Love Notes: A Rivals Series Prequel

by Lawson, Piper

  Love Notes

  A Rivals Series Prequel

  Piper Lawson

  Love Notes

  A Rivals Series Prequel

  When Tyler Adams knocked on my door, he was a broken prince with a wicked smile. A god with a guitar.

  I don’t trust musicians, but he was different.

  At seventeen, I offered him my home, my life, my heart…

  …He stole them all.

  From USA Today bestselling author Piper Lawson comes an emotional new adult forbidden romance series. LOVE NOTES is a 15,000-word prequel to the new Rivals trilogy.

  1

  Annie

  "Pen, there’s a giant cupcake on my head." I stare in fascination at my bedroom mirror.

  "Super hot," my friend insists through my cell phone.

  My once-over starts with my green-and-white striped tights and frilly dress and ends on the stuffed cupcake I found in the kids’ toy section at a thrift store and stitched onto my hairband. The mutant pink pastry lists drunkenly every time I move.

  “The goal isn’t to pick up. It’s to win this costume contest. But I’m starting to think this eighties toys concept was bad judgment.”

  The highlight of Carly’s birthday party, to which the entire junior and senior classes are invited, is the costume contest. The queen bee’s minions go around like maniacal elves with bingo dabbers, stamping people to eliminate them until only one is left standing.

  “One of us could win. Imagine how good it would feel,” Pen presses. “I get that when one of Carly’s dickwad friends does, there’s a halo effect for the rest of the year. The cool get cooler and all that. But what do you think would happen if one of us won?”

  “A glorious reprieve,” I say immediately. “No more shit rained down from the top.”

  I don’t need to be cool, but I’d settle for not being hated on for the remaining five months of junior year.

  Fitting in has always been tough for me, even before transferring into private school. I have a handful of friends—thank fuck for Pen—but I’d rather spend my weekend volunteering than shopping. I read too many books by dead people for fun. And I definitely don’t use my family name to get special treatment.

  Though it’s hard to avoid.

  Still, in another year and a half I’ll leave for college and make my own place in the world.

  It can’t come soon enough.

  Pen’s voice brings me back. “What if we go to this party and you meet some undiscovered hottie who’s been flying under everyone’s radar—”

  “And has a thing for toys from two decades before we were born?”

  I turn sideways and tug on the skirt, frowning into the mirror. This dress looks way shorter on my five-eight than it did on the rack.

  “He’d be tall and smoking hot and drive a classic car instead of some Porsche off the line and keep his mouth shut except to make you very, very happy.”

  I finger the lace edge of my skirt and bite my lip. “Sold.”

  But the chances of any guy like that showing up at Oakwood are slim to none.

  The boys that stalk those halls are loaded and entitled. Every one I’ve met has had more money than decency. So I’ve stopped holding out hope for someone I can be myself with.

  My phone buzzes with a text.

  Dad: Come downstairs. There's someone you'll want to see.

  Must be Pen, anticipating I might be having second thoughts about the costume and coming in person to head me off at the pass. The girl’s intuitive, I’ll give her that.

  I turn off my music and head down the stairs toward the front door, phone still pressed to my ear as my cupcake bobs from side to side.

  The front door's open, and I stalk outside. "The tights are fine, but this headband is going to decapitate—”

  I stop so fast my cupcake lurches forward, ripping the entire headband off my head and bouncing on the slate in front of me.

  There’s no Penelope in sight.

  There is, however, a guy on a motorcycle, dressed in dark jeans and a black leather jacket.

  In my haste to retrieve the cupcake headband, I drop my phone.

  “Fuck!”

  It tumbles down the steps, landing at the feet of the guy on the bike.

  He's tall with square shoulders, and as he shifts off the bike, he removes his helmet and shakes out his hair. It's straight and longer at the front, so dark it's nearly black, with a chunk of blue in the front. It falls across a face that’s all sharp angles and long planes.

  I’m still staring at him as he retrieves my phone from the bottom of the steps and straightens.

  The hazel gaze that locks on mine fills with amusement as Pen's voice streams from the phone. "A? What's going on?"

  "Pen, I gotta go." My voice sounds far away, even to me. I take the offered phone and click off.

  Even though the guy’s taller than me, I'm a step above him, so we're nearly level. Adrenaline spikes through me as I blurt, "Hi."

  "Hi."

  If his looks are any indication, his voice should be rough. It’s not. It’s smooth, with enough dark undertones you want to ask him to recite his morning coffee order just so you can experience the word “cream” vibrating through you.

  “Nice cupcake,” he murmurs.

  His lips are strongly defined, though the bottom one curves as if there’s softness in him.

  My stomach flutters, as if I want to find out. “Thanks.”

  We live at the top of a long, winding driveway on a gated ten-acre lot outside Dallas. Physics says there’s no way the guy in front of me could literally suck the air from the countryside.

  The tightness in my chest disagrees.

  "What are you wearing?" My dad's words from somewhere behind me jerk me back.

  The urge to smooth down the springy pink tulle skirt over my tights is useless since my hands are full of phone and cupcake, but I turn to meet his perplexed gaze at the top of the stairs. "It's a costume for Carly's birthday party."

