Best Friends Don't Kiss

  Best Friends Don’t Kiss

  Published by Max Monroe LLC © 2020, Max Monroe

  All rights reserved.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Editing by Silently Correcting Your Grammar

  Formatting by Champagne Book Design

  Cover Design by Peter Alderweireld

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Author’s Note

  Dedication

  Intro

  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

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Epilogue

  Preview of Tapping the Billionaire

  Intro

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Acknowledgments

  Important Warning: This book contains the following triggers: mentions of hot chocolate and cookies that may induce cravings, enough holiday spirit to turn any Grinch into a Christmas lover, hilarious cameos from our OG Billionaires (cough Thatch cough) that may encourage a reread of the Billionaire Bad Boys Series, and last but certainly not least, downright lovable best friends turned sexy lovers that may encourage you to want to do something crazy like try to kiss your best friend.

  Best Friends Don’t Kiss is a full-length romantic comedy stand-alone novel.

  At the end, we’ve included an excerpt from Tapping the Billionaire, the first hilarious romantic comedy stand-alone from our best-selling Billionaire Series.

  Now that you know all of this very important information, mind the triggers (or, maybe, don’t mind the triggers and pour yourself a big ole cup of hot chocolate before diving in), and don’t lose your holiday spirit when Best Friends Don’t Kiss concludes at around 90%. As far as we know, Santa Claus doesn’t bring gifts to Grinches. ;) ;)

  Also, due to the hilarious and addictive nature of this book’s content, the following things are not recommended: reading in public places, reading while pretending to work in your cubicle, reading while eating and/or drinking, reading while operating heavy machinery, and reading during your (or your children’s/spouse’s) Zoom meetings.

  Happy Reading!

  All our love, Max & Monroe

  To our readers: We don’t care what other authors try to say, YOU are the most beautiful, funniest, smartest, most amazing, best readers in the whole wide world.

  Thank you for reading our books. We love you.

  To all of our enemies: We will destroy you.

  Ha. We’re kidding. Seriously. We won’t destroy you. We hate confrontation.

  We’re, like, the epitome of that lovers not fighters saying.

  How about you just go ahead and like us…?

  Please?

  We’re really nice girls.

  To robots: We think you’re pretty cool, but you guys aren’t, like, going to try to take over the world, are you? Let us know.

  Ava

  When I was four years old, I wanted to be a cat.

  A tabby, to be specific. Something about their sleek lines made it seem like they had secret powers, and for a girl with no siblings—yet—it seemed like the kind of thing that would give me a cool gang of feline friends.

  At six, I wanted to be Joyce, the lady at my mom’s favorite supermarket who sat by the candy rack and scanned people’s groceries. I was convinced she snuck Twix bars when no one was watching, and I didn’t think she had to listen to a baby cry all day like I did. My sister Emily had just landed in the nest, and man, she was an annoying little bird.

  By the time I turned seven, I’d moved on from admiring Joyce’s independent lifestyle to thinking babies were kind of cute after all. Emily was learning all sorts of new things, and I loved lording over her and playing teacher. Maybe that was my destiny.

  It wasn’t until I was eight, however, that I found my true calling—art.

  Painting, to be exact.

  Secret Twix were great and all, but they couldn’t let the pressure of emotion out of my soul or give me a sense of purpose I’d never felt before. With every stroke of the paintbrush, I knew more and more—I wanted to be an artist. Not for work or for pleasure or anything with a defined set of lines. I wanted to smear my passion outside of them—to live and breathe the one thing that made it feel like I didn’t need a street gang of cats to back me up.

  So, I did.

  From then on, for the last ten years, I’ve almost always had a paintbrush in my hands or a sketchbook in my lap. I’ve dared to dream of big things, worked toward them endlessly, and now, I’m seeing the fruits of all of my dedication realized.

  Today is my first day at Columbia University as an art major.

  I feel great. Accomplished. Proud. And I also feel the closest I’ve felt to winding up the Inspector Gadget phone and getting the leader of the Cat Crips on the line since I was four years old.

  I need street-tough stray kittens, and I need them now.

  I know the whole reason I’m standing here on the precipice of something new and terrifying is because my art is worthy. It got me into Columbia.

  But it’s not uncommon for creative personalities to struggle with self-deprecation.

  Take van Gogh, for example. The man cut off his freaking ear.

  I don’t think that was the result of internal criticism, but it certainly proves that every artist has their struggles, and I can’t think of a better example.

