Heartbreaker (Rascals Book 3)

by Katie McCoy

  Dammit, he was so masculine, it would have almost been funny if I wasn’t so fricking turned on.

  Why couldn’t he have gained fifty pounds and have a receding hairline? I wondered, almost frantically.

  But that was the way it had always been with Sawyer. Even at nineteen, a smile had been enough to make my heart sing.

  He was staring at me, and I realized I hadn’t responded to his statement.

  “I haven’t been back long,” I said lamely.

  “So it’s not just a trip?” he asked, looking hopeful. “You’re back for good?”

  I nodded.

  His smile grew even wider, a dimple barely visible beneath the stubble covering his cheeks. “Then we definitely need to catch up,” he said. “God, Gabi, I’ve missed you.”

  He said it with such earnestness that it hurt my heart. Because I knew that he had depended on me – on our friendship – when we were in college. And it had sucked to ghost him when I moved, but I hadn’t had any other choice. Being friends with him, when what I really wanted was to be with him, was like a wound that was never able to heal.

  Even now, just standing on the street corner with him, all those feelings came rushing back. The wound reopening.

  I had to get out of here.

  “I have to go,” I somehow managed.

  The smile on his face dimmed – just for a moment. It was then that I realized that even though I had stepped back from him, he still had his hand on my arm. The touch was gentle but now that I was aware of it, his hand felt hot. So hot. Tingles spread through my body.

  What the fuck was wrong with me? I was an adult woman, not a college kid with a crush.

  “Where are you heading?” he asked. “I have some time, I could walk with you.”

  I shook my head in a rush. “Interview,” I blurted out. “Gotta go.”

  Then I turned on my heels and hurried away.

  It took five blocks for me to calm down and for my racing pulse to return to a normal speed. Had that actually just happened? Had Sawyer appeared out of nowhere and saved me from a speeding car before flashing his annoyingly-sexy smile at me, making me weak in the knees just like he had done in college every time he gave me that grin?

  Yup.

  And what I had done? Sputtered out some nonsense words and walked away.

  I stifled a groan.

  This was not how I’d pictured seeing him again. Sure, I’d wanted to avoid him, but a part of me had fantasized about what would happen when we did come face-to-face again. I would be polished and poised, maybe even on a date with another guy, and Sawyer would see me across the room and double-take at how gorgeous I was, and how much I’d changed since he knew me in college.

  A girl can dream, right?

  Because I had been different back then. I’d been a bit of a tomboy in high school, so when I met Sawyer freshman year, I was still that gangly beanpole of a girl: short hair, baggy jeans, dorky cartoon T-shirts. Nobody saw me as a romantic interest next to the cute sorority girls with their perfect makeup. In fact, it was probably the reason that Sawyer and I had become friends in the first place – instead of me just winding up one of his many, many conquests.

  Because to him, I wasn’t really a female. I was a friend who was a girl. Barely a girl. He never tried flirting with me, and sure, it meant we got to know each other on a deep level, but in some ways, I still felt invisible.

  I was head-over-heels in love with him, but he just didn’t feel the same. Not even close.

  He didn’t see me.

  Now, racing through the streets on my way to the interview, I wonder what he saw today. Because I’ve changed. A lot. It wasn’t like I woke up one day and decided to give myself a makeover, but gradually, I changed from that awkward girl into, well, a woman. My body filled out, and I started wearing my hair long. I discovered a love of fashion, and experimented with clothes and makeup, and dated enough guys to realize that I didn’t have to feel invisible. Now, I feel like myself – like the person I am on the outside really reflects who I am inside. And it feels good.

  Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I had discovered this side of myself in college. Would my relationship with Sawyer have turned into something more if I had embraced my feminine side back then?

  Chances were that even if Sawyer had been attracted to me, I would have ended up being one of his many one-night stands, instead of the person he shared his thoughts and dreams with.

  Or I would have ruined everything by acting like a total dork. The way I did just now. Years of building a successful career, of cultivating a strong friend group, of attempting to be in healthy – none crush-based – relationships, all of that seemed to vanish when confronted with the one guy I always wanted and could never have.

