The Mitchell Sisters: A Complete Romance Series (3-Book Box Set)

by Samantha Christy

  “Wow, direct much?” she asks.

  “I could say the same thing about you,” I quip.

  She smirks at me. “Chris and I go way back. We’ve been friends for years, but we only recently started dating when we came here. I guess it seemed the next logical step.”

  “You mean, you did what was expected of you?” I ask.

  “Touché,” she says. She finishes off her smoothie, pulling out and licking the bottom of the lucky straw. I’m mesmerized. I can’t look away. “So, if politics and soccer aren’t your thing, what is?” she asks.

  I shake my head at her. “You’d laugh.”

  “Why would I laugh if you told me your life’s dream, Gavin?”

  My defeated gaze falls to the table. Because everybody does. Or did. So I stopped telling people. But, somehow, Baylor is different. I think she’s the only person who has ever made me feel like I can just be me. Like I don’t have to put on some goddamn face and pretend to be the perfect son of Congressman McBride.

  I close my eyes and say, “Film production.” When I don’t hear her laugh at my pipe-dream, I open them again.

  She’s simply staring at me. “As in making movies and stuff?” she asks without laughing. Or rolling her eyes.

  I nod. “Yeah,” I say. “I took a semester of it as an elective in high school and, I don’t know, it just really stuck with me.”

  “You do know you can major in that right here at UNC,” she says. “In fact, from what I’ve heard, they have a pretty good program.”

  I nod again. “Yeah.”

  “Good Lord, Gavin,” she says, holding her hands out in question. “Why aren’t you majoring in that then?”

  “You’ve never met my dad, Baylor.”

  “No, I haven’t. And I don’t know much about you, except this—you don’t like politics. How will you enjoy a career in politics if you don’t even like studying it? And if you don’t enjoy your vocation, how will you ever achieve happiness in life?” She takes a breath, assessing me before she continues, “You’re good at soccer, but you don’t love it. And doing something simply because you’re good at it won’t bring you happiness either, especially when you’re doing it for all the wrong reasons. So the way I see it, you’re going to go through life doing something that you hate, just to please a man who in a few years, you’ll only see at Thanksgiving or Christmas anyway. So tell me, when you are old and grey and lying on your death bed, what are you going to regret Gavin?”

  Holy shit!

  I don’t think I’ve ever been stunned into silence before. Another first with this girl.

  She sees my reaction and her hand comes up to cover her mouth. “Oh, crap! I’m so sorry, Gavin. I have no right to say those things to you. You’re right. I don’t know your dad.” She sighs. “I grew up with a mom who came from a family that tried to dictate her future. She broke free from them and I guess she just raised me to revolt against oppressiveness.”

  I stare at her. She’s gorgeous. Her wavy hair is flowing around her face. Her eyes have taken on the same light-blue coloring as the Tar Heels shirt she’s wearing, even though I could swear they are brown. She looks down guiltily into her empty smoothie cup. I reach over and put my hand on hers. “No, it’s okay, Baylor. Your mom should be very proud. She raised one hell of a daughter.”

  I look at my hand where it lays on top of hers and I feel those familiar sparks. That same electricity from the day we met. I didn’t imagine it. Only this time, the sparks don’t go to my groin. They stop in the middle of my chest. They take up residence in my goddamn heart.

  chapter six

  Dammit.

  I look down at my phone.

  I don’t have her number. I don’t even have her last name. How did we get through Saturday night without me getting her last name? I know I’m not usually accustomed to obtaining that kind of information from the women I see, but she’s different. So completely different. If it weren’t for the fact that we had already planned on running together tomorrow, I might be inclined to follow her around again. Like a stalker. That’s what I’ve been reduced to. Stalking Baylor.

  I reflect on our date last night. I’ll call it whatever the hell I want to call it. I never did make it to the party, much to Karen’s pissed-offed-ness. Not that Baylor and I ended up together after we went for coffee. We didn’t. And to my surprise, I didn’t want to.

