Have I mentioned how excited I am for this book? I’m sure I have. Multiple times. But just in case, I’ll say it again.
I AM SO FREAKING PUMPED UP FOR THIS FREAKING BOOK!
Phew. Now that that’s out of the way, how about an excerpt?
From the moment I peeled open my eyes this morning, I knew it was going to be a shit-tastic day. Why? Because it’s Thursday—which means tutoring with Brock day—which is comparable to hell on earth. I would literally rather get a root canal with no numbing than deal with his immature ass.
Accurate? Fuck yes.
I tripped and face-planted getting out of bed this morning. My flat iron crapped out on me. The tip of my favorite eyeliner snapped off, with no sharpener in sight. The load of clothes I’d tossed in the dryer last night was still fucking damp and smelled like a dirty sock. And to top it all off, I knocked over my coffee can, spilling the grinds to the floor, thus rendering me coffee-less on today of all days. So, here I am, dressed in a pair of ripped-the-fuck-up leggings, a lace bralette, and a shirt with the sleeves and sides cut out, rushing out the door loaded down with my crossbody backpack, keys, and empty Thermos.
I trudge out to my sweet-as-shit matte black ’69 Chevelle. No lie, this car is my baby. It was a gift from my grandpa—along with a generous trust—much to my parents’ chagrin. When they realized I wasn’t ever going to fit into the neat, well-mannered box they wanted to shove me into, they all but disowned me, going as far as shutting off my cell, canceling my credit card, kicking me out, and refusing to pay my tuition.
No lie. All because I wanted to go to Prewit U and double major in business and education, with a concentration in literacy, instead of following in the footsteps of the always-perfect Elenore Adams with an MRS degree. God, most people are proud of their children for having fucking goals. But my parents? They wanted me to become a luncheon-planning, tea-drinking housewife whose only ambition was to be able to fold a fucking fitted sheet.
Yeah, no thanks.
For obvious reasons, I was never daddy’s little girl. Nah, the only thing that asshole and I have in common is our deep, coffee-colored eyes.
My grandpa—my dad’s dad, mind you—is a whole ’nother story. I’ve always been a “grandpa’s girl.” From a young age, he’s been my person. The one human on this earth who loved me unconditionally. So, when dear old mom and dad cut me off, Gramps stepped up something fierce. Knowing how much it pissed off the parental units? Simply a bonus.
A smile replaces my frown as I crank the ignition, the deafening roar of engine sending a jolt of happiness through my body. There’s nothing better than the sound of good, old-fashioned, American muscle. Mmm, yes. Please.
Even though I’m short on time, I make a pit stop at the campus coffee shop and order two large lattes: a hot one for now, and an iced one for later. Because something—mainly my impending tutoring session with Jockstrap—tells me it’s gonna be a two-coffee kind of day.
Two classes later, and I’m free. Well, free until five o’clock, when I have to meet He Who Shall Not be Named. That leaves me with a measly forty-five minutes to kill…just enough time to grab a bite to eat before heading to hell.
With a full belly and armed with my third coffee of the day, I whip my Chevelle into an open spot in the library parking lot, shocked as shit to see Brock pulling into the spot next to me.
We exit our vehicles—his a big, shiny, jacked-up truck…probably overcompensating for his small dick. I take him in as he swaggers toward me; his dark hair is pushed back from his face and his baby blue polo shirt—free of any wrinkles—pops against his tanned skin and makes his blue eyes impossibly bluer. I can’t help but smirk when I see he’s paired said polo with charcoal-colored sweatpants and leather slip-on boat shoes.
“Get dressed in the dark?” I ask, unable to help myself.
My body heats as he drags his eyes all over me—until his mouth opens, ruining the moment. “Pot, meet kettle.”
Dammit. I totally opened myself up for that one, but still. His eyes lingered on the exposed skin from the cut-out sleeves of my shirt—what the hell AJ? Since when do you want Brock Larson checking you out? Snap out of it!
Brock moves in closer, running his knuckles over the hood of my car. “This looks just like your Gramps’s old ride.”
“That’s because it is,” I snap, marching toward the library.
Brock wastes no time and jogs to catch up. “Damn. You don’t gotta be so snippy, Abby Jane.”
Abruptly, I stop and spin to face him. “AJ,” I clip out. “AJ. That’s what I go by now. Two letters. Surely you can handle that.”
His chiseled face splits into a wide grin. This asshole is grinning at my reprimand. “You’ll always be Abby Jane to me.”