Page 1 of Your Last First Kiss

CHAPTER1

DILLON

SIX MONTHS AGO

“You’re fired.”

Of course, that’s not exactly what my childhood friend, Ashton Westbrook, said as he sat in my chair, smiling like this should all make sense to me. What he actually said was that he wants to diversify his investments. He wants to invest in my future since I won’t, and when the time comes, he may have an opportunity for me that’s a better fit than Envision.

What he meant was, I’m fired.

Or I will be.

Sort of. I don’t think you can actually fire a partner. But if he walks from the company, he wants to take me with him. I just don’t understand why.

That’s not entirely true, though, is it?

Sometimes I wish I could put a muzzle on that voice in my head.

At thirty-nine years old, I live a comfortable—if boring—life, and the company he wants to break into pieces is my cornerstone. Leaving it would mean starting over, and the asshole won’t give me a single goddamned detail to make the decision myself.

I haven’t really made many decisions for myself in years though. Why the fuck do I care now?

Grabbing the down comforter with more force than necessary, I drag it over my head to drown out that voice and to keep the frigid air away from my skin.

It’s the middle of summer in Manhattan, but my air conditioning is run by a demon. It’s so damned cold that my breath puffs like smoke in the air when I get out of bed in the morning. Then I step outside and sweat my balls off before I even get to the car.

I hate it here.

But I understand it here.

Everyone keeps to themselves and minds their own business. If you fall on the street, chances are three out of four people will step right over you.

Harsh but true.

New York is where you go to hide in plain sight.

Rolling over, I peel the covers back just enough to squint into the room right as the automatic timer pulls the blinds open to reveal another hazy day. Summer in Manhattan is like Satan’s asshole. Hot, cramped, and full of too many people willing to sell their souls.

My alarm goes off next. I bury my head deeper into the pillow but hear the front door open, followed by the closest thing I have to a best friend calling for me from the entryway.

“Get up, asshole. I’m ready to play,” Ryder says.

I kick back the covers with a groan. In the kitchen, metal clatters and drawers slam. I place my feet on the floor and immediately lift them again. The hardwood is like a block of ice. Gritting my teeth, I lower them again because I’m not a fucking toddler and stand to a serenade of crackling and popping. It’s my body’s way of saying it hates me as I enter my bathroom to brush my teeth.

Ryder calls my name, but I ignore him as I pull on the gym shorts I tossed over the side chair that no one ever sits in, then walk into the kitchen to find him filling two to-go mugs of coffee.

“You look like shit,” he says without looking up.

“Great. Thanks for the commentary.”

I follow him to the entryway and open the closet door to grab my basketball sneakers. I fucking hate Mondays.

* * *

“Why are you fighting this?”Ashton asks from across the court. He’s dribbling the ball way too high, and I wave my hands, trying to get him to pass it to me before it gets stolen. Again.

Too late.