“I think I’ll manage,” he says confidently, grasping my hand firmly so he can start to lead me toward the stairs.

  “All right, well, before every excursion I like to make sure my guests are prepared physically,” I tell him. “There are no injuries I should know about?”

  “None whatsoever,” he replies seriously.

  “And equipment wise? What are you packing?” I look pointedly down at his crotch to emphasize my double entendre.

  He barks out a laugh, and then—even though we’re still in plain sight of everyone—he leans down and presses a swoon-worthy kiss to my lips.

  “What in the world am I going to do with you?” he asks as he pulls back.

  I smile innocently up at him. “Oh . . . I don’t know. Love me for a lifetime?” I respond lightly.

  His mischievous gaze says, All right, Paige. Game on.

  Don’t miss another full-length standalone romantic comedy from USA Today bestselling author R.S. Grey

  Read on for an excerpt from Not So Nice Guy

  Chapter One

  SAMANTHA

  This morning, we’re having sex inside the army barracks again. It’s hot and heavy. The enemy is advancing—we might not make it out alive. Explosions rumble in the sky and in my pants. I’m sweating. Ian started out wearing camo fatigues, but I ripped them off with my teeth. That’s how I know I’m dreaming—my mouth isn’t that skillful. In real life, I’d chip a tooth on his zipper.

  My alarm clock fires another warning shot. My waking mind shouts, Get up or you’re going to be late! I burrow deeper under my covers, and my subconscious wins out.

  Dream Ian tosses me over his shoulder like he’s trying to earn a Medal of Honor, and then we crash against a metal bunk bed. Another indication that this is a dream is the fact that the fleshy part of my butt hits the corner of the bunk, yet it doesn’t hurt. He grinds into me, and the frame rattles. I scrape my fingers down his back.

  “We’re going to get caught, soldier,” I moan.

  His mouth covers mine, and he reminds me, “This is a war zone—we can be as loud as we want.”

  A staccato burst of machine-gun fire erupts just outside. Heavy boots begin stomping toward the locked door.

  “Quick, we’ll have to barricade it!” I implore. “But how? There’s nothing useful in here, just that standard-issue leather whip and my knee-high combat boots!”

  He hauls me up against the door, and we lock eyes. The wordless solution suddenly becomes clear: we’ll have to use our own writhing bodies as a sexy blockade.

  “Okay, every time they kick the door, I’m going to thrust, got it? On the count of three: one, two—”

  Just as my dream gets to the good part, my phone starts blaring “Islands in the Stream” by Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton. Cool ’80s country pop serenades me at max volume. There are synthesizers. I groan and jerk my eyes open. Ian changed my ringtone again. He does it to me every few weeks. The song before was another silly throwback tune by two old kooks.

  I reach out for my phone and bring it beneath the covers with me.

  “Yeah, yeah,” I answer. “I’m already showered and heading out the door.”

  “You’re still in bed.”

  Ian’s deep, husky voice saying the word bed does funny things to my stomach.

  Dream Ian is blending with Real Life Ian. One is a hunky lieutenant with arms of steel.

  The other is my best friend, whose arms are made of a metal I’ve never had the pleasure of feeling.

  “Dolly Parton this time? Really?” I ask.

  “She’s an American treasure, just like you.”

  “How do you even come up with these songs?”

  “I keep a running list on my phone. Why are you breathing so hard? It sounds like you’re over there fogging up a mirror.”

  Oh god. I sit up and shake off the remnants of my dream.

  “I fell asleep to reruns of M*A*S*H again.”

  “You know they’ve continued making television shows since then.”

  “Yes, well, I’ve yet to find a man who titillates me like Hawkeye.”

  “You know Alan Alda is in his eighties, right?”

  “He’s probably still got it.”

  “Whatever you say, Hot Lips.”

  I groan. Just like with Major Houlihan, that nickname annoys me . . . kind of.

  I sweep the blankets aside and force my feet to the ground. “How long do I have?”

  “First bell rings in thirty minutes.”

  “Looks like I’ll have to skip that ten-mile morning run I was planning.”

