by Dahlia Adler
That seems to satisfy him, and he touches his forehead to mine. “We can still make out in the gazebo like kids, though, right?”
I tilt up my face, just enough for him to feel the ghost of my breath on his lips when I say, “Like national fucking champions.”
Anyone who’s been waiting for this book since Last Will and Testament knows it took me over a year to write. There were times I was afraid I would never finish. It’s by virtue of the editorial guidance of Katherine Locke, the ass-kicking of Lindsay Smith, and the endless patience and encouragement of Yoni Fisch that I did, and I am endlessly appreciative and awkwardly love-filled.
Massive thanks are due to the early readers and critiquers who took that finished manuscript and made it shine as much as possible—my inimitable West Coast Bae, Candice Montgomery; hair-petter extraordinaire, Sara “s” Taylor Woods; the glorious Jenn Fitzpatrck (whom I will happily pay in Cajun fries anytime); Patricia Riley, to whom I owe approximately everything; and, of course, Maggie Hall, because I can’t even belt a dress without begging her for guidance.
Thank you to the fabulous Sarah Henning for going above and beyond with her copyediting, and to Randy Shemanski and Bethany Robison for the valuable bonus sports knowledge. Much gratitude, too, to my secret proofreading weapon, Christina Franke, and World’s Greatest Formatter (and Cait’s namesake) Cait Greer. None of my books would be complete without their stunning covers, and for this one as for all my others, all my heart-eyed emojis are once again turned on Maggie Hall.
And finally, thanks to everyone whose love, support, knowledge, and readership gets me from one day to the next: the brilliant, kickass, inspiring authors of the Hideaway; my CP loves; the awesome readers in Dahl’s Den of Iniquity; my co-mods (yes, I’m gonna keep calling you guys that forever, no matter what); the clans of Yay and WBW; my peppermint-scented archnemesis; the amazing and generous bloggers, reviewers, and readers whose words, graphics, and letters have meant the world to me; and my family, who is definitely not reading this. (Though Sash and B, if you guys are, I love you both, and thank you for not telling me.)
Dahlia Adler is an Associate Editor of Mathematics by day, a blogger for the B&N Teen Blog by night, and a writer of Contemporary YA and NA at every spare moment in between. She’s the author of the Daylight Falls series, Just Visiting, and the Radleigh University series, and she lives in New York City with her husband and their overstuffed bookshelves. If you give her a macaron, she just might fall in love with you.
More often than not, you can find her on Twitter as @MissDahlELama, and on her blog, The Daily Dahlia: http://dailydahlia.wordpress.com.
Turn the page for a sneak peek at the first chapter of Book #3 in the Radleigh University series,
I’ve been betrayed.
To the left of me in our blue-velvet-lined booth at Delta, Lizzie Brandt is actually fucking giggling at whatever Connor, her boyfriend of nearly a year—a year—is whispering in her ear while she sips from a highball of scotch.
On my right, Cait Johannssen is trash talking about some sort of sports…thing, which is totally typical except that she’s doing it with her fingers laced through her boyfriend Mase’s.
And I…I’m the lone wolf.
Okay, I’m not that lone—Mase brought a couple of friends to the club from the Radleigh University basketball team, and one’s left hand is about three inches from learning that I’m au natural under this dress—but still. Boyfriends. Serious ones. Who even does that?
“So, Frankie.” I jolt to attention at the sound of my name, and realize Connor’s spoken it, and now everyone’s looking at me. “I hear congratulations are in order.”
“For what?”
Cait snorts. “Only you wouldn’t even blink at the fact that you’re getting a whole freaking exhibit at an art show.”
“Oh, right. That.” I feel a little blush coming on and take a quick sip of my vodka with cranberry juice. “It’s not a big deal. I had stuff up at the last show, too.”
“Yeah, but you didn’t have your own exhibit,” Lizzie says firmly, raising her glass in the air and nearly sloshing it over her hand. I’m not sure whether it’s her third drink or her fourth, but she has definitely entered the “proud, cheerful drunk” portion of her evening, which is my favorite Lizzie phase. “This is huuuuge. We should have a party at the apartment to celebrate. Let’s have a party!”
“We’ve been back at school for thirty seconds,” says Cait, taking a sip from the single light beer she’s been working on all night. She’s on a hardcore campaign to win the lacrosse captainship that should’ve been hers this year, and cleaner living is factoring into that in a major way, sadly for the rest of us. “You’re already party planning?”
“Hey, I declared a major—”
“Yeah, one you got lucky as fuck accepted a bunch of your random classes toward it,” Cait reminds her.
