by Carmen, Roya
Only You
Roya Carmen
Only You - A steamy summer novella.
Roya Carmen
Originally titled Firecracker, and published in the Hot for Teacher anthology. © Roya Carmen, 2016
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976. Copyright property of the author. No part of this content may be reproduced or distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes without prior written permission from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters and locations are either the product of the author’s imagination, or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, events or locales, is purely coincidental.
Cover design and formatting: Calico Images
Editing: Joy Editing, CKMS Media Group
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Created with Vellum
Contents
Only You Blurb
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Epilogue
A note from the author:
About the Author
Also by Roya Carmen
The Ground Rules - Excerpt - Chapter One
Only You Blurb
A fun steamy Rom-Com novella. (standalone read)
A cynical good girl.
A cocky French artist.
And a hell of a steamy art lesson.
Can you fall in love in less than a week?
Following a brutal break-up, Sammy Stone gets roped into attending an art retreat with her best friend Trish. Sammy can’t draw to save her life, but her beautiful art teacher is more than happy to give her extra lessons.
Only You brings you to the beautiful romantic city of Quebec and the colorful world of art. Set over a single sunny week, it's the perfect summer read.
Author's Note: This novella was previously published in the HOT for TEACHER anthology in 2016, previously titled FIRECRACKER. Contains sexual content and some coarse language - for adult audiences only. 18+
The You collection is a series of fun & steamy stories set in summer time - perfect beach reads.
1
I’m making a complete mess.
Who knew it was so hard to paint polka dots on one’s own nails? Other women make this kind of thing look so easy.
But then again, I’m not most women. I’m a “character,” my bestie says. That might just be Trish’s way of saying neurotic, irrational… crazy.
I screw the bottle of black nail polish shut, my pinkie pointed toward the ceiling. My nails look like shit, and I couldn’t care less. I’m not going anywhere tonight. I’m probably destined to never go anywhere again. I think I’ll just stay home for the rest of my life and watch romantic comedies and take up crocheting again. I used to be really good at it. I’m sure it’s like riding a bicycle.
The intercom buzzes. I know it’s Trish, so I buzz her up, unlock the door, plop on the sofa, and get back to my laptop. I managed to leave it for a whole ten minutes while I was attempting to art-ify my nails.
Complete fail.
I check out Melanie’s page again. I’m obsessed. Ever since the breakup a week ago, I’ve been fixated on her. I want to see what she has that I don’t have. I want to know why Matthew chose her over me. Why he would end a two-year relationship to be with her?
I hate her. I really do. I know it’s horrible to hate someone, and I don’t think I’ve ever hated anyone before.
But I really do hate her.
It’s pretty serious actually. She’s been the star in many macabre scenarios I’ve cooked up—it’s amazing what the mind can conjure. Seriously, I think I’ve missed my calling; a career as a crime fiction novelist might suit me perfectly—it would be a lot more interesting than bookkeeping. One scenario involved the roof of her house collapsing on her. In another, she was shaving her ridiculously long legs in the bath, then her plugged-in hair dryer just happened to fall in. Of course, to my delight, she was fried to bits. I also dreamed up a scenario where she got bit by a black widow. I wonder if we even have poisonous spiders in Vermont. Probably not. Damn, why can’t we live in Australia?
To my pleasure (or horror—I’m not sure), all her posts are public, so I can efficiently stalk her. We’re not even friends, and she has no clue who I am. Well, that’s not quite true. I’m sure she knows something about me—she stole my boyfriend, after all.
There’s a new post! And this one takes the cake. This one beats the pic of her new slutty heels. She’s eating a three-scoop ice cream cone. Pleeaaase, I’m sure she had a few licks and the cone was trashed as soon as the photo was taken. Ice-cream-eating faker.
Speaking of ice cream, Trish swoops in with a tub of fudge marble—my favorite. She walks straight to the kitchen and tucks it away in my tiny freezer. She shakes her head as she inches closer, then takes a seat next to me on the sofa. “You’re stalking her again, I see.”
I don’t want to admit it, but yes. It’s addictive. “Check out the latest photo she posted. She drives a freakin’ red Mustang convertible, for crying out loud. I don’t even have a car.”
“But your beach cruiser is really cool,” Trish chirps. “I love the basket… and the little bell.”
I roll my eyes and scroll down her feed. “And look at this photo. She’s drinking a cool foreign beer and laughing with the boys.”
“Well… um...” Trish says, at a loss for words. Then she spots the flashy red shoes with the colorful platform heels. “Oh my God, those shoes are fabulous, and I’m not even into shoes.”
I glare at her. “You’re not helping.”
“I’m sorry,” she adds quickly. “I just like the artsy design. That’s all. I’m sure she can’t even walk in those things.”
“You’re probably right. I hope she falls and breaks her neck.”
“So… you still want her to die, I see,” she says with a sigh.
