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

by Samantha Christy

  “They aren’t electives, Baylor,” I tell her. “I’m no longer a Political Science major.”

  Her eyes go wide. “What? Really? When did this happen?”

  “Some deeply philosophical chick I know said something about me regretting my entire existence if I didn’t follow my dreams,” I explain. “So, I thought, what the hell. And the fact that it’ll really piss off my dad—that’s just an added bonus.”

  “Oh, my God, Gavin! You switched to Film Production?” Her eyes sparkle in delight. It’s worth having to go back and take some crappy classes just to see this look on her face. Like she’s proud of me. Like I could actually be something without living in the shadow of my father’s aspiring political career. It’s the same look my mom had when I told her.

  “Well, the correct title for the degree I’ll earn is ‘Bachelor of Fine Arts in Filmmaking,’ but, yeah—Film Production,” I say, mirroring her jovial expression.

  She leans in and wraps her arms around me. “That’s wonderful, Gavin. You must be so excited!”

  I was excited about the switch in my major. Now I’m excited that she’s found a reason to throw her arms around me. I happily pull her against me for a hug while thinking about how long I can keep her here without it seeming inappropriate and creepy. I wonder if she’s thinking the same thing. She doesn’t seem in any big hurry to pull away, either. I put my nose in her hair and inhale that fruity scent that I’ve craved since the day I first smelled it—maybe even long before that. My body is humming with electricity as I savor the way we fit together. She is much shorter than I am. I’d be surprised if she’s anything over five four, but the way her head tucks perfectly under my chin, and the way my arms can wrap around her body, enveloping her into me completely, it just feels . . . right.

  Finally, after a too-long-to-be-just-friendly-but-not-long-enough-to-be-otherwise-significant hug, we part, but still stand close. I look down at her and I swear her eyes have taken on the emerald color of the shirt I’m wearing. She’s standing that close. She should always stand this close. Her eyes should always reflect what I’m wearing. Kind of like my own personal mark on her. I realize that I’m staring down at her and she’s blushing.

  “You’re tall,” she says, attempting to break the unbridled sexual tension.

  “Maybe you’re just short,” I quip.

  “Nope.” She shakes her head. “I’m the perfect size, McBride.”

  That you are. Perfect for me, I think.

  I walk her to her next class. I don’t have to ask her where it is.

  She doesn’t ask how I know.

  “You what?” Karen all but screams at me when I explain why I didn’t show up for the government class we were supposed to take together.

  “You heard me,” I say. “I changed my major. I never liked Political Science. I’m going to do something I want to do rather than something I’m expected to do for once.”

  “Your dad will flip out,” she says, disapprovingly. She narrows her eyes at me. “Gavin McBride, does this have anything at all to do with ‘Thing 2’?”

  “No . . . yes . . . I don’t know, Karen. I guess it does in a way. But not like you’re thinking. She isn’t a Film major, so it’s not like I’m doing it to get in her pants or anything.” Well, not entirely. “And would you quit calling her ‘Thing 2,’ she has a name. It’s Baylor.”

  “Baylor?” she spits out. “What kind of name is Baylor? Do her parents have some kind of psycho-obsession with football or something?”

  I’m actually kind of impressed that Karen would even associate the two, but given we grew up only an hour from the university that bears her name, it’s understandable.

  “Karen, you don’t have to be a bitch all the time, you know.”

  “Ugh!” She stomps a foot. “I’m just trying to look out for you, Gavin,” she says. “You have a family name to uphold.”

  “I’m well aware of that, Karen. You don’t need to remind me,” I say. “My father does a pretty good job of that every time he talks to me.”

  “I thought we all got along so well over break, didn’t you?”

  “That’s just because I’m getting better at handling him,” I say.

  “So, what, you’re changing your major and now you’re going to go off and date little Miss Thing? Your dad wouldn’t approve of that either,” she so willingly points out.

