You’re the One I Don’t Want
Carrie Aarons
Copyright © 2018 by Carrie Aarons
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Editing done by Proofing Style.
Cover designed by Okay Creations.
For CMK.
This has been the hardest, most rewarding, most incredible time in my life, and it’s all because of you.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Carrie Aarons
One
Annabelle
“This carpet looks like baby poop. It is awful.”
I sniff haughtily at the air, trying to make sure that said carpet doesn’t also smell like baby poop. I have no idea why someone would choose this color to don the floor of their bedroom, and I’ve never been one to placate people for the simple courtesy of kindness.
“Anna!” Ramona smiles through her teeth while fear of pissing off the clients widens her eyes. “What she means is that this color doesn’t exactly complement your color palette. I think we could go with more of a mauve or a gray, and it would bring out the tone of the room much better.”
Sure, that was the nice way of putting it. But no one would ever use the word nice to describe me. After hand-holding and reassuring the homeowners for another five minutes, while I stand there taking notes on her design ideas, Ramona pulls me aside by the audio equipment.
“Anna, honey, you know I love your eye. And your honesty. But … we run a family TV show here. You have to tone down the cynicism a bit.” Her eye twinkle as she winks at me.
I shrug. “You love me because I say the things you can’t. People love my dry honesty. And plus, this carpet really does look like baby poop.”
Ramona, her blond hair waving around her shoulders, hoots out a laugh. “Where did you learn such confidence? I wish I was half as sure about myself when I was your age. And … you’re right. This is an awful carpet. Which is why it will be so fun to redesign this house.”
My boss, a woman on her way to forty who dresses like a hippie and completely pulls it off, pats me on the shoulder and walks over to her husband, the other star of the show. Their foreheads press together as she looks over the tile samples he’s picked, and my heart surges with jealousy and admiration.
Sometimes, I still can’t believe I work so closely with the two biggest stars of the Flipping Channel. An entire channel dedicated to interior design and rehabbing homes, Ramona and James Hart have been the darlings from the start, with their wildly popular show Hart & Home. I’d applied to be a production assistant on the show in my freshman year at Austin and had been hired. From there, I’d done everything possible to get in front of Ramona and James, to make them see how much better my design eye was than the people they were paying to consult on projects.
My big break had come on a rustic farmhouse, not unlike the one my grandparents had owned when I was a child. James couldn’t figure out how to preserve the hundred-year-old wood that had been used to construct the outside of the house. After researching, and talking to both my father and Harper’s grandma, who was technically my step-grandmother now, I’d given him the tip of hand-scraping the old layer of paint off, and then re-painting and staining it.
He’d listened, and then made me help the crew who hand-scraped the paint off. It took days, carefully stripping that wood, but it had finally made them take notice of me.
And now, I’m their right-hand girl. I’m on every weekly episode, and I’m kind of living in my own fifteen minutes of fame. I even have a blue check mark next to my name on Twitter and Instagram.
But Ramona is wrong about one thing. I’m not confident, and I sure as hell have no idea who I am. Ever heard of the phrase, “fake it till you make it?” That is me in a nutshell. I’ve been that way since my mother left us when I was ten years old, stomping through life like an in-the-flesh Regina George, demanding to have her way with the world.
I’m a bitch on the outside so that no one can see the mess I am on the inside. It’s not a new story, it’s not even a particularly interesting one. But it does earn me both hilarious memes and vitriol on social media, so I guess I am kind of getting what I want.
I’d hitched my wagon to Ramona and James’ in the hopes that one day, I would be the most successful and respected interior designer in the country, and maybe even the world. So far, as a second-semester college junior, I was more than on track. Most days, I looked in the mirror and repeated my goals and dreams to myself. Because really, they were all I had. My spite and drive were the things that fueled me.
Everyone who had ever counted me out, or left me hanging, would see how great I could become.
“Hey, Anna, come over here and tell me what you think of these, huh?” James motions me over.
The male part of my boss team was thick and broad, a former linebacker in college, he was prematurely graying. But, like all men, age only made him look dapper. His once-muscled figure still kind of dipped and curved in the right way, and his hair color added some wisdom.
He held backsplash tiles for the kitchen since we were going to rip out the horrible peach-colored rose design that donned this couple’s breakfast nook. One was gray, another a traditional white subway pattern, and the last was a navy paisley that seemed a little high-class for the homeowners.
