“Hold on, Mom. Let me put you on speaker.” Ouch. She knew all the tricks. “Jon’s here, and we’re near the filming, so no screaming, OK?”
“How far along are you?” Her mother’s voice was almost a whisper.
Jon patted his chest to tell Sarah that he had this question. “Four months, Kate. And Sarah is sucking it up like a trooper. All those months of throwing up and she hardly ever complained.”
Sarah rolled her eyes at him.
“Oh, honey. You were sick. Why didn’t you tell me?”
Jon smiled at Sarah because he knew he had successfully dodged the question about birth control.
“We wanted to wait to make sure the baby took. I didn’t need the extra stress of worrying about how to deal with the questions if something happened. But now that we’re past the first trimester, we thought we better tell you before the press outs us,” said Sarah with a confident smile.
Jon smiled back and massaged her shoulder, trying to convey that she had chosen her words well.
“I thought you were on the pill. How did this happen?”
Sarah banged her head sideways, one, two, three times against Jon’s shoulder while she held her thumb over the phone’s microphone. “I knew she wouldn’t let it go.” She moved her thumb.
“I guess it was stress, Mom. You’re happy for us though, right? Because I’m excited about the baby.”
“Of course I’m happy for you. What kind of question is that? When are you due?”
“Mid-April. Will you tell Dad?”
“Don’t you want to tell him yourself?”
“No. It was hard enough telling you,” said Jon.
“I’ll tell him,” answered Kate. “This is wonderful news. It needs to be shared, and we’ll have to plan a shower for you when you’re home.”
“Thanks, Mom. Jon’s got to get back to filming soon. I’ll call you tomorrow. Love you.”
“Love you, too. And take good care of my grandbaby. Oh, that sounds so weird.”
“We will,” said Jon as he leaned down and kissed Sarah’s belly again. He couldn’t get enough of touching it.
“So what do you think your parents will say when we tell them?”
“I already told them. Auhh,” he grunted as the back of her hand slammed into his stomach, hard. Damn. “I guess it’s not a good time to tell you that besides Leslie, Nick, Liam, and Isaac know, too.”
She shook her head in disbelief. “You wouldn’t let me tell Jessica, and you blabbed to all those people?”
“I had to tell someone. You’re having my baby.” He couldn’t stifle the smile on his face as he rubbed away the pain on his abdomen.
“Is that why your dad has been so nice to me? He sent that big bouquet of flowers—my favorite, pink peonies. It’s gorgeous. I couldn’t figure out why he was sending me flowers.”
“I think the pregnancy might have something to do with it, but I’m pretty sure he’s buttering you up because he wants your help rewriting the dialogue on the screenplay for his next film. He asked me if I thought you would have time before Christmas. I told him he would have to ask you and give you credit on the film.” He knew Sarah would be excited. His father was a tough person to please, and if he trusted her, she would have to know how good of a writer she was.
“Well, if I get my name in the credits, I will,” she said with a smile.
He couldn’t resist her lips any longer. He pressed her into the dirt and covered her mouth with his. He didn’t know what his life with Sarah would bring, but she would always be his more—the one who made life worth living.
The beginning
Sneak Peek
at Schussler’s Next Novel
Between Friends
I HAND THE CASHIER my card, and the hair on the back of my neck stands on end. I know what it means—he’s here. I can sense it. Scanning the tables in the coffee shop, relief trickles through my limbs. I don’t know what is wrong with me. Maybe it’s my lack of caffeine. I take a relaxing breath to calm my insides, and then I hear it.
“Hey, babe.”
The sound pierces my spine, and I freeze as a chill spreads across my skin. Damn. I haven’t heard that familiar voice in almost four years, but it still burns in my mind. I know I should pretend I didn’t hear him. I know I shouldn’t turn around, but I can’t stop my body. His bright blue eyes and that cocky half smile almost knock me to the floor. God, he looks good, better than I’ve ever seen him. Our eyes meet, and I’m completely gone.
My body would jump him right here in the coffee shop, if not for the little control my mind still possesses. My world cultures professor stands three spots behind him in line. I struggle to put up my wall quickly and smile, but he knows me so well. Those eyes could always read me. It’s like we’re back in his Ford pickup in high school and no time has elapsed. I move down to the end of the counter to wait for my latte, trying to put as much physical distance between us as I can.
“We should catch up,” he calls to me as he pays for his coffee.
My breath hitches, and I know he heard it because he chuckles. Damn my professor for being here. “I have a few minutes right now,” is all I can squeeze out as I try my hardest not to let my body win. Limit our time together. Do it now and never again. In public—always keep it in public. I grab my skinny latte off the counter, hoping he will decline.
“I’ve got all the time in the world for you, Meg,” he says with that smile.
