Chapter 1
COOPER
March 10 — Newport Beach, CA
The Day Before
I swear to God, if I have to hear his pathetic apology one more time, I’m going to lose it.
“Come on, baby, pick up. Please pick up. Talk to me. You know I love you, Coop. I never meant to hurt you… I fucked up. It’ll never happen again, I promise. Please… just come home.”
There’s a long pause. Then, his voice, softer, almost desperate. “Okay, well… I guess you’re not going to talk to me. I love you.”
The voicemail ends, and I delete it without a second thought—like a reflex I’ve developed after too many of these messages. Ugh! I’m tempted to chuck my phone into the ocean. I close my eyes and count to ten, just like my college therapist taught me, taking deep breaths to calm the simmering storm inside.
I stare at my feet as the waves wash over them. The cold water sinks my toes deeper into the sand, and the pull of the tide makes it feel like I’m surfing without moving at all—one of those small joys that never gets old.
I wiggle my toes, the sensation both invigorating and calming as I look up into the morning sky. A cool breeze brushes against my cheeks, and I can’t help feeling better—I almost smile. For a moment, the world is quiet.
This is just what I needed to clear my head—to feel something other than the shitstorm that is my life. In the jumble of confusion, one thing’s for certain—Newport Beach never gets old. I turn back toward my dad’s place, a two-story beach house with a patio that meets the sand.
God, I love it here.
I arrived a few days ago, taking a much-needed break from my boyfriend and all the shit I’m avoiding at home. Well, ex-boyfriend, technically. I broke up with him before I left. But he’s not getting the hint. His calls and texts keep pouring in, begging me to come home so we can “talk things out.” I’ve ignored every single one of them.
Back inside, I switch to autopilot—making a cup of coffee and adding my usual splash of creamer. Mug in hand, I head out to the patio where I’ll inevitably spend the next hour trying to relax while my thoughts have their way with me. At least I have a great view: the ocean, the sand, the runners—some of whom are very good-looking. I know I’ve only been “single” for a few days, but a girl can still appreciate the scenery.
Am I single?
I don’t even know the answer to that question—how pathetic.
I tuck myself into the corner of the outdoor sectional. Crossing my legs and turning toward the beach, I soak in the crisp morning air. I toss a blanket over my lap and, with coffee in one hand and my phone in the other, prepare to do absolutely nothing. Instagram beckons, but my attention shifts to the glaring notifications on my messages. Four unread texts. I scowl as I open them, already knowing they’re all from Brad.
Brad: Baby please, don’t do this.
Brad: Come on, you know me—I never meant to hurt you.
Brad: This is all a misunderstanding.
Brad: Cooper, if you don’t answer, I’m going to have to come to you. Don’t make me bring up things I know you don’t want to talk about.
The hell he will…
That last text has me typing back so fast, I don’t even think.
Cooper: Brad, stop calling and texting me. I’ll talk to you when I get back. You know we live together, so it’s not like you won’t see me. I just need space and time to think. Please respect that.
I stare at the screen, willing him to listen this time. But deep down, I know better. Brad always finds a way to get what he wants. I drop my phone face down beside me with a frustrated sigh. Wrapping both hands around my coffee mug, I stare blankly into the distance, letting the sound of the waves calm my anxiety. Minutes pass as I meditate—eyes open, breathing in and out, soaking in the stillness and the quiet.
Hell yes, here he comes.
A small smile tugs at my lips as the dark-haired hottie I’ve been eyeing the past few days jogs closer. This is the third morning in a row I’ve seen him. He’s shirtless—six-pack abs, tanned chest, the whole damn package. I try to play it cool, but I’m gawking, silently praying I don’t start drooling.
He looks my way and notices me—noticing him.
Smiling, he lifts a hand in a wave just as he’s about to pass. I try to act casual, raising my hand in return and doing some awkward finger flutter—quickly opening and closing all five fingers in some kind of idiotic attempt of a wave. His smile deepens before he turns his head back and runs past me.
Jesus, that’s a specimen.
I follow him with my eyes until he disappears down the beach. Now the real question is—do I stick around for his return lap?
The first time I saw him, he didn’t notice me. Yesterday, he smiled but kept running. Today, he smiled and waved.
Hey, it’s the little things right now. When you find out your boyfriend has been cheating… again—it’s these small moments you cling to. The hot guy running past your house, throwing you a wave—just a little spark of brightness in an otherwise dark, dreary hell.