But in the end, I point to the navy. Everyone should feel upscale in their own home, even if someone had to pick classy options for them.
James’ phone buzzes as Ramona takes a sip of her coffee. “Gah, this is cold. Can I get a new cup, please?”
A production assistant rushes forward to take her travel mug, and I smirk. That used to be me, not so long ago. Look how far I’ve risen in such a short time. Take that, naysayers.
“No crap! This is awesome.” James is still looking at his phone.
“What’s that, babe?” Ramona rubs her husband’s back. Even after four kids and countless years together, they’re still so in love it makes me want to gag at times.
“Our ball team drafted the rights to an awesome outfielder wi
th a swing that could rival Babe Ruth’s! Shit, we’re going to be so good in a couple of seasons.”
The mention of baseball sets my teeth on edge. I may have been a cheerleader in high school, but sports were not my thing. Especially since most of the guys who played any one of them were complete jackasses.
“What’s his name, baby? Maybe we can congratulate him on the feed. We love to support Texas!” Ramona already had her phone out, ready to tweet to her four million followers.
James reads his phone again. “Uh … the kid’s name is … oh here it is, Boone Graham.”
My stomach drops out. Completely plummets to my feet. That name rolling off of his lips blindsides me so hard, it’s like I’ve been hit upside the head by a freight train.
I wobble to the right, using the side of the production van to steady myself. My throat is dry, and even though it’s only fifty-six degrees, my entire body starts to sweat.
I broke Boone Graham’s heart, once upon a time. We haven’t spoken since I betrayed him. And now, he was coming home.
Two
Boone
For some reason, I never thought I’d ever go back to Texas.
I know it was a stupid thought for me to even harbor, because the place is in the continental United States, and eventually, I would have probably passed through or had to come home for a visit. But I truly put this place out of my head when I left all those years ago.
The humidity blasts me in the face as I walk out of the automatic airport doors, and even though it’s probably in the fifties and it’s only January, this is a far cry from the below ball-freezing temps of Pennsylvania.
When I’d gotten accepted to Penn State my senior year of high school, I’d counted down the days until I could get out of Haven. That place had built me, and then one singular action by a nightmare of a woman crushed me. Scratch that, she was a girl. No one that spiteful and immature could ever be called a woman.
But I’d always thought I would stay on the East Coast. My future was bright, I was talented enough and had the work ethic to make it to the majors. That much had been clear since the time I was about twelve and my hitting clicked into place.
I thought that Pennsylvania had been the place for me. And it had been. I liked the cold temperatures, the no-nonsense attitudes of the people who lived there. I liked the quick wit and sharp tongues of East Coasters, and that no one let you too close and you could feel free to do the same. I’d gone in as a true freshman, won a championship my first year out. I’d planned to get drafted there, play for one of the big cities.
And then I’d gone in the first round of the draft. To a farm team just one level under the biggest franchise in Texas.
Texas was in your business from the start. Everyone wanted to know your business and your mama’s business. Texas had a smile on its face and a knife behind its back. They might serve you a warm peach cobbler and sweet tea, but don’t be surprised if there was poison in both. Texas was slow and sensual, far too sneaky for my liking.
I pull at the collar of my button-down and suit jacket, annoyed that my agent insisted I wear a three-piece on the flight. But as I near the chauffeur with a sign that reads Boone Graham in typed letters, I send my agent a silent, begrudged thank you. Because there are about a dozen reporters standing next to the car I’m about to make a dive for, all asking questions at the top of their lungs.
“Boone, welcome to Austin. What do you think of the franchise you’ve been drafted into?”
“Boone, I’m with Her Austin Life. Tell our readers, do you have a girlfriend?”
“What are your feelings on being drafted first, over skill players like Johnston and Hydro?”
“Do you think you’ll measure up in the majors?”
Words bombard my ears, and all I want to do is cover them and duck my head under the in-flight neck pillow now attached to my luggage, but they’d for sure write about that so I refrain.
I like the franchise and am honored that they drafted me with their top pick.
I don’t have a girlfriend, thank God.
Being drafted first leaves a lot of expectations, which I hope I can measure up to.
And speaking of measuring up, it’s the one thing I’ve been worried about the most. Can I compete with this caliber of players?