  “Harley Quinn?” he guesses.

  “No, it’s not Harley Quinn.” Though that’s better than “pink zebra,” which the judges also would’ve accepted.

  In jeans and a T-shirt, my dad barely looks old enough to have a teenaged daughter. I guess he almost is.

  Jax Jamieson has four platinum albums, a rare ability to write extraordinary songs and perform them in a way that makes it impossible to look away, and the kind of money that makes my classmates’ CEO and investment banker parents look broke.

  He was a legend before he hit thirty, at which point he claims he retired. “Retired” means he runs a music foundation for kids from troubled backgrounds, does a handful of promotional spots each year, and invents endless home renovation projects around our gated estate.

  "I told you Tyler was coming to stay with us for a while to work on his music,” Dad goes on.

  “You didn’t say it was happening today,” I point out. In fact, when he mentioned it, it had sounded more like a “maybe someday” thing. If my dad took half the opportunities and requests sent to him, he’d never be home.

  "Come on, Annie. You’re acting like we’re not friends."

  My name on those firm lips strokes up my spine, works at the knot of tension between my shoulders as I spin back to face the driveway.

  That deep voice lowers as if it’s for my ears only, and a teasing note of familiarity slips in. “We used to mess around at your dad’s recording studio in Philly. Monopolize the hot tub at his hotel. Pursue epic quests to find the best cheese fries in town.”

  I cradle the cupcake in my arms the way he's holding the helmet.

  I want to say, I haven’t seen you in almost a year. I texted yo
u. I wrote to you.

  But either my dad standing behind us, or my pride makes me resist.

  I take in the duffel back strapped to the bike. "Is that all you brought? Where's your guitar?"

  "I shipped it. The rest of my stuff should get here tomorrow."

  "Tyler!" my stepmom exclaims from behind me.

  “Haley. Shit.” Tyler’s voice fills with awe. “Is that…?”

  “Sophie,” she supplies, smiling at the baby tucked into her arms. Her dark hair is extra shiny in the sun.

  “You guys did good. Can I hold her? Later, once I’m clean.”

  Tyler’s request has my stomach flipping in a not-unpleasant way.

  "Of course. The pool house is ready for you,” Haley says, warm and welcoming and oblivious to my inner turmoil before turning to take in my outfit. "You’re going to Carly’s party as Strawberry Shortcake! I love it."

  "How'd you know?" my dad demands.

  Haley winks. "I need to put this one down for a nap. See you all for dinner.”

  She kisses my dad, patting him on the cheek as she pulls back before he does. She’s the only person who could do it without losing a hand.

  When she's gone, Dad says, "I'll give you the codes for the pool house and the garage. Let you get settled."

  “Thanks.” Tyler’s gaze lingers on me as my dad heads down the steps toward the massive garage that houses his Bentley, a black Corvette, Haley's Volvo, and the Audi Dad bought me for my birthday. "Guess I’ll catch up with you later.”

  The questions are burning me from the inside. I want to know why he’s here. How long he’s staying. Why the one person I could talk to about this crazy life stopped answering me when my world rocked on its foundations eight months ago.

  But my dad’s watching, so instead of demanding answers, I let Tyler go.

  For now.

  2

  Annie

  There’s no right way to call your friend back to apologize for dropping her and explain that there’s a hot guy staying in your pool house.

  But I try.

  Her million questions spin in my head, but most of them I can’t answer.

  The rest, like what happened the last time I saw Tyler…

  I’m not ready to.

  They circle my head as I change out of the costume and into jean shorts and a tank top. As I get my books ready for school tomorrow. As I go down for dinner, noticing every square foot of the multimillion-dollar mansion.

  Despite how long I’ve lived here, it doesn’t quite feel normal. I never met my birth mom growing up, and my dad never talks about her. He got custody when I was still a toddler, and while Dad was touring, I was raised by my aunt and her husband in a modest house with a modest lifestyle.

  At the time, they’d decided it would be simpler if I didn’t know Jax Jamieson was my father. He flew me and Aunt Grace to concerts a couple of times a year, where I sat in the front row and screamed for “Uncle Jax.”

  I don’t know when they’d planned to tell me, but it wasn’t when I overheard them talking when I was ten. At that point, there was some turmoil between Grace and her ex-husband, and Jax decided he wanted custody.

  Since then, things have been up and down, at least until my dad and Haley’s wedding last summer.

  I shove those thoughts away.

  On paper, I have everything I could want: a huge, crystal-clear pool I swim in daily, a brand new Audi my dad bought me for my birthday last summer.

  But sometimes I wonder what I’m doing in this family.

  I don’t have my dad’s one-in-a-million talent. I don’t have Haley’s relentless focus, her ability to turn ideas into real things that people need.

  All I do is feel.

  And most of the time, I feel way too fucking much.

  As I head for the kitchen, Sophie’s bassinet coming into view between the cavernous kitchen and living room, I hear my dad talking to Haley in hushed tones. “He’s here to work, Hales. Nothing’s going to happen.”

