“Where are you going?” he asks, dark brows furrowed.
“Somewhere.”
Nevada reaches for me, wrapping his hand around my wrist in a silent plea for me to stay. “Do you have a boyfriend back in California? Is that what this is about?”
“What? No,” I say.
This guy is relentless.
“Then go on a date with me.” Nevada rises, standing beside me, and I can’t help but notice his sweeping height, his broad shoulders, and the way the top of my head fits perfectly beneath his chiseled jaw. “Friday.”
“Why?”
His expression fades. “Why?”
The bell rings. Thank God.
“I was new once. I get it,” he says, fighting another dimpled smirk. God, I could never get tired of looking at a face like his. “And, uh … I think you’re really fucking hot.”
His tempered smirk morphs into a full-blown smile and he doesn’t break eye contact for so much as a fraction of a second.
Biting my lower lip and trying my damnedest to keep a straight face, I decide I won’t be won over that easily. It takes a lot more than a sexy smile, some kind words, and a curious glint in his sunset eyes. If he truly wants me … if this isn’t a joke and he honestly thinks I’m “really fucking hot,” he’s going to have to prove it.
“Yardley from California,” he says, expression turning serious, “let me take you out. One date.”
“Bye, Nevada,” I say, gathering my things and disappearing into a crowd of students veering toward two giant trash cans.
I don’t wait for him to respond and I don’t turn around, but I feel him watching me—if that’s even possible. There’s this electric energy pulsing through me from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. I’m not sure if it’s excitement or anticipation or the promise of hope … but I can’t deny that it’s real and it’s there.
Making my way to the second floor of Lambs Grove High, I find my English Lit classroom and settle into a seat in the back.
For the tiniest sliver of a moment, I imagine the two of us together. In my silly little daydream, we’re laughing and happy and so in love that it physically hurts—the kind of thing I’ve never had with anyone else.
My stomach rolls—maybe hunger and butterflies—and I retrieve my notebook and pen and hook my bag over the back of my chair.
The tardy bell rings and a few more students shuffle in. My teacher takes roll call before beginning his lecture, but I don’t hear any of it.
I can’t stop thinking about that beautiful boy.
Chapter Two
Don’t Jinx It
Nevada, age 17
Two Months Later
It may have taken twelve dinners, seven movies, and a whole lot of convincing, but Yardley Devereaux is finally mine.
“We were a bit surprised when Yardley told us she had a boyfriend.” Yardley’s mother, Rosamund, centers a tray of prime rib on the family’s dining room table, her pale hair curled and dusting her collarbone. A cornflower blue sweater is draped over her shoulders, sleeves tied.
Yardley squeezes my hand beneath the tablecloth.
“I think she was on the fence about me for a while,” I say with a wink.
“Didn’t want to jinx anything,” she clarifies. And she speaks the truth. For the first several weeks, she thought I was trying to date her as some kind of dare. It didn’t matter how much I tried to explain that I wasn’t that kind of guy.
She believed what she wanted to believe.
I’m learning that she’s stubborn like that.
“Bryony.” James Devearaux clears his throat and raps his knuckles against the table to grab his youngest daughter’s attention. She yanks a set of white earbuds from her ears before wrapping the cord around her iPod with obvious reluctance. “Nice of you to join us. How was your day?”
I’ve been around James all of twenty minutes, but already he seems like a genuine family man … not that I’d know what that looks like. My dad bailed so long ago, I don’t even remember what he looked like, or the color of his eyes. But James seems to adore his girls. And Yardley said he relocated his entire business to Lambs Grove so he could give them a better life … though from what Yardley says, it sounds like their life in California was pretty damn amazing.
Bryony exhales, picking at the food on her plate. “Fine, Dad. It was fine. We learned square dancing in P.E. and nobody wanted to be my partner, but it was fine.”
James’ lips press into a hard line.
Yardley says her sister’s having a hard time adjusting to her new school, and I get it. I was in eighth grade when we first moved here. Middle schoolers are a tough crowd. If I hadn’t become the star of the basketball team, I’d probably still be that new kid sitting in the corner of the cafeteria with holes in his jeans, eating his reduced-fee lunch by himself.
Funny how as soon as people realize you could possibly lead your team to the state championship, it doesn’t matter how “poor” you are anymore. Everyone loves you. Everyone wants to be your friend. Nobody messes with you.
“What do you do for fun?” I ask Yardley’s kid sis.
Bryony shrugs.
“You play any sports?” I ask.
She shrugs again.
“You’re tall. I bet you’d be good at basketball,” I say. “I can teach you a few things if you want? Work with you on some skills?”
Her round eyes lift onto mine from across the table and she sits up. “Really?”
“Of course.” I wink.
“Nevada, that would be amazing,” Rosamund says, her hand splayed across her chest as her eyes light. “So kind of you to offer. Bryony, isn’t that the sweetest?”
Yardley’s mother strides to the kitchen before returning with another hot dish. Every move she makes is fluid and patient. She takes her time, unrushed, a gentle smile on her pale pink lips. I’ve never seen a family so content to be in each other’s company.