He pulls out a chair at a nearby table, spins it around, and straddles it. He crosses his arms over the top of the chair’s back and stares at me as I hang my purple jacket over the back of my seat.
“Your coffee is ready,” I remind him, and he lifts his chin in acknowledgment, like he always did. When he returns to the table, he pulls his sweatshirt off over the back of his head, in the sexy way that always meant “get ready, Meg,” and turns his chair back around before sitting down. I know it is a mistake to be here without my friends for support. They are my backbone when it comes to Chase Maxwell. If my girls were here, they would tell him where to shove that beautiful face of his. I should just get up and walk out the door right now. Why does my body react to him? No one else does this to me. I’m always in control, except with him.
“Short hair suits you,” he says, raising his chin again.
“What does that mean?”
“Relax, Meg. It’s a compliment. I like it. It’s feisty. You really need to learn how to take a compliment.”
I am impressed with what comes out of my mouth next. “It’s just you I have a hard time believing.”
Then he looks at me with those blue eyes and says, “Don’t hate me. I never meant to hurt you.”
“But you did,” I say. I can do this, I think for a second, until he reaches out and touches my hand. The goose bumps shoot up my arm. I can tell where he is looking, and I’m grateful for the thick sweater I’m wearing. I quickly pull my hand back, tucking it away on my lap. Here we go again.
“You left me, remember?” he says, his blue eyes penetrating mine.
“You gave me no choice.” I don’t want to rehash this, so I’m relieved when the text from Alli buzzes on my phone. It gives me an out. I can tell him that I have to meet her. I’m sure he remembers how neurotic my roommate is about being on time. I set my phone on the table, readying my excuse—big mistake. Always good with his hands, he snatches it off the table and quickly punches in his number to send himself a text.
I stand up and slide my jacket back on. I hold my hand out for the phone. “I need to go,” I say as convincingly as I can.
“No, you don’t,” he replies, looking up at me. He’s the only one who can see through my walls. How does he do that?
“I just want you to know. I went through rehab. I’m clean.”
I look at him skeptically.
“Have been for two and a half years,” he claims. “I miss you, Meg. I gave up all my old friends after treatment. You weren’t one of my drug buddies, and no one knows me lik
e you. I just want to talk. You’ve got my number now. I have yours. Let’s talk.”
I nod, and that cocky smile appears again. God, I hope I can handle this.
As I leave, I consider dropping my phone down the storm drain on the way to the bus stop, but I just can’t. Part of me has wanted to run into him. I knew I would someday. I ran into his younger brother last summer. His dark hair so different from Chase’s, but his eyes were the same and it threw me off. He carried a toddler in his tattoo-sleeved arms, and the boy had Chase’s eyes, too. His brother hugged me like I was his long-lost sister, and we chatted on the sidewalk for an hour. He told me then that Chase had gotten into rehab but didn’t offer his number or a way to contact him, and it took everything I had not to ask. I told myself then that being clean didn’t matter, but when I see him now, I don’t know what to think.
I finish my coffee waiting for the bus and toss my empty cup into the garbage can on the sidewalk. The late February wind bites up my short ski jacket as I peer down the street hoping to spot my bus turning the corner. Instead, I see Chase jaywalking across and getting into a bright yellow sports car. It’s not a make I recognize—too expensive. He must be selling drugs instead of using, or maybe he’s turned to pimping.
The bus comes before he pulls out of his parking spot, so I don’t get a closer look. The heat on the bus is stifling and such a change from outside that I unzip my jacket to get some balance.
My phone goes off in my pocket, and I pray it isn’t Chase. I need more time to recover. The text is from Peterson.
U R coming to the game tonight, right?
I totally forgot about the game. Dylan Peterson and I have this standing date for the Gopher basketball games. His younger brother plays, and his family has a block of six season tickets. His parents don’t go that often and even when they do, Peterson always brings me. He calls me his lucky charm. Every game I’ve missed, the team lost; and every home game I’ve attended, they’ve won. I can’t explain it. I think it’s just a coincidence, but Peterson swears it’s me. I don’t mind; I like basketball, and it’s free. I reply: What time are you picking me up? He probably is placing a bet and wants to make sure my plans haven’t changed.
Dylan: I’ll be out front at three thirty.
Me: Why?
Dylan: I owe U dinner, remember?
Me: Yeah, I remember. You’re supposed to cook it. R U cooking?
Dylan: No time. We have a game tonight.
Me: At least your culinary skills won’t kill me.
Dylan: That’s what I said. See ya soon.
Peterson and I have been seeing each other off and on for a while now—mostly off. We met at a basketball game, and that is really all we have in common. He’s a big guy who played football in high school and lives in a frat house off campus. He’s entertaining to hang with and kind of like one of my brothers, only bigger and not an asshole. We don’t have a serious relationship and we both date other people, but during basketball season we pretty much only see each other. It’s just an understanding we have, not that it would upset me if I caught him out with someone else. It wouldn’t. And he doesn’t have any claim on me, but dating someone else would complicate game night. It doesn’t matter to me. I don’t get serious with anyone anyway, not since Chase broke my heart.