  He laughs. “Mm-hmm.”

  I start rummaging through my closet, looking for a clean dress and cardigan. Our school’s employee-wardrobe requirements force me to dress like the female version of Mr. Rogers. Today, my sundress is cherry red and my cardigan is pale pink, appropriate for the first day of February.

  “Any chance you filled up an extra thermos with coffee before you left the house?” I ask, hopeful.

  “I’ll leave it on your desk.”

  My heart flutters with appreciation.

  “You know what, I was wrong,” I tease, affecting a swoony lovesick tone. “There is a man who titillates me more than Hawkeye, and his name is Ian Flet—”

  He groans and hangs up.

  Oak Hill High School is a five-minute bike ride from my apartment. It’s also a five-minute bike ride from Ian’s house. We could make the morning commute together, but we have drastically different morning rituals. I like to roll the dice and push the limits on my alarm clock. It thrills me to sleep until the very last second. Ian likes to wake up with the milkman. He belongs to a gym, and he uses that membership every morning. His body-fat percentage hovers in the low teens. I belong to the same gym, and my membership card is tucked behind a beloved Dunkin’ Donuts rewards card. It leers out at me each time I make a midday strawberry frosted run.

  Those barbaric contraptions at the gym intimidate me. I once sprained my wrist trying to change the amount of weight resistance on a rowing machine. And have you seen all the different strap, rope, and handle attachments for the cable machine? Half of them look like sex toys for horses.

  Instead of subjecting myself to the gym, I prefer my daily bike rides. Besides, there’s really no fighting my physiology at this point. I’m a twenty-seven-year-old woman still riding the wave of pretend fitness that comes naturally with youth and the food budget of a teacher. The only #gains in my life come from binge-watching Chip and Joanna Gaines on Fixer Upper.

  Ian says I’m too hard on myself, but in the mirror I see knobby knees and barely filled B cups. On good days, I’m five foot three. I think I can shop at babyGap.

  When I make it to school (ten minutes before the first bell), I find a granola bar next to the thermos of coffee on my desk. In my haste to get to school on time, I forgot to grab something for breakfast. I’ve become predictable enough that Ian has stowed snacks in and around my desk. I can pull open any drawer and find something—nuts, seeds, peanut butter crackers. There’s even a Clif Bar duct-taped under my chair. My arsenal is more for his own good than mine. I’m the hangriest person you’ve ever met.

  When my blood sugar drops, I turn into the destructive Jean Grey.

  I scarf down the granola bar and sip my coffee, firing off a quick text to thank him before students start filing into my classroom for first period.

  SAM: TY for breakfast. Coffee is LIT.

  IAN: It’s the new blend you bought last week. Are your students teaching you new words again?

  SAM: I heard it during carpool duty yesterday. I’m not sure when to use it yet. Will report back.

  “Good morning, Missus Abrams!” my first student singsongs.

  It’s Nicholas, the editor-in-chief for the Oak Hill Gazette. He’s the kind of kid who wears sweater-vests to school. He takes my journalism class very seriously—even more seriously than he takes his crush on me, which is saying something.

  I level him with a reproving look. “Nicholas, for the last time, it’s Miss Abrams. You know I’m not married.”

  He grins extra wide, and his braces twinkle in the light. He’s had them do the rubber band colors in alternating blue and black for school pride. “I know. I just like hearing you say it.” The kid is relentless. “And may I just say, the shade of your dress is very becoming. The red nearly matches your hair. With style like that, you’ll be a missus in no time.”

  “No, you may not say that. Just sit down.”

  Other students are starting to file into my class now. Nicholas takes his seat, front and center, and I avoid eye contact with him as much as possible once I begin my lesson.

  Ian and I have drastically different jobs at Oak Hill High.

  He’s the AP Chem II teacher. He has a master’s degree and worked in industry after college. While in grad school, he helped develop a tongue strip that soothes burns from things like hot coffee and scalding pizza. Seems stupid—SNL even spoofed it—but it got a lot of interest in the science world, and his experience makes the students look up to him. He’s the cool teacher who rolls his shirtsleeves to his elbows and blows shit up in the name of science.