  As I approached the library, I tried to clear my mind. The last thing I wanted was to go into an interview thinking about Sawyer. I was here to slay, and nothing should shake my focus.

  “Thanks for coming in, Gabrielle. I promise, we’ll let you know by Monday.” The head librarian, Tanya – who would be one of my bosses – shook my hand. She was a badass chick who wore leather pants and had tattoos from shoulder to wrist. I kind of had a girl crush on her by the time we were done talking.

  “Thanks for seeing me. In case I didn’t say it enough, I really want this job,” I added.

  She smiled. “Well, just between us, I would hold off applying anywhere else.” She gave me a wink, and I managed to contain my excitement until I got outside the building.

  “Yes!” I pumped the air, not caring about the weird looks I got from passers-by.

  I took a deep breath, willing myself to relax. Even though I felt good about the interview – and Tanya’s wink – I wanted the job so badly that I couldn’t help but be a little nervous.

  It was still light out, so I decided to walk to my mom’s place – where I was staying until I got a job and was able to get my own apartment. I filled my lungs as I walked, trying to enjoy the beautiful afternoon, instead of worrying. But now that my interview was done, my brain went right back to the one thing I’d been trying to ignore.

  The one person.

  God, I’d missed Sawyer.

  Even though it had been hard and painful to be crushing on him, we’d had so many good times together. We had been friends. Really, really good friends. Which meant there were lots of memories.

  Late night movies in our respective dorm rooms, sharing pizza and beer and talking for hours. Fighting over chicken wings in the cafeteria. Studying in the library – or rather, I’d study and Sawyer would sleep. Tailgating and getting drunk at football games, and singing bad karaoke in the pub down the block.

  Some of the best moments in my life, I shared with him.

  Until I left.

  I felt a twinge of guilt that I had run away from him so abruptly on the street. But it was for the best. Just because I was back in Chicago didn’t mean that I wanted things to go back to the way they were before I left. In fact, I wanted the opposite. I didn’t want to fall back into the same unhealthy habits, and unfortunately, a friendship with Sawyer was probably the most unhealthy of all of my habits.

  I had spent too long pining over a guy that saw me as nothing more than his friend. If I started hanging out with Sawyer again, I knew the same thing would happen. I’d fall even deeper into the crush I had been trying to climb out of since I was eighteen, and he’d be happily oblivious to my feelings.

  I had to be sensible. Safe. The past was just that: over.

  My phone buzzed, and I checked it, expecting a message from mom to pick up groceries, but instead, it was an unknown number.

  Unknown, because I’d deleted it from my phone five years ago.

  “Hey, it’s Sawyer. Now that you’re back, I want to see you. Call me.”

  And just like that I knew, it wouldn’t be so simple to stay away this time.

  TO BE CONTINUED…

  Sawyer and Gabi’s story is just getting started! SOULMATE is avail
able to order now!

  ROYAL PLAYER

  A Standalone Romantic Comedy

  Charlie Davenport is the bad boy of British tennis - and third in line to the throne. He’s a beast on the courts, and a wild animal in bed (according to all the tabloids). Girls are lining up for chance at his crown jewels, and when I stumble into the wrong Wimbledon dressing room and catch a glimpse of his game, set, AND match, I can see why.

  So what’s a little good luck kiss between friends strangers?

  I know better than to get involved with a bad boy like Charlie. But now he’s on a winning streak, he thinks I’m his lucky charm - and you know what’s luckier than a kiss?

  Everything.

  Suddenly, I've got paparazzi on my trail, exes coming out of the woodwork — and you don’t know ‘cutthroat’ until you’ve seen a pack of hungry socialites set loose near the Royal Family.

  I’m in way over my head, and even worse - I’m falling in love. Can this American girl win her Prince Charming? Or will we both crash out of the championships in flames?

  Wimbledon-meets-The Prince and Me in this hilarious, sexy new romance ROYAL PLAYER

  Read on for chapter one!