  If I have her . . . when I have her . . . it won’t be while she’s still attached to some other guy. No, we just talked for hours at the coffee shop. After that, I walked her back to her dorm. Then I went home. Right after she hugged me. Hugged me for taking care of her. For rescuing her. Damn, can I just major in that? Because that’s all I want to do for the next two-and-a-half years. Take care of Baylor. Baylor, whose last name I don’t even know.

  On Monday, when I meet her to run, I ask for her phone as soon as she walks up to me. Well, right after I take in her cute running pants and tight little shirt, along with her hair. Hair that looks like she simply stuck it in a hair band without bothering to check for accuracy. She’s adorable. I hold my hand out after greeting her. “Phone please,” I say, gesturing to her armband.

  She takes it out and hands it to me. “You know, you really should run with your phone. It’s dangerous not to. What if you fall or something?” Then she looks at me funny. “Gavin, why are your shorts ringing?” She gives me an evil eye as I reach down to silence my phone.

  I hand her phone back to her. “Because I just called myself so you’d have my number.” I raise my eyebrows at her, daring her to challenge my actions. “I need you to be able to reach me if you ever need an escort home.” I point my finger at her chest. “Ever. I mean it, Baylor.”

  “Okay, okay.” She puts up her hands in surrender. “I get it,” she says. She holds up three fingers, doing a Girl Scout pledge. “I promise to never walk alone unless I’m going to class.”

  I narrow my eyes at her. “You walk alone to class?” I ask, incredulously.

  She rolls her eyes at me. “During the day, Gavin,” she exasperates. “Geez, relax.” She takes off jogging forcing me to follow her.

  She’s setting a good warm-up pace which is the sign of a seasoned runner. I watch her hair bounce up and down and try to keep my eyes above her waist as I catch up to her. Don’t ogle her ass, I think to myself.

  “So, where’s your posse?” she asks, when I’m alongside her.

  “It’s only me today,” I say.

  “Don’t you guys always run together, as a pack or something?”

  “Mostly,” I reply. “I guess I’m just deviating from what’s expected of me.” I wink. She smiles. We run.

  I let her set the pace. I’m a pretty good runner. I have to be. Sometimes we can cover anywhere from five to seven miles in one game alone. We make a little small talk, but at our speed, meaningful conversation will have to wait for another time. I’m okay with that. I’m perfectly fine just running alongside her for the duration.

  When we’ve done three miles, we slow down and head for her dorm. I told myself I wasn’t going to ask, that I’d let things develop naturally. I should just keep my mouth shut. Then it comes out. “Did you tell what’s-his-name about us running together?”

  She doesn’t look over at me. “Chris? No.”

  I look straight ahead, too. “Are you going to tell him?”

  “Yes,” she immediately answers.

  Damn. Not what I wanted her to say.

  We come up to her dorm. She leaves me behind, jogging up the front steps two at a time. “Same time Wednesday?” she asks, turning around and biting her lip.

  Oh, hell, she’s biting her lip. I want to run up there and pull that lip out from between her teeth and suck it right into my mouth. Screw the guys I normally run with. “Yeah, sure,” I say. I turn to go finish my workout. Then I remember something when I’m halfway across the green.

  “Baylor?” I call out.

  She turns around inquisitively.

  “Wha
t’s your last name?” I shout.

  “Check your phone, McBride,” she says, disappearing into the building with a smile.

  I pull out my phone that I always silent when I run. I have a new text.

  Baylor: Hey, McBride. Thanks for the run. Baylor Mitchell.

  I check the time stamp. It was more than a minute ago. She must have sent it after I turned to walk away but before I asked her. This girl is seriously cool. I’m definitely screwed. I immediately text her back.

  Me: You too. See you Wednesday, Mitchell.

  Instead of doing another three miles, I go home and take a cold shower.

  Our Wednesday run brings more of the same. I’ve never looked forward to my morning runs as much as I have this week.

  “Does it bother your teammates that you’re running with me a few days a week?” she asks.