Damn, it’s almost scary how happy that wave just made me. I’m not sure if I ever feel that kind of excitement with Brad anymore. And what’s worse is that I know I’ll go back to him. I always do. It’s a pattern I’ve fallen into. We fight, I run away for a week, then I come back. It’s like my body’s automatic response. He apologizes profusely, and I cave—not wanting to find a new place to live or risk him making things even harder for me. I know it’s unhealthy—none of my relationships have ever been normal. But the thought of leaving? I know how it goes. He twists things, making me question everything—my choices, my worth, my ability to leave. And maybe he’s right. I can’t fathom starting over, being alone, or finding out this really is as good as it gets. It terrifies me. So I stay, and eventually, we settle back into ‘normal.’
I used to be so in love with Brad—I’m not so sure anymore. There are definitely things I still love about him. He’s charming when he wants to be. We have fun playing pickleball or golfing on the weekends, and we still have incredible sex—it’s not all bad. He’s great at making me laugh when he’s not being an asshole, and we’ve built a life together. God, four and a half years—that’s gotta mean something. But lately, it’s harder to ignore the weight of this relationship pressing down on me.
I also work for Brad’s brother. He’s great, but that just makes everything more complicated. Ending things with Brad would mean changing every single aspect of my life. So, when Brad’s dick wanders and lands in another girl’s vagina, I let it slide—literally. Maybe it’s because I’m too weak, too lazy, or a combination of both, to do anything about it. Each time it happens, though, it’s like a tiny piece of me chips away. I tell myself I’m fine, that we’re fine, but deep down I wonder how many pieces of me remain before there’s nothing left to hold on to.
The first time Brad cheated, I cried—a lot. I lost my shit. I came out to Newport Beach to stay with my dad, intending to move here. I almost had the guts to pack up my life and leave. That was two years ago. But I went back to him. Then, four months later, it happened again. I cried that time too, but not as hard. He talked me back within four days.
It’s strange—the more it happens, the less I recognize myself. I didn’t even cry this time. I was pissed… but no tears. I told him to go to hell and that we were finished, then angrily packed a bag and walked out. But I know myself better—and unfortunately, so does Brad.
My dad interrupts my self-loathing thoughts. “Hey love-bug, how’s your morning?” He takes a seat across from me, coffee in hand.
“It’s good, Dad. Feels great out here. I miss the ocean.”
He doesn’t know about me and Brad. I’d never tell my parents that he cheated on me. It’s embarrassing enough without them trying to micromanage how I handle it. Knowing my parents, my mom would tell me to leave, and my dad would probably give Brad a high-five—two peas in a pod. But then so are me and my mom. And I hate that I’m like her.
“Well, you know I’d never talk you out of moving here to be closer to me and your sister,” he says with a wink.
“I know, Dad. Wish I could.”
He smiles. “I know. You’d never leave your mom alone in Chicago. You’re a good daughter. Are you and Casey still going out tonight?”
“Yeah, she’s meeting me at Tipsy for drinks.”
Casey’s my older sister, and best friend. We’ve always been close, and she’s the only one who knows the whole story with Brad. I tell her everything. After graduating from college, she moved here to be close to Dad and the ocean. Now she lives in Huntington Beach with her husband, Greg, and my adorable two-year-old nephew, Mason.
“I’m glad you girls are going to get some time together,” Dad says, taking a sip of his coffee. “Well, I’m off to work. Have fun tonight, kiddo. Tell Brad I say hi.” He walks over, bends down to kiss my forehead, and heads toward the door.
“Okay. Bye, Dad. Have a good day.”
The door slides shut behind him, and I turn back to my people-watching, scanning the beach for some more eye candy.
* * * * * ? * * * * *
“Maybe you can all be a throuple,” Casey says, taking a sip of her spicy margarita. “Who is this broad anyway? Do you even know her?”
“No clue. I don’t even know what she looks like. And a throuple? Hard pass. I don’t see how bringing another woman into the bedroom benefits me.” I raise my brows. “But… if Brad wanted to throuple with that hottie runner guy I was telling you about, now that’s something I could get on board with.” I laugh, sipping heavily on the last of my margarita, swirling my straw to get every last drop. “Damn, mine’s all gone. You down for another?”
Casey and I are sitting against the edge of the patio at Tipsy, a rooftop bar on top of a fancy hotel in Newport Beach. String lights hang above, casting a warm glow over the sleek seating areas and fire pits.
“I better not. I’m already pushing the limit. Mason’s been waking up at the butt-crack of dawn lately, and I’m exhausted.” My sister tucks a piece of hair behind her ear as she digs in her purse, pulling out some lip gloss. She applies a coat and hands it to me. “Want some?”
“Sure.” I’m wearing a black long-sleeved shirt with a deep V-neck, tucked into flowy white pants, so the little pop of pink will look great. I take it and press it to my lips, careful not to let the coastal breeze blow my long blonde hair into it.