  Probably because most artists internalize any toxic emotions about their craft until their organs rot rather than acknowledge that the thing that sustains them is also slowly killing them because there’s so much pressure to do better and be better with every creation.

  I can totally imagine being van Gogh, living in poverty all his life while struggling to connect his art with the masses and finally just thinking, “Fuck it. I’m cutting off my ear.”

  And then he freaking dies, and that’s when everyone comprehends how great he is.
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br />   No doubt, I have to get over my proverbial stage fright because I’d say I’m getting the better end of the struggle deal. I have both of my ears, and Columbia, by accepting me for admission, has acknowledged my work well before I bite the big one.

  I open the last moving box and pull out a plethora of randomness—half-filled sketchbooks, a coffee cup full of pens, paintbrushes, a few blank canvases, picture frames filled with photos of my parents and my two younger sisters, Kate and Emily, a bag of assorted makeup that I’m pretty sure has reached its expiration date, and a pair of dusty old flip-flops that look like they’ve seen better days.

  Truthfully, messy might as well be my middle name. I sit on the queen’s throne of “just toss all my crap into boxes and get this show on the road.”

  I glance out the window of my new dorm room, and realization hits me—my life has seriously changed.

  Yesterday, I moved from Lakewood, my small Vermont hometown, to one of the biggest, most populated cities in the world—New York. And tomorrow, I will officially be a freshman in college.

  Instead of suburban landscapes, I see skyscrapers and taxicabs and sidewalks filled with people. Instead of one coffee shop within a twenty-mile radius, there’re at least twenty coffee shops within three blocks of me.

  Birds chirping and the sounds of nature have been replaced by the hustle and bustle of a big city with an even bigger and brighter spirit.

  Hot damn, Ava. You did it.

  With a stupid smile plastered on my face, I open my laptop and hit play on my favorite mood-boosting iTunes playlist—a mix of oldies but goodies that remind me of my dad’s love for music from the fifties, sixties, and seventies—and just as the Foundations croon about Buttercup, I find a place for the pens, brushes, canvases, sketchbooks, and pictures on my shelf and toss the makeup and flip-flops where I should have left them in the first place—in the garbage.

  Still, for the first time since I got here, I glance around the room and take in how different my side looks compared to my new roommate Desi’s.

  Truthfully, her small half of our dorm is pristine in its organization, and it looks likes Kate Spade and Martha Stewart got drunk and threw a freaking housewarming party before I arrived yesterday morning.

  My side, on the other hand, is this weird, eclectic but definitely chaotic mix of art and prints and patterns that don’t really match.

  Either Desi and I are going to get along splendidly, or halfway through the year, we’ll be the subject of a true-crime docuseries.

  Fingers and toes crossed it’s the former.

  When my stomach growls, I glance at the clock and see its already nearing ten in the evening. With my new roommate nowhere to be found and no other acquaintances to speak of, I’m not sure I’m ready to venture out into the big city at night all by myself. Since nourishment is now my main priority and the options within the walls of this room are limited, I pull out my hidden hot plate from my closet and plug it into an outlet behind my desk.

  Per Columbia University’s rule book, hot plates and coffeemakers are a big no-no, but according to my dad, that’s just a ploy to get everyone to spend too much money at their various food and beverage vendors scattered across campus.

  It’s capitalism at its finest, folks, he says.

  I don’t know about all that, but what’s the worst that could happen with a hot plate? Hot soup?

  A microwave would make things easier, though…

  I make a mental note to buy one behind my dad’s back in the next couple days, pop open a can of Campbell’s vegetable soup, pour it into a small pot, and get it cooking on the hot plate.

  It’s practically scientific fact that my sad excuse for a dinner is going to take a little while to heat up, so I grab my laptop and plop down on my bed to scroll through my emails.

  There are a couple of spam subjects about enlarging my penis, so I skip over those to the first legitimate email.

  Let me tell you, it is hardly any better.

  My great-aunt Lily from my dad’s side of the family has a knack for the strange and unusual, and today, it comes in the form of showcasing random photos of her vegetable garden to our entire family. Ever the opportunist, her sister Poppy takes that odd but innocent message and drives it at a speed of ninety miles an hour onto Dirty Mind Lane.

  Re: Fresh Vegetables!

  Good Lord, Lil, why are you sending us pics of Don’s penis?

  -Poppy

  Re: Re: Fresh Vegetables!

  Don’s penis? What are you talking about, Poppy?

  -Lily

  Re: Re: Re: Fresh Vegetables!