  I shake my head at her. “I don’t really give a shit what my dad approves of anymore, Karen. And if you are going to be such a bitch about it, you know good and well where the door to leave my house is.”

  Tears well up in her eyes. Shit. I didn’t mean to make her cry.

  I walk over and put my arms around her. “Karen, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to hurt your feelings. But you’re going to have to learn to respect my decisions, okay?”

  She holds me tightly, crying into my shoulder. I realize how much taller she is than Baylor. It’s not as easy and comfortable holding Karen against me, and the store-bought tits her mom got her for her eighteenth birthday push hard against my chest. My hands press against the bony outline of the ribs in her back, and all I can think of is how soft Baylor was beneath my touch.

  I know on the outside Karen and I are the perfect couple. Kids in high school used to refer to us as ‘Ken and Barbie.’ I love Karen, I really do. But she can be a lot to take sometimes. Her superficial tendencies often overcome the sweet girl that I used to play doctor with in third grade. I will never give up hope that someday that girl will emerge once again.

  “I d-don’t want to l-lose you, Gavin,” she stutters.

  “You’re never going to lose me,” I assure her. “We will always be friends. You’re an important part of my life.”

  “Just not important enough to date, apparently,” she says, sniffing through her sobs.

  And there we have it. The elephant in the room has finally reared its surgically-altered face.

  “Karen,” I hold her tight. “I love you. You know that, right?”

  She nods her head into my shoulder.

  “Maybe if it were under different circumstances, we would date. But I don’t want to ruin our friendship. I’ve seen it happen,” I say. “And I really want to see where this thing goes with Baylor.”

  She hiccups into my shirt. “Why her?” she asks. “What’s so special about her?”

  I could list a hundred things that are special about Baylor. But it’s the one that stands out the most that really matters. “She lets me be myself.”

  chapter nine

  Two weeks, four runs, ten classes and three movie nights later, I’m cleaning up the downstairs bathroom of the house I share with Dean, Tim and Jonesy.

  “Are we expecting a visit from the president?” Tim asks, walking through the living room behind me.

  I throw a wad of paper towels at him that I was using to clean the toilet. They splat against his chest before he can jump out of the way. “Dude, that’s just wrong,” he says, looking at the piss-soaked wad lying on the floor at his feet.

  “If you would learn to aim in the goddamn toilet, I wouldn’t have to do this.” I rip off another few sheets of paper towels.

  He removes his shirt and throws it at me. “Add that to your own laundry, dickhead.” He looks around the room he’s standing in. “Seriously though, why is the room all organized? And why the hell does it smell like a Pine Sol commercial in here?”

  “Because I don’t want Baylor smelling your filthy ass when she comes over tonight,” I tell him.

  “Oh, but it’s okay if Karen and the other girls smell it?” he asks.

  “I don’t give a shit what they smell, Tim.”

  He shakes his head at me. “And you call me and Jonesy whipped,” he says. “You’ve got it bad, my friend.”

  “What’s it to you?” I snap at him.

  He holds up his hands. “Hey,” he surrenders. “I think it’s great.” He comes over and gives me a friendly slap on my back. “It’s about damn time you quit dippin’ your
stick in everything that breathes.”

  Yeah, well I did that a long time ago. The only action my stick has seen in four months is the inside of my own hand. But I’m not letting that mere fact drive my plan. It’s been going smoothly, just like I’ve needed it to. We’ve been sticking to our usual running routine. I met her over at her dorm’s common room for movie night the past two weeks. We’ve even had a couple of study sessions together. Sessions at which she started out sitting across the table from me, but yesterday, for no other reason than she must find me irresistible, she sat right next to me the entire time. I think she may have even touched me accidentally-on-purpose a few times.

  Yup, I think I may be ready to move on to the next step in my plan. I’ll have to see how tonight goes. I invited her here for movie night this week. I’m tired of all the distractions of having fifty people walking through the room when we’re trying to view the small screen they have at her dorm. I could care less about the movie, but it took away from my Bay Watch time whenever someone would come up and talk to her.

