“Oh my god. Who that?”
I get asked this question a lot.
“Oh him?” I reply. “That’s just Ian.”
Just Ian is the biggest understatement of the century.
Just the Mona Lisa. Just the Taj Mahal. Just Ian, with his boring ol’ washboard abs and dime-a-dozen dimpled smile.
Just Ian is… just my best friend.
We’re extremely close, stuck so deep inside a Jim-and-Pam-style friendzone everyone at works assumes we’re a couple – that is until one day, word spreads through the teacher’s lounge that he’s single. Fair game. Suddenly, it’s open season on Ian.
He should be reveling in all the newfound attention, but to our mutual surprise, the only attention he seems to want is mine.
He’s turning our formerly innocent nightly chats into x-rated phone calls. Our playful banter sports a new, dangerous edge.
I want to assume he’s playing a prank on me, just pushing my buttons like always – but when Ian lifts me onto the desk in my classroom and slides his hands up my skirt, he doesn’t leave a lot of room for confusion.
I’m a little scared of things going south, of losing my best friend because I can’t keep my hands to myself. So, I’m just going to back away and not return this earth-shattering kiss – oh who am I kidding?!
Goodbye Ian, ol’ buddy, ol’ pal!
Helloooo mister not so nice guy.
Romantic Comedy
Talk about the kind of book you can’t help but inhale.ย You’ll laugh, you’ll swoon, and I promise you, NOT SO NICE GUY is impossible to put down. With her signature sense of humor and her quick-paced writing, R.S. Grey draws you into the irresistible story of two best friends secretly pining for each other.
Ian and Samantha are two school teachers whose lives are so entwined they are like an old married couple, inside jokes and rituals long established…butย sans the perks.
Everyone assumes they’re together, so when word gets out that Ian is actually single, everyone seems to start lining up for their chance at the science teacher with the washboard abs.
Suddenly, their friendship is upended and nothing is like before. Despite the enviable attention, Ian is pushing the boundaries of their relationship into dangerous territory.
It’s everything she’s ever wanted and it’s scaring her to death.
What if their relationship falls apart and she’s left without her best friend?
This charming, funny, fast-paced, friends-to-lovers romantic comedy should be read with your favorite cocktail in hand, devoured in a single sitting. It’s a weekend starter and a bad mood breaker… warm fuzzies and laughs guaranteed. I genuinely look forward to every R.S. Grey book release, because I know it’s the most fun, the most delicious kind of escape.
CHAPTER ONE
SAMANTHA
This morning, weโre having sex inside the army barracks again. Itโs hot and heavy. The enemy is advancingโwe might not make it out alive. Explosions rumble in the sky and in my pants. Iโm sweating. Ian started out wearing camo fatigues, but I ripped them off with my teeth. Thatโs how I know Iโm dreamingโmy mouth isnโt that skillful. In real life, Iโd chip a tooth on his zipper.
My alarm clock fires another warning shot. My waking mind shouts, Get up or youโre going to be late! I burrow deeper under my covers and my subconscious wins out. Dream Ian tosses me over his shoulder like heโs trying to earn a Medal of Honor and then we crash against a metal bunkbed. 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 doesnโt hurt. He grinds into me and the frame rattles. I scrape my fingers down his back.
โWeโre going to get caught, soldier,โ I moan.
His mouth covers mine and he reminds me, โThis is a war zoneโwe can be as loud as we want.โ
A staccato burst of machine-gun fire erupts just outside. Heavy boots begin stomping toward the locked door.
โQuick, weโll have to barricade it!โ I implore. โBut how? Thereโs nothing useful in here, just that standard-issue leather whip and my knee-high combat boots!โ
He hauls me up against the door and we lock eyes. The wordless solution suddenly becomes clear: weโll have to use our own writhing bodies as a sexy blockade.
โOkay, every time they kick the door, Iโm going to thrust, got it? On the count of three: one, twoโโ
Just as my dream gets to the good part, my phone starts blaring โIslands in the Streamโ 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.
โYeah yeah,โ I answer. โIโm already showered and heading out the door.โ
โYouโre still in bed.โ
Ianโs deep, husky voice saying the word โbedโ 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 Iโve never had the pleasure of feeling.
โDolly Parton this time? Really?โ I ask.
โSheโs an American treasure, just like you.โ
โHow do you even come up with these songs?โ
โI keep a running list on my phone. Why are you breathing so hard? It sounds like youโre over there fogging up a mirror.โ
Oh god. I sit up and shake off the remnants of my dream.
โI fell asleep to reruns of M*A*S*H again.โ
โYou know theyโve continued making television shows since then.โ
โYes, well, Iโve yet to find a man who titillates me like Hawkeye.โ
โYou know Alan Alda is in his 80s right?โ
โHeโs probably still got it.โ
โWhatever you say, Hot Lips.โ
I groan. Just like with Major Houlihan, that nickname annoys meโฆkind of.