  “Nah,” I say. “I just told them I’m on Bay Watch.” I laugh.

  “Baywatch?” Her eyes narrow, forming a little wrinkle in her otherwise smooth brow.

  “Yeah,” I say. “As in you’re Baylor and I need to watch out for you so those pricks from the football game don’t mess with you anymore. You know, Bay Watch.”

  She rolls her adorable chameleon eyes at me. “Gavin, you don’t have to protect me, you know.”

  The hell I don’t. She’ll never know how I replay that night in my head, only with a horrible, alternate ending that doesn’t have me running into her. “I know that, Bay,” I say, trying out her new nickname. “But as long as you need to go for a run and I need to go for a run, we might as well run together, right?”

  She studies me. “Okay,” she says. “I guess I can’t argue with that well-thought-out logic.” She laughs.

  As we start to pick up the pace, I ask her, “Did you tell what’s-his-name about our runs yet?”

  I think I see the hint of a smile. “Chris? No.”

  “Are you going to tell him?”

  “Yes. I am,” she says. She sprints ahead. I run behind her. I’d follow her anywhere.

  On Sunday night, I regretfully text Baylor.

  Me: My coach called a morning practice for tomorrow. He wants to run drills for Tuesday’s game. I’m sorry I won’t be able to run with you.

  Baylor: Not a problem. I’ll just see you Wednesday.

  Me: Why don’t you run at the indoor track instead?

  Baylor: Gavin, I’ll be fine.

  I don’t text her back right away. I have no control over what she does. Yet the thought of her out there running alone in the morning makes me want to blow off practice and ruin my chance to start in the game. Before I can compose another text, my phone vibrates.

  Baylor: Fine. I’ll run on the indoor track. Geez.

  The smile on my face is so big, it hurts my damn lips. I can practically hear her pouty little voice and see her beautiful eyes rolling up into her head. Picturing her eyes makes me wonder what color shirt she’s wearing. But, it might be a little too stalker-ish if I ask her what she’s wearing, so I don’t.

  Me: Thank you. Hey, do you ever cover soccer games for the paper? I hear there might be some awesome player at starting center forward this week.

  Baylor: Yeah, I heard that, too. I might have to do a write-up. Bye, Gavin. Have a good game. See you Wednesday.

  What? What does that mean? Is she coming to the game or not? This thought plagues me for the next two days. I’ve never had someone come to a game that I wanted to impress. Well, not including the college scouts.

  When we take the field for our pre-game warm up, I find myself scanning the student section. I never look up into the stands. Ever. Until Baylor Mitchell.

  Baylor Mitchell. Her name rolls around in my head. I wonder what her middle name is.

  Shit, McBride, get your head in the game, I tell myself as we huddle on the sideline before the kick-off. She’s probably not even here. I haven’t heard from her. She said she’d see me Wednesday. I finally convince myself she’s not coming and concentrate on doing what I need to do.

  Roughly two hours later, I’m running off the field having scored a goal for my team that, unfortunately lost. I should be mad. I should be pissed that some of my guys didn’t pull their weight today. But all I can do is smile when I glance up to see Baylor beaming down at me from the stands next to where my team is exiting the field. I brush my sweaty hair out of my eyes and wink at her. Then I watch that adorable blush creep up her face as she looks down at her feet.

  I can’t wait ‘till tomorrow morning.

  “Miss me Monday?” I ask Baylor during our Wednesday run.

  “No,” she says.

  “Liar.” I glance over at her.

  “Yes,” she replies, looking straight ahead.

  “Did you tell what’s-his-name about our runs yet?” I ask.

  She tries not to laugh. “Chris? No.”

  I smile. “Are you planning on telling him?”

  Then she breaks protocol by saying, “Not that it should concern him who I work out with, but I’m wondering why you are so interested in whether or not I’ve told him.”

  “Because if he knew my intentions, he’d be shaking in his boots,” I say, putting it boldly out there.

  I think I hear her gasp, but she’s already breathing heavily, so it’s hard to tell. “Chris doesn’t wear boots,” she quips. “So, you think I should tell him?”