“Yes.” I’m not ashamed to admit it—I want her to die. I wonder if it’s a sin to wish for someone’s death, but I don’t ponder it too long. “And look…” I point at the photo which got to me the most—a comical heart with the words I love butt sex. “And then she wrote, ‘Not every week, but once in a while, it’s fun to stir shit up.’”
“That’s kind of clever,” Trish points out with a laugh.
“God, you’re not fucking helping. Why don’t you go back home and take your tub of ice cream with you?”
“Jeez, I don’t think I’ve ever heard you swear, Sammy,” she says, and then she softens her tone. “You’re really upset. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this angry… ever.”
Trish is a real friend. I can see it in her eyes—she’s just as upset as I am. When you hurt, real friends feel your pain and hurt as much as you do. She pulls me to her and wraps her arms around me. I instantly fall into sobs.
“She’s the ‘cool girl,’” I cry. “He left me for the fuckin’ cool girl.”
Trish shakes her head, almost as pissed off as I am. “That’s it… do you know where she lives? Let’s go beat up that bitch.”
“I know where she lives, but she has a black belt in judo. She’d probably beat the shit out of us.”
“Damn, I’m starting to really hate this bitch. Wait… you know where she lives?”
I shrug. “She’s everything I’m not. She’s perky and blond, really cool, speak
s three languages, and loves anal. How the hell am I supposed to compete with that?”
“Oh, Sammy,” she says, pulling from me. She takes my face in her hands. “You don’t, sweetie. You don’t compete with that. You’re completely different than her. You’re sweet, quirky, and smart. You’re your own person. And if she’s the one he’s looking for, he obviously wasn’t the one for you.”
I’m still crying buckets—I just can’t help myself. I can’t help comparing myself to her. She’s all legs and long blond hair, big blue eyes and tiny waist. I’m short with plain brown eyes and hair, and I’d love to lose those last ten pounds. One or two people have told me that I remind them of Selena Gomez, but I’m pretty sure they needed to have their eyes checked.
She stares at me and winces. Her large bohemian earrings clang as she shakes her head. “Damn, I wish I could stay with you this weekend.”
I sit up straighter. “It’s okay, Trish. I’ll be fine, I promise.”
“But you’re driving yourself crazy. You need to stop stalking her. You’re going to go insane.”
“I know I should stop. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“You’re acting crazy. And honestly, I’m a little afraid that you are actually going to go try to off her,” she adds with a shaky little laugh.
It’s not funny. Because I do feel as if I could really kill the woman.
“Seriously,” she says, “you wouldn’t do well in prison. They don’t have Netflix and chai lattes in prison.”
I blow out a breath. “I know… I wouldn’t survive.”
“I wish I didn’t have that art retreat. I want to stay with you.”
“But you’ve been looking forward to it forever,” I point out. “I’ll be fine.”
I know I won’t be though. It seems I’m even more upset now than I was last week when Matthew brought me to that fancy restaurant and dumped me. We’d even been planning to set off to Florida this week for a holiday. I had the week booked off work.
At least he had the decency to not lie when I asked him if there was someone else. But now, I wish he had. Then I wouldn’t be obsessing over this woman, imagining her with him—kissing, walking hand-in-hand, eating spaghetti like a scene from Disney’s Lady and the Tramp, and having stupid anal sex.
Trish bounces off the couch. “I have an idea! It’s fabulous. I’m not sure why I didn’t think about it before.”
I stare at her, wide-eyed, wondering what the hell she’s going on about.
“You come with me,” she almost sings. “Come to the art retreat with me. A week in Québec City, surrounded by French-Canadian hotties, it’ll be the perfect distraction. You’ve already booked the week off work. Your passport is still good, right? It’s meant to be.”
I stare at her, speechless.
“What?”
“I can’t draw to save my life. I don’t have a single artistic bone in my body.” I stretch out my arms, displaying my hands. “Just look at these nails.”
She stares at the mess I’ve made of my nails and actually winces. “God… what were you trying to do?”
“I was trying to get my nails to look like hers,” I explain as I scroll down Melanie’s feed. “See?”
She glares at the photo of Melanie’s perfect pink and black-polka-dot mani for what seems like eternity. I turn my gaze to the screen and glare too. Fuck her… and her pretty nails. I jerk back when Trish snaps my laptop shut with a loud slap.
“That’s it,” she scoffs. “No more internet for you. You’re coming with me, and I don’t want to hear another word. No ifs, ands, or buts about it.”
2
We’ve been in the car for almost four hours. Trish drives me crazy as she keeps fiddling with the radio. We crossed the border a while ago, and ever since, I’ve been enjoying the new scenery and really gotten a kick out of all the French signs I don’t understand.