But I don’t say any of this. Instead, I get into the car, giving the driver a quick nod of thanks as he takes my bags and makes quick work of getting us out of this clown show.
The feeling sinks in, those anxious goose bumps I’ve been getting ever since my name was announced on national television. I’ve dreamt of this day, have dug my heels in and done the work. I know that the hard work is only just beginning, both on and off the field, but a part of me feels fulfilled for having made it this far.
And yet … I’d thrown out the one condition I had to my new team and the owners who had such faith in me. I needed to hold a degree in my hand before I’d step out onto the field and play ball for them. Because of my baseball schedule and the wrench getting drafted had thrown into my education, I was in my fifth year of school. But thankfully, I am going to graduate at the end of it. Most anyone who heard that clause in my contract would think I was absolutely insane. There were athletes striving, killing themselves daily to sign a pro contract and make millions.
But what happened if that didn’t pan out? If they made it to the highest level and flopped? Where would that leave them?
No one knew why it was so important for me to finish college, and I’d like to leave it that way. I only had one semester left, and then baseball could have me for good.
The black sedan zips us through downtown Austin and out onto the highway, and the road cuts through and right on top of pastures and rolling fields. This is the part of Texas I missed. Sitting on my parent’s back porch, listening to the crickets and my dad play guitar on the rare nights that he was sober enough to do so.
The driver maneuvers us past exit after exit, and I know we’re headed to the Texas baseball institution where I’ll someday play, and I should be alert, but after the long flight, I kind of want to take a nap.
And then her face is in front of my own two eyes, and I have to blink in surprise. The back of my head hits the headrest, I’m so shaken up. I just didn’t expect to see her right there, and yet, how could I forget?
Annabelle Mills, the nightmare of a girl I told you about.
She is on the outskirts of a billboard rising high over the highway, one that features that famous couple who flipped old farmhouses. The main focal point of the huge obnoxious advertisement was supposed to be Ramona and James Hart, but anyone could see that Annabelle was the real star.
A brunette bombshell with the sparkle of a Texas beauty queen, my ex … well, whatever we’d been, was someone you could never quite take your eye off of. When she walked into the room, jaws dropped. While you were talking to her, you were always semi-conscious of the fact that she might be the most breathtaking sight you’ve ever seen.
But under all of that gloss and gorgeousness, there was a cold, nasty heart.
How could I have forgotten that we were about to live in the same city?
No, don’t lie, dammit. I hadn’t forgotten. I’d simply hoped I could avoid her forever, just like I had since the day I’d dumped her on the front steps of the high school.
Annabelle Mills had broken my heart, and it hasn’t been quite the same since.
The thing was, I didn’t plan on loving again, after the torture she’d put me through.
So who cared if the thing was fractured and unused?
Three
Annabelle
“I’m sorry, do you live here now? Because I thought I was living with my nomadic girlfriend, not her stepsister.”
Cain walks out of his bedroom in a towel, and I roll my eyes at his back as he goes to the fridge, rummaging around for a snack.
“Keep your panties on, Kent. I’m waiting for said nomad to get home, and she gave me a key for when I had to escape my
awful, slutty roommate.”
Was it strange that he and I had slept together before we’d even known that Harper had existed, and now she was his girlfriend and my stepsister? Maybe. But the three of us didn’t let it affect our relationships. I was still friends with Cain, as we had been since childhood, and Harper and I were closer than ever.
Who would have thought? I’d hated Harper on principle when she’d moved to Haven. Then I’d hated her, even more, when my dad started dating her mom. But, over time, both she and her mom had grown on me, and now … they were the family I’d lost when my parents had split up. And also the family I’d never had but wished for.
“What if I wanted to see my girlfriend when she got back? Ever think of that? I haven’t seen her since she took off for San Diego two weeks ago.”
I flick him off, my middle finger standing proud. “I need her more right now. You can get your rocks off later. Sisters before misters, remember?”
He grumbles as he takes a bite out of an apple. “Yeah, whatever. So, slutty roommate is still going at it?”
I set my phone down, which I’ve been monitoring for texts from Harper with any update on when she’ll be home. “God, it’s like the girl’s vagina doesn’t know when to quit. I swear, the other day, there were three different guys in and out of our room. One of them she did in the shower, but still! And the creep asked to borrow my towel! Gross!”
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