  “God, no!” I quickly answer. “As long as you don’t tell him, there’s hope for me yet.”.

  “Oh, okay,” she ponders. “I guess I’d better tell him.”

  Crack.

  My heart splinters. Then I look over to see her biting that pouty lip of hers to keep her from smiling. It makes me want to throw her down on the grass and wrestle her to the ground. “Sure you will,” I say instead. I jog out ahead of her and give her a look at what she’s been missing.

  I hear her snort behind me before catching up. “Don’t flatter yourself, McBride,” she says, taking off full stride to start our three miles.

  During our cool down, I tell her, “I’m sorry I’ll miss Monday’s run again next week. We’re leaving Friday for our game at Notre Dame and we won’t be back until late Monday night.”

  “No biggie,” she says, as we reach her dorm. “I’ll just hit the track at Fetzer.” She looks at me out of the corner of her eye because she knows I’m smiling.

  “I’ll miss Bay Watch,” I say.

  “Yeah, me too.” She walks away.

  “Hey, Mitchell,” I yell after her.

  She turns around smiling. “Yeah?”

  “What’s your middle name?” I ask.

  “Check your phone, McBride,” she says, laughing as she walks into her building.

  No fucking way. I pull my phone out but there aren’t any new texts. Then it vibrates.

  Baylor: It’s Christine. Yours?

  Me: Maddox.

  Baylor: Okay, Gavin Maddox McBride, have a safe trip to Indiana.

  Me: Yes ma’am, Baylor Christine Mitchell.

  The whole damn bus ride to Notre Dame, I stare at the keychain I still have from the first day we met. I rub my fingers over the inscription.

  Be what nobody else can ever be . . . yourself

  I know what I have to do when I get back to school.

  chapter seven

  Tuesday afternoon, I head over to the registration office. When I see that Trina still works here, I realize how much easier my quest has just become. Trina and I hooked up a couple of times my freshman year. I think she’s still holding a torch for me to be quite honest, and if the way she’s looking up at me through her fake eyelashes is any indication, I’m spot on.

  I’m gonna feel like a dick, flirting with her to get what I want, but it’s the means to an end. “Trina!” I say, walking up to the counter with an academy-award-winning smile plastered on my face. “How have you been? It’s been a long time.” I reach out to grab her hand for added effect.

  “Gavin McBride,” she says. “I’ve been okay. But things are starting
to look up now.”

  I lean in and whisper close to her ear, “I need a favor for a friend, Trina.”

  She sighs. “Sure, Gavin, whatever you need.”

  “My friend’s sister is transferring here next term,” I lie. “She wants to make sure she can get into some of the same classes as her childhood best friend. But she wants it to be a surprise. Do you think you could help me out, honey?” I run my fingers over her knuckles.

  I’m such a jackass.

  “Of course. Name?” she asks.

  “Baylor,” I say. “Baylor Mitchell.” I spell it out for her.

  Two minutes and a traitorous kiss on the cheek later, I’m walking out of the registration office with Baylor’s spring schedule in my pocket. Next stop: my advisor’s office.

  The past few weeks have been hellish. With UNC advancing to the Elite Eight after Thanksgiving, I’ve barely had any time to breathe, let alone spend much time with Baylor. We’ve managed to fit in a few runs here and there, but with all the traveling and my intense schedule, it’s been hard.

  It’s bitter-sweet for me when we don’t make it to the Final Four. On one hand, I want our team to do the best we can. On the other hand, I’m burned out on soccer and want to focus on other things.

  Things like Baylor Christine Mitchell.

  “Gavin? Are you even listening to a word I’ve said?” I look over at Karen, who is standing over me with her hands on her hips and her mouth all puckered up because I was ignoring her.

  “Huh . . . oh, yeah, the party,” I say, playing along as if I’ve been listening to her talk for the last few minutes. “What about it?”

  “Dean says you aren’t going,” she pouts. “Why not?”