Table of Contents
The Boyfriend Effect
About the Book
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Epilogue
Next in This Series
Deleted Bonus Scene
Free Bonus!
Acknowledgments
The Boyfriend Effect
Copyright © 2020 Kendall Ryan
Developmental Editing by
Rachel Brookes
Copy Editing by
Pam Berehulke
Proofreading by
Virginia Tesi-Carey
Cover Design and Formatting by
Uplifting Author Services
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission of the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes only.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
About the Book
I’m not boyfriend material.
If a trail of broken hearts and a piss-poor record of failed relationships have taught me anything, it’s this. My buddies are happy to give me shit about my latest breakup from here to next Sunday. Thanks, but I’d rather have a root canal.
And a vasectomy.
At the same time.
Relief comes in an unlikely package—the gorgeous and feisty Maren. She just so happens to be my best friend’s sister, so that’s not awkward at all.
But I’m a man on a mission, and Maren is down to teach me all the ways I’ve been failing as a boyfriend. Apparently, there are many. And it’s all very informative—until I start to catch feelings.
Now it’s not just my reputation on the line, but my heart too.
1
HAYES
I’d like to tell you I have my shit together. That I have it all figured out.
But if you saw me standing here right now, on the sidewalk in my boxer briefs—for God and everyone to see—you’d know I’m totally full of shit.
My now ex-girlfriend stands on the balcony of her second-floor apartment, glaring down at me, dressed only in a peach-colored silk robe. Her hair is loose and her face is red with anger, but there are no tears.
“You bastard!” Samantha cries out and throws another armful of my clothing over the balcony. One of my socks gets stuck on a tree branch.
I grab my T-shirt from the sidewalk and tug it on. It’s May, but it’s still chilly in the mornings, and the cool air nips at my bare skin.
My shoes are thrown down next—one at a time. One bounces into the street, and I wait for a city bus to pass before I retrieve it.
I look back up at Samantha, bracing myself for what comes next. In her hands is my laptop bag. Fuck. Complete with my laptop, because I’d come here straight from work last night.
A few of the neighbors have stepped onto their balconies to see what all the noise is about. Swallowing my pride, I tip my chin at Mrs. Hendrickson from apartment 202 and smile. Her eyes widen in surprise.
“Jesus, Sam, be reasonable,” I call out.
My laptop bag comes sailing over the balcony next and lands with a loud crack on the sidewalk. There goes my laptop.
I have no fucking clue where this Samantha came from. She woke me up this morning with sex—seemed like a good sign, right? We’ve only been dating for two months, but I thought things were going well. Turns out, I don’t know shit about shit.
Maybe she wanted one last ride? Something to remember me by?
Fuck, I was so wrong.
I scrub my hands down my face.
“You’ll never commit,” Samantha says, her voice trembling with rage.
That’s not true. I’ve eaten the same brand of cereal for the past twelve years. I know a thing or two about commitment. But I decide now isn’t the right time to point this out to her.
After we had sex this morning, she curled up on her pillow, gazing at me with a soft expression. “Where do you think this is going with me and you?” She touched my chest, her fingertips tracing lazy circles on my skin.
I told her the truth, that I wasn’t sure but that I liked hanging out with her. Apparently, that was the wrong answer.
She sat up suddenly, tugging the sheet up with her to cover her naked chest. “That’s what you think this is? Hanging out?”
“No, of course not,” I said, instinctively backpedaling.
“I’m almost thirty, Hayes.” She squinted at me.
I’m almost thirty too, but I wasn’t sure what our ages have to do with anything.
“I want more,” she said, frowning. “A relationship. A real commitment. Marriage. Babies. A family.”
Things went south fast after that.
I’ve known her for two months, so I thought what we had was just casual. I haven’t even introduced her to my grandmother yet, who lives with me. Hell, Samantha has only been inside my apartment once. She’s never spent the night, a fact she reminds me of regularly with disdain.
Another neighbor peeks his head out of his window, a coffee mug in one hand, a yipping dog in the other.
Cars drive by, some slowing down to watch the drama unfold. I can’t say I blame them. This is certainly the most exciting way I’ve started a Friday morning in a long time.
Finally, my jeans are tossed over the balcony, and I rush to catch them. My cell phone is still in one pocket, miraculously intact. I tug on my jeans and shove my feet into the pair of Vans I rescued.
Without another word, Samantha marches inside and slams the sliding glass door.
Mrs. Hendrickson heads back inside too.
Show’s over, folks. Nothing more to see.
After snagging my laptop bag from the sidewalk, I head off down the street. I stop at the gas station on the corner and buy myself a shitty cup of coffee before I go find my car. Samantha’s neighborhood is in a bustling area of Chicago. There’s never any parking. But I got lucky last night, and my car’s only two blocks over. Wrapping a hand around the warmth of my cup, I head in the direction of my Lexus.
Once I reach my car, I chuck the laptop bag with my busted computer