“Whatever—you’re just jealous because Cultural Studies is about sixty-nine times cooler than Econ.” Lizzie takes another sip of her drink. “Anyway, I declared a major, I have the perfect resume-building part-time job this semester, my brothers are doing great, and I actually still like this one,” she says, jutting her thumb in Connor’s direction. “Even you’re getting laid, Caity J! What’s not to celebrate?”
Cait plucks a peanut from the little bowl in front of us and tosses it at Lizzie. It smacks off Lizzie’s nose and bounces right into her scotch. “Ew, Cait!”
“My girl’s still got it,” Mase says fondly, nuzzling her neck.
“Fucking jocks,” Lizzie mutters, taking another sip of her drink, peanut and all.
“Hey,” Guy-with-his-hand-on-my-thigh chimes in with mock indignation. I’d actually kind of forgotten he was there.
“Yes?” Lizzie asks, blinking.
He doesn’t respond, and the rest of us crack up laughing, though Mase quickly cuts himself off to flash a sympathetic smile instead.
“Now that I think about it,” says Cait, “a party isn’t such a bad idea. Seems like a good excuse to drag Samara out of the room.”
The mention of Cait’s roommate makes me perk up in my seat. “Samara, huh? Yeah, I’m definitely on board with this party.”
“Oh God, stop it,” Cait begs, throwing a peanut at me this time. “For the billionth time, Samara is the literal top of the no-touching list.”
“Is she even gay?” Mase asks.
“No,” Lizzie answers at the same time I say, “Yes.”
Connor and Mase look between us, confused. Mase’s friend’s hand freezes on my thigh. “Wait, are you?”
“I don’t discriminate by gender or lack thereof,” I say, because sometimes, you just know “I’m pansexual” is going to be met with “What’s that?” followed by “Isn’t that just bi?” and finally “So, you’re down for a threesome?”
This guy is definitely that guy.
He blinks, and I can already feel him pulling back, but whatever. I turn to the others. “I’m telling you, that girl likes girls. I swear, I will prove it by Spring Break.”
“Please, no one take her up on that challenge,” Cait pleads.
“Sorry, Cait,” says Lizzie, “but you know I need to see how far Frankie’s rainbow magic extends. I think we should put money on this one.”
“You’re not putting money on Frankie nailing my roommate.”
Connor scratches his scruffy jaw. “That does seem to go a little beyond crass and into the realm of…”
“Lizzie-esque?” Cait fills in.
He smirks and says nothing, lifting his beer to his lips and taking a long drink.
“Why didn’t she come tonight, anyway?” asks Mase.
“She doesn’t have ID,” says Cait. “Doesn’t really drink. Hence a house party would be a way better choice for her, and frankly, I think she could use something, stat. She did not come back from South Carolina this summer a happy camper.”
“I can imagine,” I murmur, taking a sip of my own martini. If there’s one thing I defini
tely remember from my few conversations with Samara last semester, it’s that she and her family—most specifically her Republican politician father—don’t mesh very well. Lizzie’s right that Samara has never said a word to suggest she likes girls, but I’ve historically had pretty stellar gaydar, and it still pings every time I talk to her.
Or maybe I’m just flirting hard enough for both of us. It’s been known to happen.
“So, party? Friday night?” Lizzie suggests. “Tell your friends! I’d tell mine, but, well.” She gestures around the table.
The rest of us try not to snort with laughter and fail. Lizzie hasn’t exactly made herself the best-liked student at Radleigh University—fooling around with a taken fraternity president and hooking up with a TA who nearly loses his job over it aren’t really “Miss Popularity” plays—but God bless her, she doesn’t seem to mind.
“Sounds good to me,” I say cheerfully, imagining seeing Samara again in the comfort of my apartment. Just because I can’t touch doesn’t mean I can’t look.
Just then, a familiar pair of long brown legs walks in, and I down the rest of my martini and stand up. Racquel I’m-Sure-She-Has-a-Last-Name-Somewhere is always good for a dance on the floor, followed by a dance in the women’s bathroom, and all this talk of a girl I can’t have has gotten me very in the mood for a girl I can. “Speaking of potential party guests, I’ll…see you guys in a bit,” I say, popping open my glittery clutch for a Tic-Tac.
Lizzie follows my eye line to Racquel and groans. “Oh, great. That’s the girl I’m talking about when I say ‘the Loud One,’” she says to Connor in what isn’t nearly as quiet a whisper as she thinks it is.
“Guess we’re staying at my place tonight,” he replies as I make my way over to where Racquel is looking pretty damn good in a clingy red dress under which I’m guessing she’s wearing as little as I am.
“Count on it,” I call back over my shoulder. Samara Kazarian may not be certain about who or what she wants, but I sure as hell am.
