Hooked by My Childhood Friend

"You've been staring at me all night," I slurred, my voice thick with tequila and heartbreak. "Either it's creepy, or you like what you see." "Look, handsome," I leaned in closer, the bar's dim lights blurring around us. "I've had a really shitty day. Want to make it better? I'll pay for your time—I've got plenty of money." His eyes widened, but then he reached out, wrapping my hand in his warm, strong fingers—gentle in a way that felt strangely comforting. "Olivia," he said, his deep voice hitting me like a forgotten memory. "Do you know who I am?" --- **I thought I had guys all figured out. Until a cheating bastard destroyed that confidence completely.** In a fit of vengeful rebellion, I picked up a stranger at a bar. Got drunk, got laid, got wild for one night. The next morning, I was ready to make my graceful exit—until I saw the face on the pillow next to me. Blake. My childhood frenemy who'd been MIA for years, the same asshole who always said I'd "never learn to read people." Even worse? He had the audacity to come begging for dating advice on how to win over some girl. "Who's the lucky target?" I asked, forcing myself to sound casual. "Just a friend," he dodged. My mind immediately went to Sophia—that girl who'd been circling him since middle school with her not-so-subtle hints. *Of course he's still hung up on her.* So there I was, gritting my teeth while dispensing "female psychology" and "perfect pursuit strategies," when he suddenly took my hand and pressed it against his chest, "Don't you get it yet? Can't you figure out who I'm trying to pursue?" Maybe every love story starts with a complete disaster—but what if this mess is exactly where our story was meant to begin?