I sweep the blankets aside and force my feet to the ground. โHow long do I have?โ
โFirst bell rings in thirty minutes.โ
โLooks like Iโll have to skip that 10-mile morning run I was planning.โ
He laughs. โMhmm.โ
I start rummaging through my closet, looking for a clean dress and cardigan. Our schoolโs 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.
โAny chance you filled up an extra thermos with coffee before you left the house?โ I ask, hopeful.
โIโll leave it on your desk.โ
My heart flutters with appreciation.
โYou know what, I was wrong,โ I tease, affecting a swoony lovesick tone. โThere is a man who titillates me more than Hawkeye, and his name is Ian Fletโโ
He groans and hangs up.
OAK HILL HIGH School is a five-minute bike ride from my apartment. Itโs also a five-minute bike ride from Ianโs 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 Dunkinโ 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, thereโs really no fighting my physiology at this point. Iโm 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 Iโm too hard on myself, but in the mirror I see knobby knees and barely-filled B cups. On good days, Iโm 5โ3โโ. I think I can shop at Baby Gap.
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 make it to school on time, I forgot to grab something for breakfast. Iโve become predictable enough that Ian has stowed snacks in and around my desk. I can pull open any drawer and find somethingโnuts, seeds, peanut butter crackers. Thereโs even a Clif Bar duct-taped under my chair. My arsenal is more for his own good than mine. Iโm the hangriest person youโve 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: Itโs the new blend you bought last week. Are your students teaching you new words again?
SAM: I heard it during carpool duty yesterday. Iโm not sure when to use it yet. Will report back.
โGood morning, Missus Abrams!โ my first student sing-songs.
Itโs Nicholas, the editor-in-chief for the Oak Hill Gazette. Heโs the kind of kid who wears sweater vests to school. He takes my journalism class very seriouslyโeven more seriously than he takes his crush on me, which is saying something.
I level him with a reproving look. โNicholas, for the last time, itโs Miss Abrams. You know Iโm not married.โ
He grins extra wide and his braces twinkle in the light. Heโs had them do the rubber band colors in alternating blue and black for school pride. โI know. I just like hearing you say it.โ The kid is relentless. โAnd may I just say, the shade of your dress is very becoming.
The red nearly matches your hair. With style like that, youโll be a missus in no time.โ
โNo, you may not say that. Just sit down.โ
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.
Heโs the AP Chem II teacher. He has a masterโs 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 stupidโSNL even spoofed itโbut it got a lot of interest in the science world, and his experience makes the students look up to him. Heโs the cool teacher who rolls his shirtsleeves to his elbows and blows shit up in the name of science.
Iโm 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, Nicholasโ mom, and our principal, Mr. Pruitt. Everyone assumes I fall into the โif you canโt do, teachโ category, but I actually like my job. Teaching is fun, and Iโm not cut out for the real world. Hard-hitting journalists donโt 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 โpuff piecesโ. I took it as a compliment. Who doesnโt like puffy things?
As it is, Iโm proud of the Gazette and the students who help run it.
We start each week with an โall-staff meetingโ as if weโre 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 Aโwhich, off the record, it is. Ian says Iโm a pushover.
Iโm talking to one of those students who falls into that second category now. I donโt think sheโs turned in one assignment since we got back from Christmas break. โPhoebe, have you thought of a story for next weekโs newspaper?โ
โOh, uhhโฆyeah.โ She pops her gum. I want to steal it out of her mouth and stick it in her hair. โI think Iโm going to ask around to see if the janitors are like, banging after hours or something.โ
โYou leave poor Mr. Franklin alone. Cโmon, what else you got?โ
โOkay, howโs thisโฆSchool Lunches: Healthy or Unhealthy?โ
Inwardly, I claw at my eyes. This type of exposรฉ has been done so many times that our schoolโs 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.
โThereโs no story there. The food isnโt healthy. We all know that. Something else.โ
There are a few snickers. Phoebeโs cheeks glow red and her eyes narrow on me. Sheโs annoyed Iโve called her out in front of the entire class. โOkay, fine.โ Her tone takes a sassy and cruel edge like only a teenage girlโs can. โHow about I do something more salacious?
Maybe a piece about illicit love between teachers?โ
Iโm so bored, I yawn. Rumors about Ian and me are old news. Everyone assumes that because weโre best friends, we must be dating. It couldnโt be farther from the truth. I want to tell them, Yeah, I WISH, but I know for a fact Iโm not Ianโs type.
Here are four times this has been made clear to me:
-He once told me heโs never imagined himself with a redhead because his mom has reddish hair. HELLO, MOST GUYS HAVE MOMMY ISSUES! LET ME BE YOUR MOMMY ISSUE!
-Heโs only ever dated tall broody model types with wingspans twice as long as mine. Theyโre like female pterodactyls.
-Weโre both massive LOTR fans and guess whatโSAM 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 post-pubescent Yule Ball Hermione. Cue quiet meltdown.