***
Peterson picks me up, and we meet up with four of his buddies at Keane’s Pub for dinner. I get a burger and fries, and of course, Peterson eats most of my fries. Why do guys always assume that a girl is too full to eat her fries? Give me enough time and I can finish them.
My mom used to say that my metabolism would slow down someday and all the food I eat would find its way to my thighs. It hasn’t happened yet. I can still eat what I want, and she didn’t stick around long enough to say, “I told you so,” so it doesn’t matter what she thought. Maybe I’ll be lucky and not have to spend my life eating nothing but lettuce.
When we get to the game, Peterson plants a kiss on my lips before the first buzzer. The kiss is full of excitement and anticipation and part of his ritual. He’s very superstitious and very predictable. We watch the Gophers annihilate the Huskers with a forty-six-point spread and talk player statistics most of the game. Statistics is the reason I like the game. Statistics is my thing. I especially like basketball because of the sheer number of points scored in a game. The ratios are less subjective, more concrete.
Most guys don’t know that I have a gift with numbers. They hear that I’m an education major and think that I’m just some sweet little innocent that likes children. They don’t know that I can whip their butts at poker or blackjack because I count cards, or that I know more about sports statistics than they do. I don’t usually share that my second major is math and that I’ve been offered a fellowship for my doctorate. It just intimidates guys. They would much rather think I’m some hot little blond teacher. They don’t need to know. Dylan Peterson knows, but he doesn’t want to share the knowledge with his friends. He would much rather keep me to himself and pick my brain during basketball season.
Peterson gives me a fist tap and then dips me back for our end-of-the-game kiss. He’s so predictable. He rights me and squats down so I can climb onto his back. I slip into my jacket and jump on. He folds my legs around his waist and carries me out of the stands, showing no strain as we head up the stadium ramp. I know he can bench press three of me. He likes to brag about it to his buddies. When he gets us out into the cool night air, he drops me to the sidewalk and tucks me under his arm to keep me warm. He really is sweet, like a giant teddy bear.
We head back to his place, where the usual Friday night party is in full swing. Games aren’t usually on Fridays, and I don’t always see Dylan on nongame nights, so I’ve only made a couple of the house parties this spring. A year ago, my roommates would have met me at the frat house, but now I’m on my own with Peterson. My closest friend, Alli, is trying to maintain her grades until her acceptance letter for medical school comes. She’s applied to four schools, but her first choice is right here at the University of Minnesota. I know she’ll get into the U. Her father and mother are legacy med students, and her grandmother teaches at the medical school. Alli could get in through nepotism alone, but the fact that her MCATS were pretty close to perfect doesn’t hurt either. Alli doesn’t come out anymore. Maybe she’ll revive her social life after her acceptance letter comes. My other besties have already found the loves of their lives and aren’t motivated to go to a party with a bunch of drunks anymore. Jessica is practically married to Jeff—all she needs is the ring. They’ve been together forever, it seems. And Sarah, she snagged a famous Hollywood hottie on the Internet a year ago and already has her ring—four karats according to the tabloids. She moved out to LA two months ago to start her new life. I’m left here, stuck in limbo, so broken that I’m sure I’ll never find someone to love.
Acknowledgements
FIRST, THANK YOU to all the wonderful readers who continue to follow my work. You inspire me to keep writing. Thank you, Cathy, Mary, Stasia, Crystal, and Ann for beta-reading Between the Lies. I appreciate your honesty and enthusiasm. You keep my writing on track. Thank you to my editor, MNG, you are a crucial part of the book process and I appreciate your knowledge. Thank you, Christy, for proofreading at the end when my eyes began to blur. You saved me. Thank you to all the women at WOW (Women on Writing). You are a fantastic resource and just a great group to hang with. And finally, thank you to my husband for your patience, and for always believing in me. Without you, I would not know true love and this book would have been impossible to write. You are my more.
About the Author
SUSAN SCHUSSLER LOVES the happy endings found in fiction because they inspire real-life dreams. Growing up the youngest of eight children, she quickly developed a strong understanding of and respect for others’ points of view. There are many facets that make up an individual, and she learned this early in life. Since then she’s gathered degrees and worn more than her share of career hats,
but her passion has always been writing fiction. She draws upon her hectic childhood and the diverse individuals that she’s encountered throughout her life to formulate her characters and story lines. Find her online at www.susanschussler.com and discover insights into her book characters in her blog, A Life Outside the Books.
Between the Lies (Between the Raindrops #2) Page 39