“Hi, ladies, sorry to interrupt, but these are from the gentleman at the bar.” The cocktail server sets down two more spicy margaritas, and I grin from ear to ear.
“Ha! Now you have to stay and drink it. It’d be rude not to,” I snark, grabbing my margarita and glancing at the bar, grateful for guys dumb enough to think buying a woman a drink is a ticket to getting laid.
“Fine, I’ll have one more,” Casey says, as I lock eyes with the predator.
“Oh my God !” I blurt out, whipping my head back to Casey. “It’s him,” I squeak.
“It’s who? What are you talking about?”
“The guy at the bar. It’s the hottie runner.” Casey starts to turn, but I grab her arm. “No, don’t look! God, that’s so obvious.”
“Oh my hell, calm down. I can be sly,” she says, practically shifting her whole body toward the bar. “Which guy is it?”
“The one that’s fucking hot!” I snap, completely losing my cool.
“I don’t see a hot guy, Coop. Your standards must be getting low after being with Brad for so long.”
Casey’s never been subtle about her disapproval of Brad.
“What?” I glance back at the bar, but he’s gone. “What the hell? Where did he go?” I scan the rooftop anxiously until I spot him in a lounge chair, sitting around a rectangular fireplace with a group of people. “There!” I motion with my head toward him. “The one on the end, facing us, in the white shirt and black jacket.”
My heart pounds as I lock eyes with him, a jolt of adrenaline shooting through me. He’s staring right at me with a smoldering smirk. Damn, he’s sexy.
“Oh wow. Yeah, he’s a hottie for sure,” Casey says as she waves at him.
“Oh my… What? Why are you waving at him?”
“Because he saw me looking at him! I panicked and didn’t know what else to do.”
“Jeeeesus, Casey.” I sink back into my chair, crossing one arm across my stomach and using my other hand to cup the side of my face, blocking my view as if it can somehow shield me from the humiliation.
I casually glance in his direction, and he’s still staring, arms crossed, with a confident smile. He gives a subtle nod, cool and collected, before turning his attention back to his group.
“Shit, it’s hot out here,” I mutter, shifting uncomfortably in my chair. “Is it hot out here?” I grab my drink and take three too many swallows.
Casey giggles. “Calm down, you’re fine. Just hot and bothered is all.” She mouths something to him and gestures toward me with her head.
“What are you doing?” I hiss in a panic.
He starts to stand.
He begins to walk in our direction.
“Oh, would you look at that?” Casey says, grabbing her phone. “Greg just texted me. I have to go—he needs help with Mason.” She rushes to stand.
“What are you… what the fuck, Casey? Don’t leave me here!”
She’s already halfway up before she leans in close, whispering, “You should fuck him, Coop. Get back at Brad.”
“You’re dead to me!” I whisper-yell as she whisks away, practically running into Hot Guy.
“Oh, sorry. Excuse me,” she says to him. “I have to leave. She’s all yours,” she adds, waving her hand in my direction.
I. Am. Dead. Seriously, someone kill me now. My foot taps a million beats per minute and my stomach feels like it’s in my throat.
I force an awkward smile as he approaches. “Hi… I’m sorry,” I stammer. “That’s my sister. She clearly doesn’t get out much.”
He chuckles. “Can I sit?”
I gesture toward the now open chair. “Be my guest.”
Hot guy settles into the chair across from me. “I’m Ryan. Ryan Brooks,” he says, extending his hand confidently across the small bistro table.
“Cooper Bradley,” I reply, taking his offered hand and giving it a firm shake.
A smile tugs at his lips. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Cooper.”
Finally meet me. Ahh—so he’s been checking me out too. “Nice to meet you, too.” He lets go of my hand, and suddenly, I’m a mess of nerves. Calm down, he’s just a guy. I’ve done this a hundred times—it’s just… been a while.
Before I know it, my mouth betrays me. “I wasn’t named after Bradley Cooper, by the way. I was born before he was famous.”
What am I doing?
“My parents love his movies, but yeah… not named after him. I get that a lot…” I say as I clear my throat. “That, and people are always surprised I’m a girl, when they meet me.”
Oh my God. Stop talking.
“Not in person,” I quickly add. “Only when they know my name first, and then meet me. They always think I’m going to be a dude.”
Yep, still going, sinking the ship faster than it can flood.
“My sister has the same problem.”
He doesn’t care about your sister or your goddamn name.
“Her name is Casey.” I nod, as if that will fix this. “Casey and Cooper Bradley—two sisters who look like brothers on paper.”