  Honestly, he’s bigger than I expected. Veiny too. Isn’t it Jewish practice to circumcise? Were his parents big on taking a religious stand or something?

  -Poppy

  Re: Re: Re: Re: Fresh Vegetables!

  THAT IS A SWEET POTATO, YOU SICKO.

  -Lily

  I tilt my head to the side and examine the photo in question. Aunt Lily has one hell of a green thumb, but her photography skills have never exactly been good. Frankly, it looks like she used an actual potato to take the photo.

  And that sweet potato does look disturbingly phallic-shaped…

  I snort and keep reading, thankful neither of them has managed to figure out the difference between Reply and Reply All. Honestly, this is better than watching Laguna Beach.

  Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Fresh Vegetables!

  It looks like Don’s penis.

  -Poppy

  Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Fresh Vegetables!

  I think I know what Don’s penis looks like a little better than you do, Poppy! And it does NOT look like Don’s penis.

  -Lily

  Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Fresh Vegetables!

  Fine. Someone else’s penis, then. Are you cheating on Don?

  -Poppy

  Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Fresh Vegetables!

  POPPY. STOP IT.

  -Lily

  Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Fresh Vegetables!

  Imagine how I feel. Drinking my morning coffee. Scrolling through emails. And being forced to see your pool boy’s sausage.

  -Poppy

  My late grandma Lucie’s sisters’ relationship revolves heavily around Poppy doing everything she can to rile her sister up. It’s maybe not the healthiest thing I’ve ever witnessed, but I kind of hope it never ends. Though, just like all good things—including this email thread—I imagine it will have to at some point.

  Real messages eventually sorted, I scroll back up to the top of my inbox to delete the spam before backing out of my email entirely and moving on to something else.

  Facebook—a new website for college kids to connect with one another—is all anyone in my senior year of high school could talk about, and since I’m officially in college, I was invited to start my own account.

  So far, I only have a handful of friends on here, but when I log in to my profile, I spot a little red icon that indicates new friend requests.

  I take a swig of water as I click on it and, upon reading it, promptly spew a mixture of H2O and spit everywhere.

  You have a new friend request from Callie Camden.

  Holy shit. Callie freaking Camden.

  Her superficial smile and perfectly made-up face stare back at me from her profile picture as I wipe spittle off every neighboring surface and the front of my shirt. It’s a bad idea—I can see it from a mile away—but I can’t stop myself from clicking on her name and scoping out her account.

  It’s almost impossible to believe we used to be best friends in elementary school.

  She pouts her lips and makes devil’s horns in front of our high school football field, her psycho-cheerleader persona ever important in the popularity-driven appearance of her profile picture.

  I scroll down her newsfeed to the notification of a new status and read through it with poorly concealed distaste.

  CoLLeGe oRiEnTaTiOn LOLZ

  The photo attached shows her wearing a scrap of
clothing barely big enough to cover her nipples and holding up a red Solo cup while a party rages behind her.

  I roll my eyes at the expected cliché. Honestly, this photo fits perfectly with the million and one annoying memories I have of her from high school.

  For four years, Callie and her bitchy groupies Carrie and Connie—otherwise known as The CiCi’s—made it a point to let me know they thought they were better than me. Prettier than me. More popular than me. Blah, blah, blah.

  So far, I can’t see that she’s making any effort to change.

  With a middle finger flipped toward her stupid face, I ignore her friend request—because, no thanks, I prefer to keep my distance from satanic prom queens—but with nothing better to do, I can’t stop myself from spying on her profile a little more.

  Photos of her totally awesome summer and her totally hot boyfriend Kyle. Posts about how much she loves her totally amazing dorm room at the University of Vermont.

  Basically, everything is just totally perfect in Callie Camden’s life.

  Gag me.

  Without delay, I click out of her phony profile and start to check up on a few of my actual friends from high school, but I don’t get very far before I catch a dancing red and orange glowing light out of the corner of my eye.

  My neck spasms as I jerk my head in the direction of the aura, and my eyes widen so far, they test the constraints of my lids.

  Holy Shit! My hot plate is on fire!

  I haven’t even officially started college yet, and I’ve already set my dorm room on fire while my roommate Desi is out for the night at some frat party? And I thought my messy tendencies would be the thing to put her over the edge.

  This can’t be happening!

  “What the hell do I do?” I screech into the void.

  I try like hell to remember anything I’ve learned about fire safety in as few seconds as possible, but when all I can come up with is Stop, Drop, and Roll, full-blown panic sets in.