  For a shy freshman, Baylor sure does have a lot of friends. And by friends, I mean honest, down-to-earth people that I would one day like to get to know after I’ve secured her as my girlfriend. But for now, I want her all to myself. And tonight, the guys are going out. I even double-checked Karen’s social calendar to make sure she still had her sorority meeting. The last thing I need is for Baylor and Karen to run into each other. They are about as far apart on the spectrum as two girls can get, and I certainly don’t need Karen stepping up and scaring Bay off before she even gives me a chance.

  I’ve purposefully arranged the furniture so that she’ll have to crane her neck if she sits anywhere other than on the couch where I plan on sitting.

  Baylor arrives right on time with a copy of ‘Ben-Hur’ that she insisted on renting since I rented the last two. She brought a six-pack of soda and a big bag of buttery popcorn. I have to re-read the label on the soda cans, because at first glance, I couldn’t believe they didn’t say ‘diet.’

  She hands me the Pepsi cans and studies my hair that is still wet from my shower. “You should cut your hair,” she says.

  “This hair?” I feign abhorrence.

  She giggles.

  Fuck. This is going to be a long night.

  “Yes, that hair,” she says, smiling. “Doesn’t it get in the way when you play soccer?”

  “I suppose a little. But chicks love this hair,” I say, elbowing her as I escort her into the living room.

  “Hmmpf.” She ignores my comment as she looks around the room, taking in the house that has become more-or-less a shrine to professional soccer. She walks over to the bookshelves and checks out the signed soccer balls that the guys and I have collected over the years. We have a couple of jerseys hanging on the wall, and there are even some pictures of us with famous soccer players. I plan to add to this collection when I go to Brazil this summer.

  “You are all just a bunch of fan-boys, aren’t you?” she says, laughing.

  “Laugh it up,” I say. “But one day, kids may be asking for my picture and then I’ll track you down and make you eat those words.”

  She shakes her head. “I’m not worried about having to do that at all, Gavin. You’re going to be some famous film producer, not a soccer player.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Have you even been around yourself when we watch these movies?” she asks. “It’s like you become this other person. You comment on lighting and scene origination and character placement. It’s actually quite amusing to watch.”

  I had no idea. I mean, yes, I knew I did that a little. But it’s amazing the way she talks about how I do it, like she can see into my soul and pluck my deep-seeded dreams right out of it. This girl actually has confidence in me, even though I’m not sure I really believe it myself, that someday I could possibly be in the world of film production.

  We go into the kitchen to put the soda in the fridge. Something on the counter catches my eye, giving me a brilliant idea. “Okay, let’s do it,” I say.

  “Do what? Produce a film?” She laughs.

  “No,” I say. “Let’s cut my hair.” I walk over and pick up the kit that Marcie left here yesterday when she cut Jonesy’s hair. After she left last night, he commented on how sexy it was to have her cut it for him. Said he’d never go to a barber shop again.

  I want that. I want that with Baylor.

  I deposit the hair-cutting kit in her hands. She looks up at me with wide eyes. “What? No, no, no . . . I am not cutting your hair, McBride.”

  I pull out the smock thing and put it around me, securing the snap at the back of my neck. “Yes, you are. It’ll be fun,” I say. “It was your idea, Mitchell.”

  The corners of her mouth turn upwards until I see that adorable dimple. “Okay, but don’t come crying to me if you look like a bad Justin Bieber hair day.”

  I sit in a kitchen chair while she lays the supplies out on the table. “You really only need a little taken off,” she says. “Just so it doesn’t hang in your eyes quite so much.” She picks up the longest pair of sheers and holds them like a knife, doing a hideously bad impression of ‘Carrie’ from the very same movie that we watched only last week.

  I laugh at how silly she is, and I marvel over the fact that she just doesn’t care that she might look stupid. All she’s trying to do is have fun.

  And all I want to do is have fun with her.