Dinners at my place usually consist of Mom ordering pizza after working a double. Hunter grabs his plate and takes it to his room, shoving his face while he plays Xbox. My sister, Eden, usually eats at the table, doing her homework. Mom and I use the TV trays, perching ourselves in front of that night’s episode of Wheel of Fortune.
Nobody asks how anybody’s day was. Mom isn’t coldhearted. She just doesn’t have the energy to care. I don’t hold it against her. I know she does her best.
Dinner at the Devereauxs is like something out of a heartwarming sitcom. Everything is perfect and cozy and you can literally feel the love in the air. Rosamund’s food belongs in a five-star restaurant and James’s bellow of a laugh is contagious. Even Bryony begins to warm up to me after some more basketball talk.
When we’re finished, James apologetically excuses himself to his study to take care of some work emails, Bryony retires to her room upstairs, and Rosamund wipes down the kitchen while humming a sweet little tune.
I love it here.
I love the Devereaux family.
And I love my girl.
In the strangest way, it just feels like … home … in a way that nothing else ever has before. There’s this warmth here, like everything is washed in contentedness.
Yardley slips her hand into mine, offers a smitten smile, and leads me into the family room.
We take a seat on a flower-covered sofa with plaid pillows, the two of us bathed in warm lamplight. A built-in oak bookcase on the other side of the room is covered in family photos, sending a squeeze to my chest.
She has everything I’ve ever wanted—the tight knit family with the unwavering bond. Unconditional love. The simplicity of togetherness.
I want this someday.
I want it all.
And I want it with her.
Lifting my arm around her shoulder, Yardley nuzzles against me, intertwining our fingers again and again until they fit just the way she wants them to.
Everything just feels … right. Like this is exactly where I’m supposed to be. The thought of l
eaving here tonight and going to my own home fills me with preemptive emptiness.
“So when can I meet your family?” she asks, resting her hand over my heart and glancing up at me.
Dragging in a hard breath, I contemplate my response.
I’ve yet to take anyone—friend or otherwise—to the leaky little trailer we’ve called home the past four years. For one, the place is a pig sty that smells like cat piss from the big gray tomcat Eden insisted on taking in a few years back. And second, my brother commandeered the bedroom we’re supposed to share, so I sleep on the sunken-in sofa most nights. I’m seventeen and I don’t even have a proper bedroom.
Our trailer is much too small and much too inadequate for what we need, and it’s not the kind of place a girl like Yardley should remotely be stepping foot in.
And then there’s my family … Hunter’s a little shit who can’t keep his mouth shut most of the time and Eden will either ask too many questions or try to embarrass me depending on which mood she’s in—and that girl has more moods than sharks have teeth.
My mom is nothing like Rosamund. In fact, she couldn’t be more different. Between raising three teenagers by herself and working two jobs and barely making ends meet, the last thing she needs to do is worrying about slapping a smile on her face and entertaining company. I wouldn’t do that to her.
“I don’t know.” I rub my palm along her arm.
“What do you mean, you don’t know?” Yardley half-chuckles. She thinks I’m kidding.
“My family … they’re different from yours,” I say, words careful. “And my house …”
Yardley shrugs. “So?”
“It’s nothing like what you have.”
She shrugs again. “I’m not dating your family, and I couldn’t care less where you live.”
“I know … I just …”
“Nev, you could be living in a cardboard box on the side of the train tracks with hobos for a family and it wouldn’t change the way I feel about you.”
“Good to know.” I press my lips flat.
Yardley sits up, bringing her knees against her chest and facing me. “I like you, Nevada. So much. Nothing is going to change that. I’m actually insulted that you’d even assume I’d be that shallow.”
Interlacing her fingers through mine, she crawls into my lap before kissing me. Her soft lips linger against mine, and I drag the soft scent of her vanilla rose lotion into my lungs, trying not to think about how catastrophic it would be for her father to walk in right now.
I imagine him screaming at me, chasing me out of his happy home, his jovial spirit gone.
All of this … gone.
“Yardley.” I place my hands on her hips, trying to guide her off of me. I don’t want to do anything that could possibly jeopardize what we have, but she won’t budge.
“Look at me,” she says as her hands cup my face.
We lock gazes, and I could live like this forever.
“I’m still getting to know you and already I’m crazy about you,” she says. “I think about you all the time. When I close my eyes, I picture you. When I’m lying in bed, I’m thinking about you and wondering what you’re doing right then. When I wake up in the morning, I get these butterflies in my stomach just thinking about seeing you in the halls at school.” Yardley’s lips curl at the sides and it makes me smile. She’s so fucking beautiful with her deep blue gaze, pouty mouth, pointed features, and silky chocolate-colored hair. “I’m in this, Nev. You’ve got me. And there’s nothing in this whole entire world that could ever change that.”
