’ve been waiting for!”
—Chloe Liese, author of Two Wrongs Make a Right
“A fun, sexy twist on a tale as old as time—filled with loveable, diverse characters and that delicious friction that only grumpy/sunshine can bring.”
—Lana Ferguson, author of The Nanny
“A delightful tribute to romance . . . A Beauty & the Beast retelling that adds the kind of quirkiness to a classic tale that only a romance novel can.”
—Anita Kelly, author of Love & Other Disasters
“The sexy, bantery contemporary retelling of my dreams. An incredible debut full of heat and heart and delicious enemies-tolovers energy!”
—Naina Kumar, author of Say You’ ll Be Mine
“Barely Even Friends absolutely delights with a steamy debut that ramps up the tension right from the beginning . . . Bennett has taken a classic romance tale and made it her own.”
—Ruby Barrett, author of The Romance Recipe
“Bennett brings warmth, humor, and joy to this delightful romance. With a debut like this, she is one to watch in the future. I smiled so hard that by the end of the book my face hurt!!”
—Elizabeth Everett, author of the Secret Scientists of London series
“Deliciously spicy, comforting and heartfelt . . . I’m a fan of Mae’s for life!”
—Nadia El-Fassi, author of Best Hex Ever
“Fresh, creative, and sexy as hell, Mae Bennett spins a classic into a modern bookshelf staple . . . A story like this is why we read Romance.”
—Courtney Kae, author of In the Event of Love
BARELY EVEN FRIENDS
A Novel
MAE BENNETT
For Mums, who always believed I could be anything.
Even an author.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Barely Even Friends centers on love and what home really means. However, this book mentions the death of parents in a car accident (past, recounted on page), grief, family tensions, familial abandonment (past, briefly mentioned), misogyny, and discussions of fatphobia. Please take care if these are sensitive topics for you.
CHAPTER ONE
It was impossible to take my father seriously when he wore onesie pajamas.
“You must drive Philippe.” He made multiple flourishes with his palms, thrusting the keys to his painstakingly restored Mustang into my hand before yanking them back at the last moment. His eyes narrowed. “But please, take care of my darling.”
“‘My darling’ is a bit much.” My fingers curled around the key ring, wondering at what point, in the past twenty-six years, I had become the adult in this dynamic.
Dad shifted the pillow behind his back. “Bellamy, my favorite daughter—”
“Your only daughter.” Only child, if we were going for total accuracy.
He huffed. “True, but I was referring to the car.”
Ouch, that hurt, but, well, the man had insisted on naming his car, so not surprising. Who was I kidding? He loved that car more than anything else. Cars were not my specialty, but no matter its monetary value, it was worth significantly more to my dad.
“I still think we should advise them to hold off a few more days, for when I’m feeling better.” His attempt to take a deep breath resulted in a hacking cough, racking through his body and making my heart clench.
“I wheeled you out of the hospital a week ago, Dad. Flu and bronchitis aren’t something you walk off. You need rest, not construction dust and mold.” It wasn’t the first time we’d had this debate. Giving up control had never come easily to him, a biological trait my father had passed on to me. He also happened to be my employer. “I can handle it.”
“I trust you. You learned from the best.” The attempt to puff out his chest merely gave the cars patterned across his onesie more prominence. “You are the daughter of the great”—more coughing—“Maurice Price. We have a history of excellence to uphold.”
But this project wasn’t our typical commission. Restoring older homes was losing its popularity as the uber-wealthy coveted modern builds and the latest technology. Most of our recent clients were local governments or nonprofits. That was the risk of working in such a niche market—we were often one contract away from ruin.
“I promise to uphold our family legacy.” I raised my palm, swearing fealty to my liege while trying, and failing to not roll my eyes. Mostly, I humored him out of relief. The more demanding he became, the better I knew he was getting. Every moment in the emergency room, which felt longer than only a few days ago, I had sat in fear, while my father lay prone, swallowed by the hospital bed. He was on the mend now, but he still needed to finish recovering.
Dad began to fiddle with the heart rate monitor from his bedside table, a gift from his visiting nurse.
My gaze narrowed as I realized the true reason he was willing to hand over the keys to his beloved car, eager to get rid of me. “Let’s not pretend that this isn’t about Nurse Betty.”
A blush immediately developed on his pale, white skin. “Well, she is most becoming.” Dad was a short, portly man, with hair the same deep chestnut as mine. His normally clean-shaven face sported the rough beard he had grown in the hospital.
It was impossible to hold back my groan. “Becoming?” How he had any game at all was beyond me.
“The woman is an angel sent from above.”
“An angel sent to keep you alive. Her continued visits now that you’re able to feed and bathe yourself might also be a touch of insurance fraud.” But what was insurance fraud when it came to love? I, for one, would not criticize the person who was going to be checking up on him. Not when I was about to walk out the door myself. Betty could commit all the scams she wanted if it meant Dad would be taken care of.