  She’s taking this seriously, I can tell. She’s measuring every piece she cuts with the width of her fingers. She’s studying it, making sure to get it precisely right. The whole time, she’s biting on that lower lip, in deep concentration. She walks around me slowly, getting at me from every angle. When she cuts the front, she stands before me, her tits practically touching my face and it’s all I can do to not reach out and touch her.

  Holy God, she smells good.

  She’s so involved in her task that she has no fucking idea what she’s doing to me. If it weren’t for this smock I’m wearing, she’d have a very good idea since my sweat pants are most definitely sporting a tent that could keep the rain off small children.

  When she’s done and she runs her hands through my hair to check her accuracy, I almost combust. I think I startle her when I suddenly push my chair back and stand up quickly.

  “Uh, I have to go jump in the shower to wash the hair off,” I say, walking away.

  “McBride,” she calls after me.

  I turn around to see her come up to me and reach around my neck. I swear I think she’s gonna kiss me and in the state I’m in, I’m likely to throw her down and take her right here on the kitchen floor.

  Stick to the plan, Gav.

  She unsnaps the smock and drapes it over her arm. Then she notices my . . . situation. Her eyes bug out and a blood-red blush comes over her.

  I shrug my shoulders and walk away. “I’ll be out in five, Mitchell.”

  She doesn’t respond. I don’t expect her to.

  After my extremely cold and uncomfortable shower, we put in the DVD. Not that I don’t want to spend the time with her, but ‘Ben-Hur’ is a long movie. And what really pisses me off is that I’m going to have to watch the entire thing again. Because after that haircut, and then with her sitting next to me touching my hand whenever she reaches in the bowl for popcorn, I have barely watched it. I have no fucking clue who Ben-Hur even is when she gets up to leave at midnight.

  “Do you mind if I keep the DVD?” I ask. “I’ll return it for you and pay any late fee. I just want to go over a few parts again.”

  “That’s fine,” she says, getting on her coat.

  I put my shoes on and pull a hoodie over my head.

  “What are you doing?” she asks.

  “I know you don’t think I’m going to let you walk home alone, Bay.”

  “I drove my scooter over here, Gavin,” she says. “It’s no biggie.”

  “What? That’s even worse,” I tell her. “Parking gar
ages at night are cesspools of muggers and rapists.”

  She rolls her eyes at me. “You know there are security cameras and emergency phone pods all over, right?”

  “Right, just like outside the stadium that day.” I look at her sternly. “I’m taking you home, Baylor.” I hold my hand out for her keys and she hands them over without an argument. In fact, she hands them over with a hint of a smile.

  Yeah, she wants me to take her home. She just doesn’t want it to seem like she does. I’m onto you, Mitchell.

  When she wraps her hands around my waist after she gets on the scooter behind me, I know without a doubt that another cold shower is in my very near future.

  We park the scooter and I walk her to her dorm. The whole way, I try to think of an excuse to get to see her again tomorrow after class. Then I remember something she said.

  “Practice got cancelled tomorrow afternoon, but I still need a workout,” I say. “You told me last fall that you wanted to learn to play. If you still do, I could teach you.”

  Her eyes light up and that adorable dimple makes an appearance.

  chapter ten

  “So, they aren’t called goalies?” she asks me.

  “No, they are, but we also call them keepers now,” I say, explaining the different soccer positions.

  “And you’re a center forward.”

  “Yes. Sometimes we’re called strikers,” I say. “So, a typical formation would be three defenders, four mid-fielders and three forwards. But that can change around a lot.”

  We make our way down the large practice field that sits mostly vacant today, with the exception of a few young kids and their dads playing down on one end. I’m happy that the weather cooperated with an un-seasonably mild day today. I was so looking forward to seeing Baylor’s shapely legs in a pair of shorts again. She didn’t disappoint me when she stripped out of her track pants once we got sufficiently warmed up.

  “So the center forwards have the most important job,” she says.