  “They were friends, Jax. What do you expect?”

  My breath hitches as I pause out of sight.

  “I expect if something happens, he’s out, and he knows it.”

  I count to three before making my presence known.

  “Where’s Tyler?” I ask Haley, taking note of the three place settings at the table.

  “He took a rain check on dinner, said he had a lot of things to get ready for tomorrow.”

  I look out the glass doors toward the pool house. “What’s happening tomorrow?”

  “He’s going to Oakwood. With you.”

  My head whips between my dad and my stepmom. “Where was I while all this got decided?”

  My dad shrugs as if I’m being deliberately obtuse. “It came together fast. We haven’t decided how long he’s staying, but it’ll be at least a couple of months. Oakwood agreed to let him in for the time being so he doesn’t miss any school.”

  Which means my dad went to the headmaster, who probably broke every rule to keep him happy.

  “Trust me, this was news to me also,” Haley says with a narrowed gaze at my dad. “I adore Tyler, but there might have been a better time to have him here than when we have a two-month-old.”

  “He’ll follow the rules and take care of himself. He’s eighteen, Hales. I was cutting records at that age.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Yes. And I’m sure everyone you worked with would agree you were a dream.”

  I can’t hold in the snort that earns me a side-eye from my dad.

  My stepmom’s under thirty, and she’s not a supermodel or an actress. She founded her own coding company and she has one foot in music and the other in science and seems to move effortlessly from one world to the other.

  They’ve been together since before I learned my dad was my dad, and he’s totally whipped for her.

  “Annie, do you want to take Tyler his uniform for tomorrow?” she asks. “It just arrived.”

  “Sure.” I grab the garment bag lying across the back of a chair before my dad clears his throat and looks pointedly at the three plates on the table. “I had a big lunch. Don’t wait for me.”

  I head through the sliding doors and out to the patio.

  It’s an oasis of stone, slate, flowers, and water. My sanctuary.

  It’s possible to forget everything happening at school.

  I pad in my flip-flops across the stone, my way lit by tiny lights that glow like fireflies around the curved edge of the pool and larger ones surrounding the base of the trees in the lush gardens.

  The pool house is bigger than the house I grew up in, and typically it’s empty.

  Normally I’d hit the code for the door, but today I knock.

  “Tyler?” I call, pushing the door open when there’s no answer.

  I step inside, scanning the spacious interior.

  There’s a pull-out couch, a couple of chairs, a TV, a bar, and a bed that folds down from one wall. Off the far side is a huge en suite bathroom. There’s also a changing room and bathroom accessible from outside for guests at the pool.

  Tyler emerges from the bathroom, and my attention flicks from his wet hair, curling at his neck, to the tight black T-shirt he’s tugging down over ripped abs, to the sweatpants that hug his hips and my mouth dries.

  Tyler Adams was always good-looking. But one of the advantages of time, of distance, is that you see someone with new eyes. The boy I remembered is a man. He's tall and gorgeous, and his easy way of being in the world has transformed into something more, a confidence and self-assuredness that lingers in the air.

  “Haley asked me to bring your clothes for school.” I hold up the garment bag like a shield.

  “Thanks.”

  He crosses to me, arms that are more muscled than I remember folded across his chest.

  “I’m guessing your dad didn't tell you I was coming."

  “He said you might visit and work on your music. But I heard nothing from you, so apparently he told me more than you did.”<
br />
  His hazel eyes brighten. “What if I’d called? Said, ‘Hey, Annie, I’m moving into your pool house because your dad offered to work with me.’”

  “I would’ve said, ‘What the fuck are you talking about?’”

  “Exactly.” His tone makes it clear he thinks that’s the end of this conversation.

  Maybe I’m overreacting.

  I felt like he abandoned me this year, but he didn’t know what was going on for me.

  I never told him point blank.

  He’s here now.

  I push past him and hang the garment bag in the closet. “Transferring into senior year will be hard. You have to get your class schedule and—"

  His throat clearing has me looking back to find he’s holding up a sheet of paper.

  I grab it and inspect his schedule. "Ugh. He's the worst. She's okay. We have first-period English together.”

  “You’re taking senior classes?” Surprise colors his voice. “I knew you were smart, but this is overachiever territory.”

  “I like a challenge.” I reach for the navy blazer and hold the hanger in front of me. “Your favorite color.”

  Tyler runs a hand through his hair, lingering on the blue chunk in mock horror. “Shit. It’s too matchy. I knew it.”

  I laugh. If there’s one person who doesn’t give a fuck, it’s him. “I’ll grab bleach from the laundry room for your hair.”

  Tyler turns away and lifts his arms. I slide the coat off the hook and help him into it, resisting the urge to let my hands settle on his strong arms before I round to face him.

  Oh, my.

  The air vacates my lungs for the second time today.

  I’ve never lined up for preppy boys, but Tyler makes it look good.

  Maybe because the way he fills out the jacket makes it clear he hasn’t spent a day behind a desk in his life. There are no internships at “Daddy’s company” in his future. His hands are calloused and capable, his jaw angled as if he’s ready for a fight.