  I’m just the journalism teacher and the staff coordinator for the Oak Hill Gazette, a weekly newspaper that is read by exactly five people: me, Ian, Nicholas, Nicholas’s mom, and our principal, Mr. Pruitt. Everyone assumes I fall into the “If you can’t do, teach” category, but I actually like my job. Teaching is fun, and I’m not cut out for the real world. Hard-hitting journalists don’t make very many friends. They jump into the action, push, prod, and expose important stories to the world. In college, my professors chastised me for only churning out puff pieces. I took it as a compliment. Who doesn’t like puffy things?

  As it is, I’m proud of the Gazette and the students who help run it.

  We start each week with an “all-staff meeting,” as if we’re a real, functioning newspaper. Students pitch their ideas for proposed stories or fill me in on the progress of ongoing work. Most everyone takes it seriously, except for the few kids who sought out journalism for an easy A—which, off the record, it is. Ian says I’m a pushover.

  I’m talking to one of those students who falls into that second category now. I don’t think she’s turned in one assignment since we got back from Christmas break. “Phoebe, have you thought of a story for next week’s newspaper?”

  “Oh, uhh . . . yeah.” She pops her gum. I want to steal it out of her mouth and stick it in her hair. “I think I’m going to ask around to see if the janitors are, like, banging after hours or something.”

  “You leave poor Mr. Franklin alone. C’mon, what else you got?”

  “Okay, how’s this . . . ‘School Lunches: Healthy or Unhealthy’?”

  Inwardly, I claw at my eyes. This type of exposé has been done so many times that our school’s head lunch lady and I have worked out a system. I keep students out of her kitchen, and in return, I get all the free Tater Tots I want.

  “There’s no story there. The food isn’t healthy. We all know that. Something else.”

  There are a few snickers. Phoebe’s cheeks glow red, and her eyes narrow on me. She’s annoyed I’ve called her out in front of the entire class. “Okay, fine.” Her tone takes a sassy and cruel edge like only a teenage girl’s can. “How about I do something more salacious? Maybe a piece about illicit love between teachers?”

  I’m so bored, I yawn. Rumors about Ian and me are old news. Everyone assumes that because we’re best friends, we must be dating. It couldn’t be further from the truth. I want to tell them, Yeah, I WISH, but I know for a fact I’m not Ian’s type. Here are four times this has been made clear to me:

  He once told me he’s never imagined himself with a redhead because his mom has reddish hair. HELLO, MOST GUYS HAVE MOMMY ISSUES! LET ME BE YOUR MOMMY ISSUE!

  He’s only ever dated tall broody model types with wingspans twice as long as mine. They’re like female pterodactyls.

  We’re both massive LOTR fans, and guess what—SAM IS THE BEST FRIEND, NOT THE LOVE INTEREST.

  Oh, and then of course there was that one time I forced myself to dress up as slutty Hermione (his weakness) for Halloween and tried to seduce him. He told me I looked more like frizzy-haired Hermione from the early years and less like postpubescent Yule Ball Hermione. Cue quiet meltdown.

  Ian and I became friends three and a half years ago, close to 1,300 days, if some loser out there were keeping count. Upon accepting teaching positions at Oak Hill, we were placed in the same orientation group. There were fifteen new hires in total, and Ian immediately caught my eye. I can remember the first time I saw him, recalling specific, random details more than anything: how big his hands looked holding our orientation handbook, how tan he was from summer vacation, the fact that he towered over the rest of us. My first thought was that he should have been incredibly intimidating, what with the sharp blue eyes and short, slightly wavy brown hair. But he cut away the pretense when he aimed a smile at me as our eyes locked over the crowd of new teachers. It was so disarming and easygoing, but most importantly, it was seriously sexy. My heart sputtered in my chest. He was the boy next door who’d grown into a man with a chiseled jaw and solid arms.

  He was wearing a black T-shirt I focused on as he made his way toward me through the crowd.

  “You’re a Jake Bugg fan?” he asked. “Me too.”

  I responded with a poorly executed “Huh?”