  1

  Emmy

  If you made a ranking of the world’s sexiest sports, I’d have bet my (empty) bank account that tennis wasn’t anywhere on the list. Believe me, I was the same. Give me a baseball player rounding third in his tight white pants, or a muscular quarterback any day. But stepping through the front gates at Wimbledon on Opening Day, I could see I’d gotten it all wrong.

  There were hot guys. Everywhere.

  It was like being a kid in a candy shop, if the candy was tall, muscular, well-groomed men. Guys with brown hair, blonde hair, even a few that had that scruffy Prince Harry redhead thing going for them. Guys with bashful dimples or badass beards; in dashing linen suits or strolling past in athletic clothes, their tanned, gorgeous bodies glistening with sweat.

  I was pretty sure I was drooling.

  I was also totally lost, jet-lagged, and exhausted after a cramped eleven-hour flight in coach from San Diego and a forty-minute tube ride to my Aunt Suze’s in King’s Cross to get here. But looking around at the manicured courts, the buzz of the crowds—and did I mention the guys?—I knew without a doubt that all my scrimping and saving to afford this summer after college in London was so. Freaking. Worth. It.

  I pulled out my cellphone and called the reason I was here at all, my BFF, Paige.

  “I’m here, and I’m lost,” I announced, looking around again. The crowds were surging around me, like this was the biggest sporting event of the year. Which, in England, I guess it was. “Where are you?”

  “The refreshments tent,” Paige answered. “Do you see the clock tower thing?”

  “Uh . . .” I squinted. “Nope?”

  “Didn’t watch the Snapchat I sent?”

  I laughed. “Which one?”

  Paige had arrived the week before, and had not only given me detailed directions for how to get to the club from the station (hint: it required taking a shuttle set up just for the weeks of Wimbledon), but had also sent me no less than three Snapchats of herself on that same shuttle. There were also additional Snapchats of her getting from the shuttle to the tent where we’d be working. Apparently, since I had never been abroad, she thought I was incapable of using public transportation. It might have been annoying if she wasn’t so freaking funny in all the videos she sent me. Or if it hadn’t turned out she was right.

  “Just do what I did.” Paige sounded smug. “Find the nearest hot guy and ask him for directions. Oh crap, they’re starting training. You better get here soon!”

  She hung up, and I looked around for rescue. There were plenty of hot guys on offer, but I figured my travel aroma wouldn’t exactly be the best introduction, so I found a nice-looking older couple with backpacks, sunhats, and a cooler.

  “Excuse me . . .” I approached them. They looked prepared, and sure enough, they gave me a spare map and pointed me on my way.

  I hurried down the path. I was already late for the waitressing gig my Aunt Suze had set up for us. I’d barely had enough time to drop my bag and trade my comfy travel clothes for my uniform before I was out the door to the All England Tennis Club. Since my meager savings just about got me across the Atlantic, I would be spending the next couple of weeks working as a waitress serving cream teas during Wimbledon to fund the rest of my trip. As you do.

  The refreshment stands were halfway across the grounds. I spotted Paige as soon as I approached the tent. It was hard not to spot Paige, even if you weren’t looking for her. Even though all of the waitresses had been told to wear all black and have our hair pulled back away from our faces, Paige had her bright red hair piled up in a messy bun on top of her head and was wearing a short black skirt and low-cut black shirt, all in contrast to her pale and beautifully freckled skin. In true Paige fashion, she had managed to look classy instead of trashy, which probably had to do with the fact that she was tall and lean. If I had tried to wear what she was wearing, my big boobs and Kim K butt would have made the whole thing look obscene.

  Which is why I was wearing a black shirt that I had altered myself. I had tailored it to fit my curves and managed to keep it from doing the usual D-cup drama of looking like I was about to bust the buttons open. My plain black pants were similarly adjusted. I had long learned that it was far easier to buy things in a bigger size and tailor them down than trying to find anything off the rack that would fit my rack. Because not only was I curvy, I was short. If I didn’t know how to sew, I’d probably have to make do with straining seams and trailing hems all the damn time.