“Like you said, I’m still a sickly man.” This cough was a bit more forced, his eyes gazing at me in that all-seeing parent way. “You know, this would be a great opportunity to find yourself someone becoming, without your dearest father hanging around. I know how intimidating I can be.” He winked.
That was the last thing I needed, a distraction while I dealt with my first solo project, the one that could ruin us or set us up for life. I didn’t have time for romance, not with Dan’s brush off living rent free in my brain. I eased off the bed, smoothing out the comforter, before pressing a kiss to Dad’s forehead. “All right, I’m going to head out.”
He caught my hand, keeping me at his bedside. “I’m serious, Bellamy. It’s been, what, a year since Dan?”
“Over a year, and I’m fine. This project is too important for me to allow any complications.” I did not need my father to lecture me about dating. “Our career doesn’t exactly lend itself to relationships. I have other goals right now.” Dan was a mistake, a hiccup, one I wouldn’t make again. I had learned my lesson and had remained heartbreak-free since we had moved on to our next project.
“Bellamy—”
“Daaa-ad.” I stretched the word out into too many unnecessary syllables.
“The Bib would be elated to have you.”
I appreciated his shift away from discussing my lack of a love life even as I rolled my eyes the at the reminder of my dream job: curator at my favorite museum. Whenever we were home from a project, I would spend hours, days, walking through the exhibits of the Bib, letting my dreams breathe of being the one to plan out the rooms. A position like that would mean no more moving around, from project to project. It would mean staying in one place, putting down roots. “There isn’t even an official opening. It’s a rumor.” One I desperately wanted to be true.
“After this project, they’ll create a position for you.”
Because world-famous museums did that all the time, sure. All I could do was shake my head. “You need more rest, and I need to get going. It’s not exactly a short drive.”
With a sigh, he yanked me the rest of the way, wrapping his short arms around my body. “Call and check in every day …”
“To get your approval on the plans, go over estimates, and send photos daily with updates,” I finished. “We’ve been through this. Not my first project.” Dad was technically my boss, but I couldn’t take his authority seriously when, again, the onesie. He gave me a last squeeze, helping to dispel some of my nerves.
“But your first time solo. This is a career maker.”
I hoped he didn’t notice the way my fingers trembled as I shoved my shoulder-length hair into a messy ponytail. My fuller, curvy frame was all him, though my height and brown hair were from my mother. “Like you said, I’ve learned from the best.” One step at a time: First, the impossible project. Then maybe, just maybe, the impossible job.
“Well, take care.” A beat. “I’m referring to the car again, to be clear.”
This time I didn’t hide my eye roll as I pressed my palm over my heart. “Touching.”
“It took me eight years to rebuild it. You merely took nine months to build.” He loved that joke.
With a final bittersweet squeeze of his hand, I strode out of our fourth-floor walk-up. Dad preferred to stay on-site for a project rather than oversee from afar, spending his time restoring other people’s homes instead of establishing one of our own. His place in Brooklyn was big enough that I had never moved out, since most of the time we were both on assignment outside of New York. We were each other’s family; my mother left when I was a few months old, not a fan of Dad’s nomadic lifestyle. Her presence was a whisper of a memory; he was the only parent I’d ever needed, the one who’d stayed.
But now, this was my opportunity to prove—to myself, to both of us, to the world—that I was more than Maurice Price’s daughter.
Philippe was parked in the underground garage of Dad’s building. The Mustang’s black lacquer paint job gleamed as if Dad had been down recently for his typical weekly wash and polish. I blew out a breath, resisting the urge to text my annoyance at him when he was supposed to be on bed rest. Not much could keep my dad down.
My life fit perfectly into two suitcases and the backpack slung over my shoulder. My room in Dad’s apartment was bare bones. All my effort spent on other people’s homes.
I loaded the address into the maps application on my phone, clicked on my favorite playlist, and pulled out of the garage into the cloud-filled day, settling in the driver’s seat for my more than six-hour road trip.
The Killington property was located in upstate New York, the portion that meant you were in Amish country, looking to flee to Canada at a moment’s notice, or richer than the king. The Killingtons fit into the last category. Their house, a nineteenth-century mansion, hadn’t been updated once it received indoor plumbing and electricity. This was going to be one hell of a job—a mix of restoration meets modernization. Our biggest undertaking to date.
Dad had been contracted to restore the property almost ten years prior, but at the last minute, the family canceled the job, forcing my father to scramble to make up the income. This opportunity was a redemption for him and his reputation.
I had joined the family firm, Price Restoration, after college where I double-majored in history and architecture, my dream of working alongside my father coming true. We had talked about me taking the lead on projects, of one day me being the primary, but that was supposed to be years away. With his illness, medical bills, and our bank accounts dwindling, the timetable had been rushed forward, and now here I was, alone and with none of the safety nets I typically leaned on.
No pressure.