  His Crest smile widened a little farther, and he pointed down at my shirt. Oh, right. I was wearing a Jake Bugg concert T-shirt. We struck up polite conversation about his last US tour, and I kept my drool in my mouth the entire time. When it was time to get started, he asked if I wanted to sit with him.

  For a week straight we endured instructional videos about sexual harassment and workplace protocol together. While choppy VHS tapes from the ’90s played on a rolled-in TV stand, Ian and I passed cheeky notes back and forth. Eventually, we just pushed our desks together and kept our voices barely above whispers as we got to know each other. We had so much to talk and joke about. Our words spilled out in rapid fire like we were scared the other person would go up in a poof and disappear at any moment.

  We didn’t pay attention through the entire orientation, but the joke was on us.

  They gave us a test at the end of the week, and we both failed. Apparently, it was an Oak Hill first. The test is ridiculously easy if you paid the least bit of attention. We had to retake the orientation class, and our friendship was cemented through the shared embarrassment and shame.

  At the end of the second week, we celebrated our passing scores with drinks—Ian’s idea. I tried not to read too much into it. After all, we were both inviting plus-ones .

  That’s when I met the girl he was dating at the time: a gazelle-like dermatologist. At the bar, she regaled us all with interesting stories from the exam room.

  “Yeah, people don’t realize how many different types of moles there are.”

  She gave me unsolicited advice, such as “Due to your fair skin, you really ought to be seeing someone for a skin check twice a year.” She, by the way, didn’t have a visible pore or freckle on her. When we both stood to use the bathroom midway through the evening, my inadequacies multiplied. Our size difference was obscene. I could have fit in her pocket. To anyone watching, I looked like the preteen she was babysitting for the night.

  The only silver lining was that I had her check out the smattering of freckles on my shoulders while we were waiting for the stalls to open up. All clear.

  At the time, I was dating someone too. Jerry was an investment banker I’d met through a friend of a friend. This outing was only our third date, and I had no plans to continue seeing him, especially after he droned on and on about Greek life back at UPenn.

  “Yeah, I was fraternity president my junior and senior year. HOO-RAH.”

  Then he proceeded to holler his fraternity chant for the entire bar to hear. I think he thought it was funny, but I didn’t feel like I was in on the joke. I wanted to press a red button and exit through the roof. Ian’s eyes locked with mine over the table, and it felt like he knew exactly what I was thinking. He could tell how uncomfortable I was, how much the situation made me squirm. We both proceeded to fight back laughter. My face turned red with exertion. He had to bite his lip. In the end, I caved first and had to excuse myself to go to the bathroom again so I could crack up in private.

  Ian’s date later told him she was concerned I had an overactive bladder.

  By the time lunch rolls around at school, I’m ready for a break. My journalism classes are interspersed with on-level senior English classes. It’s not my favorite part of the job, but it’s the only way Principal Pruitt can justify keeping me on full time. The students in these classes are already checked out, blaming their late homework and poor quiz scores on senioritis. I type the illness into WebMD to prove it isn’t a real thing.

  They don’t look up from their cell phones long enough to listen.

  Most of them wouldn’t be able to pick me out of a lineup.

  Last week, one kid thought I was a student and asked for my Snapchat.

  Ian doesn’t have this problem. His classes are filled with overachieving nerds, the kids who’ve already been accepted to Ivy League schools but still feel the need to take twenty-seven AP classes. Most of them intimidate me, but they treat Ian like he’s their Obi-Wan.

  “Tell us more about the tongue strip, Mr. Fletcher!”

  “Bill Nye’s got nothin’ on you, Mr. Fletcher!”

  “I wrote about you in my college admissions essay, Mr. Fletcher. I had to pick the one person who’s inspired me to pursue learning the most!”

  I sit down for lunch in the teachers’ lounge and puff out a breath of air, trying to move the few strands of hair from my forehead. They are evidence that I’ve tugged at my ponytail in distress too many times this morning.

  Ian slides into his designated seat across from me, and his positive energy clogs the air between us. It could also be his delicious bodywash.