About an hour back, we stopped at a decrepit little gas station in the middle of nowhere. It was quite the experience. Two really filthy bearded guys helped us out, but they didn’t speak a word of English and stared at us as though they wanted to eat us for dinner. One had a toothpick in his mouth and leaned against one of the gas pumps, ogling me as I stretched my legs while Trish filled the tank. I spent a lot of time checking out all the weird chocolate bars they had and finally settled on a box of Smarties and some Cheetos. All the while, filthy dude number two checked out my ass. I probably shouldn’t have worn such a short skirt.
But I have to admit it was sort of flattering.
I dig into my bag of Cheetos, my fingers a bright shade of orange. “How long?”
“Soon,” she says.
As we drive, more buildings and people appear, and the architecture becomes more beautiful. I can tell we’re getting close, and I’m eager. This was a good idea—I’ve barely thought about Matthew and Melanie these past few hours.
“You should check out the brochure for the art retreat. It’s right here,” she says, tilting her head toward the car center console, which is full of junk: papers, gum packets, a bottle of water, and a sports drink. “Check out the back... there’s a picture of the teacher. He’s a real hottie.”
I get excited as I dig through her junk for the brochure. “You shouldn’t even be looking.”
“Hell, just because I’m engaged doesn’t mean I’m blind or dead.”
I finally locate the pamphlet. The art all over it is absolutely stunning. I’ll admit I don’t know much about art—that’s more Trish’s thing—but I love the stuff on this brochure. I quickly flip to the back before I even read a single word.
Oh wow. This man has the most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen. Clean-shaven in a simple blue shirt, he wears small round glasses and seems young and kind. And yes, he’s quite attractive. “Not bad.”
Trish smiles, staring straight ahead. “I’m sure the class will be full of women.”
“I bet.”
“And we’ll be the hottest, most talented ones there,” she adds with a smirk.
I laugh. “Oh, I know you’ll be. I’ll just be the loser who doesn’t know how to draw a stick man.”
She shakes her head. “No matter, Sammy. We’ll have a good time, and that’s all that counts.”
* * *
I plop my rear on the white bed. My gaze darts around the room and takes in the brick-lined wall, the quirky lamps and art. “Can I tell you how much I love this room? It’s so rustic and quaint.” The brick wall adds to the old European flair this whole city seems to have. “I feel like I’m in Paris.”
“Yes, the rooms are as small as they are in Paris,” Trish points out with a frown and stares at the shower smack in the middle of the room, next to her queen-size bed.
“Yeah, the shower right in the room is kinda weird,” I say with a laugh. “Good thing we know each other well.”
We’re staying in Vieux-Québec—that’s the old district and apparently the place to be. I slide the sheer curtain aside and peek at the view through the small window in our room. “Oh, look—the artists’ market is right below us.”
She hangs her clothing in the small armoire. “Unpack your stuff right now. We’re in here for fifteen minutes, then we’re going to grab a bite and heading to Maurice’s.”
“Ooooh.” I perk up. “Who’s Maurice?”
“It’s a dance club not far from here. Did you pack that hot little pink dress I told you to bring?”
I nod, staring at my nails, which are bare. I’m up for a night out on the town but have no interest in hooking up with anyone. I don’t even care how sexy their French accents are.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” she presses. “Get going, and then I’ll do your makeup.”
Shoulders slumped, I reluctantly get off the bed and reach for my luggage.
“Once I’m done with you, the Frenchies won’t be able to keep their hands off you.”
* * *
The club is amazing—a fabulous old mansion nestled between modern building
s. It’s unlike any club I’ve ever been to. We stand amongst the crowd of beautiful people—everyone is young and gorgeous. The girls have tattoos and wear heels as tall as the sky. I feel a little out of place with my little pink cocktail dress and Dr. Martens boots, but the thought of dancing all night in heels makes me cringe.
“Everyone is so hot,” I point out to Trish.
She smiles. “All the men have beards and man buns.”
I scan the crowd, overwhelmed by the sound of a foreign language. Most everyone seems to be speaking French. “Yeah… I don’t quite know how I feel about the man bun. I mean, what happens when they let their hair down? It’s kind of weird when your guy has longer hair than you.”
Trish laughs. “I keep forgetting you’ve only had two boyfriends… and they were both conservative. Girl, you need to hook up with a man bun tonight.”
I stifle a laugh—she can be so funny sometimes.
The place is dark and moody, and the music is good—Top Forty hits. I feel young and free again. It’s been forever since I’ve been at a club—Matthew never liked them. He preferred staying home with a movie or watching sports with a cold beer in his hand. He was a simple guy, and I never had a problem with that. But apparently he had a problem with me.
I shake my head. I’m not going to think about him tonight. I’m in this amazing place, surrounded by beautiful people, and I just want to dance.
A few colorful drinks in, I feel really good. I’m not only dancing; I’m floating a little. Mark finally shows up. Mark is a college friend of Trish’s, and he’s lived here for a few years. She was pleased as pie when he told her he could join us for the night. He’s all smiles when he joins us on the dance floor, and they’re practically glued together, shouting into each other’s ears and attempting to have an actual conversation amidst the noise.