Chapter Three
Heartbreaker
Yardley, age 16
Two Months Later
His handwriting is adorable; neat and tiny yet masculine. I can tell he took his time writing this. I trace my fingertips over his inky blue letters before folding the lined sheet of paper I found in my locker. He must have slipped it through the slats between classes last period.
The three o’clock bell rang two minutes ago and the halls are filled with students bustling about, trying to get to practice or art club or the parking lot, but I stand in the midst of all the chaos, waiting for the boy I love more than anything in this world.
I spot him immediately as he strides through the sea of backpacks and water bottles and letterman jackets with his signature confident stride and dimpled smirk.
Our eyes lock as he makes his way toward me, and my stomach somersaults the way it did the first time he kissed me—which was a bold move on his part the night of our very first date.
I pretended to be shocked. He claimed he couldn’t resist.
“You ready, Dove?” he asks, calling me by my middle name before leaning down to steal a kiss in front of dozens of fellow students. One hand holds the strap of his backpack over his shoulder while his other rests on the small of my back. Lately he’s been picking me up for school in the morning and taking me home, but today is different. The basketball season is officially over, and his entire afternoon is free.
“You know I hate when you call me that,” I say.
“Why?” he asks. “It’s sweet and pretty. Like you. You’re my dove.”
Fine. I exhale, deciding I’ll allow it. But only because it’s him.
“What do you want to do?” I ask as he leads me to the parking lot where his rusted pickup waits in the back row. It’s unapologetically worn and covered in dents and dings and it idles louder than a freight train, but Nev doesn’t give a damn what anyone thinks.
He never has.
It’s one of the things I love most about him.
Nev shrugs, squeezing my hand. “Don’t really care what we do. I just want to spend time with you.”
We climb into his truck and Nevada fusses with the radio. He loves classic rock and I’ve learned to love classic rock.
Watching him sing along to Led Zeppelin at the top of his lungs, his fingers tapping the steering wheel, always puts a smile on my face, and long after we’ve said our goodbyes for the night, I tend to find myself humming Kashmir or Heartbreaker.
The songs, much like him, refuse to leave my head.
I scoot to the center of the bench seat and take his hand, resting my cheek against his shoulder as he sings along to Going to California. The faint scent of his drugstore cologne wafts from his t-shirt, and I love how soft his hands are against mine.
Anytime we’re together, I can’t stop touching him. It’s like I can’t get close enough no matter how hard I try, and I know he feels the same.
We’re inseparable.
Two hopeless, lost causes.
We’ve fallen harder and faster than either one of us expected in a way that neither one of us could possibly begin to explain.
Everything about us just … fits. As different as we are, somehow, we’re eerily in sync. It’s easy to be with him. And there’s no one else I’d rather smother in kisses or daydream about in the most inappropriate of ways.
Nevada Kane is sheer perfection.
I’ll never love anyone else half as much as I love him right now—I swear on my life.
He pulls into my driveway a few minutes later, and he doesn’t have his seatbelt unfastened for two seconds before I jump into his lap and press my mouth against his in an impatient fervor.
“Yardley …” he says, and I know he’s trying to stop me.
He’s always like that anytime we’re here, like he’s afraid my parents are going to banish him from our house for so much as thinking about touching me, but Dad’s at work and Mom’s picking up Bryony from the junior high, so we’re safe.
“Shut up and kiss me.” I drag my fingers through his thick, dark hair, my hips grinding against his and my heart going a million miles an hour. But he remains tempered and restrained despite the fact that I can tell he’s already starting to get hard. Sitting up to catch my breath, I look him in the eyes. “Fine. Let’s go to our spot.”
“Right now?” His brows rise, and immediately I know what he’s thinking. Our “spot” is
the middle of some farmer’s cornfield about eleven miles outside of town. Typically, we go there at night when we can’t be seen, and we spend our time making out, slow dancing in front of his headlights, and pretending like the rest of the world doesn’t exist.
But it’s broad daylight.
“I want to … you know,” I say, biting my bottom lip. “I think I’m ready.”
Nevada exhales. “You think? Or you know?”
“I know.” I kiss him. Hard. My fingers interlace behind his neck as I drag his soapy, masculine scent into my lungs. “I want you to be my first.”
His mouth curls against mine. “Only if I can be your last.”
Chapter Four
Don’t Get Too Caught Up
Nevada, age 17
One Month Later
“Nev, I feel like you’re never around anymore.” My mom stands over the kitchen sink, washing tonight’s supper dishes while Eden does the drying. “I get home from work most nights and don’t hear you pull in until I’m long in bed. Where you been?”
My brother, Hunter, snickers. “He’s got a girlfriend.”
Mom cranes her neck in my direction, examining me with a curious simper. “That true?”
Eden glances my way as well, but she knows. In fact, I’ve gone to her for advice a time or two, mostly asking about things girls like and ideas for dates and gifts. But I trust her when it comes to those things. She’s a few years older. A helluva lot more mature than my pimple-faced brother.
I shrug. “There’s a girl I talk to sometimes.”
The Rebound Page 2