  When Paige spotted me, she let out a squeal loud enough to make everyone around her turn and stare. Then she was rushing through the tent, already in the middle of a sentence when she reached me, nearly tackling me to the ground.

  “. . . all day, and I’ve been trying to focus but OH MY GOD, Emmy, they are all so freaking hot.”

  I detangled myself from her grip.

  “Stop, rewind, and start again,” I told her.

  Instead she gave me another hug.

  “I’m SO glad you’re here.” She let out another squeal, and then looped her arm around my shoulder. “Let me introduce you to everyone.”

  But instead of introducing me to “everyone,” she propelled me toward the bar, where another girl a little older than both of us was standing, cleaning glasses. She had blonde hair with short bangs, cat-eyed glasses with rhinestones, and was wearing bright red lipstick, both of which added to her unique vintage-y look. I immediately liked her.

  “Emmy, this is Jules.” Paige pushed me forward. “Jules, this is Emmy, my best friend in the entire world.”

  “Charmed.” Jules extended her hand, her accent posh and British and to die for. “I’ve heard loads about you.”

  I tried to remember if Jules had been in any of the Snapchats Paige had sent, but before I could respond, Paige sucked in a breath, her hand fanning her face rapidly.

  “Holy shit,” she murmured.

  I turned and immediately seconded the sentiment. There was a group of guys just by the tent, looking like they’d just stepped out of the pages of GQ: all button-down shirts and tailored pants that hugged their strong thighs.

  “Is this what all guys in London look like?” I asked, unable to stop staring.

  “Mmmhmmm,” she said, beaming. “Aren’t you glad I dragged you into this trip?”

  “Definitely,” I laughed.

  Apparently Paige had unwittingly found paradise. And paradise was the Wimbledon refreshment tent in spring. Because, oh my lord, the things that had sprung. I fanned myself, feeling very, very warm.

  “Here.” Jules pushed forward two tall glasses of water full of ice. “You both look like you need it.”

  I took a long gulp, while Paige pressed the glass to her chest and wiggled her fingers saucily at the guys walking by. They all smiled—and all of them had great sm
iles—and one of them winked, slowing his step to let the others walk ahead.

  Paige put her glass back on the bar. “I’ll be right back.” She had never been a girl to pass up an opportunity.

  I watched her go with a twinge of jealousy. The guy was seriously smoking—they all were—and they seemed to surround us. I took another long, long drink of water.

  “The pay might be shite,” said Jules, “but you can’t beat the view.”

  We clinked our glasses, both of us still watching Paige flirt. Paige was totally convinced she would end the summer with a hot, rich, British boyfriend. I was in total support of her ambitions, but I had far less lofty goals. All I wanted was to explore London—especially all the places I’d seen in my mom’s favorite movies—and find inspiration. A boyfriend was not high on my list. Boy-watching, on the other hand, well, there’s inspiration and then there’s inspiration.

  Jules let out a low whistle as Paige wrote her number down on his hand.

  “Damn, girl.” She clapped as Paige returned. “You’ve got some serious game.”

  Paige dropped into a mock curtsy. “I’ve only got a few months to bag a Tom Hardy or Henry Cavill of my very own. I can’t be wasting any time.”

  “What about you, Emmy?” Jules asked. “What type of bloke are you looking for?”

  I tried to hide my blush by looking down at my feet. But Paige came to my rescue.

  “Emmy’s not looking for a guy,” she explained. “Though I can’t figure out why.”

  “I have to go back to San Diego in September,” I reminded her. “What’s the point of looking for a guy that I have to leave in a few months?”

  Secretly there were a few other reasons I wasn’t looking to get involved with a guy, but most of those were reasons I kept to myself. It also didn’t help that when it came to guys, I was the polar opposite of Paige. Shy, tongue-tied, and not sure what to do with my hands. Most of the time I couldn’t even tell if a guy was interested. I wished I had half the confidence that Paige did.