When I was forty-five minutes away, having made good time with only two quick stops for snacks and to fill up the tank, the darkening sky that had followed me from the city grew ominous. Nothing but sparse roads needing repair, trees still bare from the winter as far as the eye could see. Houses spaced apart, not by a few feet, but miles.
There was a crash of thunder, and the clouds opened. Raindrops hit the windshield with increasing velocity, until I could barely see, even with the wipers going and the headlights on full beams. Wiry tree limbs closed in on both sides of the car, threatening Philippe’s perfect paint job, the road narrowing into a single wide lane. I pressed my teeth to my bottom lip in concentration.
It was too late to turn back, and there were no inns nearby to stop at and wait out the storm, the area too rural. I spotted a few turnoffs, but with such spotty phone service I had no idea where they would lead. Nowhere to go but forward. Slowing my speed as my ETA grew later and later, my sole companions were my playlist and the purr of the engine.
The world shrunk as the rain pounded down on the windshield; my fingers clutched the leather of the steering wheel. The swish-swish of the wipers almost drowned out my music. The ground was covered in dirty snow, left over from a storm a few days ago. At least today it wasn’t cold enough to snow … yet.
Only the headlights broke the darkness, along with flashes of lightning across the sky, growing more and more frequent. Nope, this in no way appeared ominous for the project I was about to embark on.
I sighed. “Not a sign.” I lowered the music as I leaned forward. “Well, that was a street sign.” I squinted as water poured out of the sky. “But this is not a sign. The sun is going to come out any moment.”
It did not.
There hadn’t been a town or house for miles when I turned onto the drive leading to the Killington Estate. I drove another mile until I reached the wrought-iron gate: two posts, each with a gargoyle missing a body part or two. I’d worry later about how expensive the fix would be. First, I just needed it to open—before I had to discover whether Philippe could also act as a boat.
A small, brown, rusted box appeared to be my best option for getting inside.
I scowled as I rolled down the window, wincing at the rain splattering the leather, knowing what my father would say. I pressed the buzzer, desperate for someone to answer quickly. They should be expecting me, even if I was late.
Everything about this project was off: me being in charge, no new blueprints for the estate. By this stage, we’d have sketched out some ideas to present to the owners. But with the Killingtons, they asked, and you said yes. They were a family known for their exacting expectations and old money. This estate was one of many properties they owned located throughout the United States, with more scattered around Europe—and that didn’t include the family yacht. At least we had had the old sketches Dad had done ten years back to get us started, since I had been left with almost no time to prep.
The Killington empire had its fingers in multiple industries, investing early and wisely. The family still retained majority shares in the parent company, Killington Holdings, run for decades by Adrian Killington. They were sparse on information but had stated that the only upkeep in the decade since Dad had been unceremoniously dropped was by a caretaker overseeing the acres of property. The Killingtons’ approval would lead to more jobs and potentially a contract to work exclusively on their properties, setting me and Dad up for life.
The freezing wind splashed the even colder rain onto my face, leaving every exposed part of me soaked. This wasn’t a storm, but pure violence swirling in the air.
“We don’t need any,” scratched out of the rusted speaker. The caretaker, I had to presume.
“Hello, this is Bellamy, Bellamy Price … of Price Restoration.” My voice wavered, a combination of nerves and the wind slapping rain in my face, forcing water down my throat. My breath hung in the chilled air, cold enough for me to see it.
Droplets continued to pound into the car through the open window as I waited. The gates opened, and before they could close on me, I rolled up the window and pressed on the gas, the broken gargoyles surveilling.
As I crept forward, poorly maintained hedges lined the entrance, leading to what I assumed was the main house. More bushes waiting for the spring hid the extent of the estate, the world shrinking to this single point, place, and time.
It was another lengthy distance before I arrived, the lane curving a path around the outside of the mansion. The house was imposing: three stories, a sweeping roof. Likely a Georgian influence, from what I could tell through flashes of lightning. The entire estate appeared frozen in time—older, the windows symmetrical, with dead vines crawling up the brick.
I gave up trying to find an overhang to park the car. Grabbing my backpack, I abandoned the rest of my luggage for when the world wasn’t ending. Despite my sprint for the front door, I was soaked to the bone. I shivered as another clap of thunder highlighted the weathered door and its brass knocker—nothing to protect me from the elements.
Before I could raise my hand, the door swung open. I leaped inside, skidding as my wet shoes slid against the marble floors. My arms waved wildly in an effort to find my balance and not fall on my ass or smack into the circular hall table.
When I righted myself, the front door banged shut, and my heart palpitated in my chest as I glanced around.
I was alone, standing in darkness, with an overwhelming smell of must.
“Hello?” I called out, my voice echoing.
Silence.
“It’s Bellamy Price?” No response. “What in the actual fuck?” I muttered.
I clutched the strap of my backpack as I listened for someone while dripping all over their floor.