Holy Jesus fuck.
I reach for my margarita like it’s a lifejacket on this sinking ship, sucking down half the glass in one desperate gulp. All the while, he’s watching me unravel like some girl who’s never spoken… to anyone. Great. Just great.
He chuckles, takes a sip of his beer, and licks his lips. “Well, I’m not named after anyone famous, either.” His eyes lock onto mine, amusement dancing in them, like he’s trying not to laugh at how nervous I am. They’re a beautiful light green, and the mix of humor and intensity in his gaze sends a flutter straight to my stomach. “You know,” he says, leaning in a bit, a teasing smile playing at his lips, “I didn’t expect someone as gorgeous as you to be so…”—he pauses, searching for the right word—”nervous.” His smile widens. “But it’s nice. Most people try so hard to act cool, but you’re just… you know, you.”
I laugh. “Oh, so you don’t think I’m cool?” I ask, raising an eyebrow, my nerves settling slightly.
He laughs. “No, that’s not what I mean. You’re definitely cool. It’s just…” He pauses, his expression softening, like he’s realizing something. He grips the back of his neck, looking a little sheepish. “God, I’m sorry. I suck at this. I’m rusty as hell. Please don’t take offense at my terrible attempt to flirt with you.”
“Oh, that was flirting?” I ask, teasing. I’m actually stunned. He’s flirting with me? Did he just hear everything I said? No sane person could witness that disaster and stick around for more. So his only goal here must be to get laid. And I am not going home with a rando from the bar, no matter how hot he is.
“Like I said… out of practice.”
“Did you just get out of a relationship or something?” I secretly hope I’m not the only one here in uncharted waters.
“Something like that,” he says, his eyes drifting down my body a little too obviously. “You know, I half-expected you to tell me to go to hell when I came over here. You’re way better looking than I am.”
All I can do is laugh. This guy’s clearly never looked in the mirror because he’s a ten out of ten. “Is it too late to tell you to go to hell?” I ask, jokingly.
He grins. “Never. Is that what you want?”
I contemplate, looking him over. My God, he is so hot. And I know what’s under that shirt. His body… I stop myself. We are NOT sleeping with this guy .
I shake my head. “No. I don’t think so…” There’s a beat of silence as we assess each other. “Honestly, I’m surprised you haven’t jumped ship yet. That introduction of mine was bru-tal. ”
He chuckles. “I don’t know if it was worse than what I just said.”
I stare at him until we’re both laughing. “Wow, Ryan. You’re bad at flirting and lying.”
“Hey, I thought it was cute. Just shows you’re human, and there’s nothing sexier than that.”
“Well, if you thought that was sexy, let’s just hope you’re not around long enough to see me bake. You’ll be on your knees proposing, turned on from all my humanness. ”
His smile reaches his eyes, and it’s pathetic how fast my heart is beating. The way he looks at me feels different from the usual way men gawk at me—almost like he actually sees me. Like he genuinely wants to talk to me. Or maybe it’s because I’m just desperate to feel wanted right now. Even if it’s temporary.
My sister’s words echo in my head: “ You should fuck him, get back at Brad. ” Suddenly, it doesn’t seem like such a terrible idea. An image of Brad with some other woman, one I’ve built up in my mind to look like a twenty-seven-year-old Gisele Bündchen, flashes before me. They’re all over each other, lips locked, clothes hitting the floor, Brad whispering in her ear about how sexy she is. My fists clench at the thought. Ugh. Fuck him. Maybe he needs to feel what it’s like. I shift in my chair. Why the hell not? And let’s face it—there are worse guys I could use to get back at him.
If I’m doing this, I’ve got to bring my A-game. It can’t be easy to close a guy like Ryan. He could literally pick any girl here to take back home with him, and they’d all feel like the goddamn chosen one.
Sure, I’m a little out of practice, but I can do this. I need this. I’m tired of feeling like shit. Tired of Brad. Tired of everything. This isn’t about love or connection. I gave up on that a long time ago. I just want to feel good—get out of my head, lose myself in something… someone. Sex is one thing I know I’m good at—it’s easy—it’s all I have to give right now. And Ryan’s already interested—he came to me.
His gaze moves down, lingering just a second too long on my chest. My pulse quickens. Yep, that’s all me, buddy. A smirk tugs at my lips as I see him subtly readjust himself. He obviously likes what he sees. My stomach flutters, a mix of nerves and excitement swirling inside me. This could be really fun. It’s not even about getting back at Brad, not entirely. It’s about proving to myself that I still have control over something—that I’m still desirable, even if just for one night. I get to choose the narrative. For once, I decide how my story goes.