by Molly E. Lee
Table of Contents
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Discover more of Entangled Teen Crush’s books… The Heartbreak Cure
Offsetting Penalties
Saving It
The Sweetheart Sham
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2018 by Molly E. Lee. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.
Entangled Publishing, LLC
2614 South Timberline Road
Suite 105, PMB 159
Fort Collins, CO 80525
Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com.
Crush is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.
Edited by Stacy Abrams and Stephen Morgan
Cover design by Liz Pelletier
Cover art from iStock
ISBN 978-1-64063-460-2
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition January 2018
For Esther and Dylan.
You’re the smartest people I know, and no one deserves their dreams more.
Prologue
Gordon
One Year Ago
I leaned against my locker, anxiously waiting for Zoey to show up at hers across the hallway. I held Branch in front of me and smoothed my thumb over the rough edges of bark that still clung to the small stump trophy.
I’d drawn two dots for eyes and a curved line for a grin in the center of the wood back when Zoey had first given me the thing. The two twigs jutting out of it had looked like arms, so I figured it needed a face, but Zoey was the one who had named it when I’d given it back to her.
I couldn’t believe it was still intact, with as many times as we’d passed it back and forth.
I smirked as I held him in my hand, thinking back to the day Zoey had won him.
It was the fifth grade earth conservation competition. Our class was vying to collect the most recycling and earn money for a fund-raiser. Zoey and I were—as usual—the top two contenders, even then not backing down from any sort of competition. This was one of the first times we’d get a real taste for victory, since it came with the wicked-cool earth-themed prize of our very own stump trophy. Funny how something so small could seem so important back then.
I’d collected throughout my neighborhood, and Dad had even driven me to towns close to ours to collect, too. We’d thrown tubs worth of recycling into the back of his truck. Add everything that had come from the restaurant, and I was sure I’d won.
But I hadn’t.
Zoey had beaten me by a few pennies. The win was that close.
I remember when the teacher handed her the piece of wood that symbolized her win. I’d felt like I had lost the gold medal in the Olympics. I’d swallowed my tears, but she must’ve been able to read it on my face because after the bell rang, she stopped me in the hallway. Even back then she’d had these magnetic eyes I was terrified to look into…but that day I couldn’t not see her.
“Here,” she’d said, and handed me the stump trophy.
I’d tilted my head as I held it. “But you won.”
“But you worked hard, too,” she said, smiling as her eyes darted from the wood up to me. “You deserve it.” She’d spun on her sneakers, rushing off before I could try and give it back.
I did end up giving it back to her, though. In the sixth grade, when she’d lost a debate against me for our final-grade project in government class. We’d both gotten As, but I’d been declared the technical winner. So, after class, I’d handed her the stump back, only this time with the addition of his face drawn on it. Her smile had clogged my airways enough that I couldn’t speak.
By the time she gave him back to me when I lost the eighth grade class president slot to her, she’d named him Branch.
Our little tradition had become something I looked forward to, something that no one else understood but the two of us, and something that took the sting out of losing.
Even now, on my first day of senior year, I couldn’t picture ever tossing him in the garbage. Not when he’d been such a staple in both our lives.
When I spotted Zoey in the hallway, I quickly shoved him onto the top shelf and slammed my locker, hers only ten feet away from mine.
This morning’s edition of the e-newsletter had two highlighted features: one, Braylen was collecting sign-ups for students willing to donate comics to the school’s library. And two, Mrs. Rollins had posted the application link for a prestigious full-ride scholarship. The latter was the reason I’d waited for Zoey. I needed to know if she was my competition for the scholarship or not.
Her long blonde hair fell in perfect waves down her back. If I hadn’t been so tense, I might’ve smiled at her. Maybe tell her that pink sparkly stuff she wore on her lips was the perfect weapon—it had distracted me on more than one academic debate.
“See the newsletter?” I shouted instead, causing a few students who’d been walking by at that moment to jump.
Zoey glanced over her shoulder, whirling around after she’d closed the locker door. “What’s up?” she asked, her brow furrowed.
It wasn’t the first time I’d singled her out for conversation, but the previous times had revolved around debates, competitions, or school fund-raisers. Nothing too social. Not that this was social, but it wasn’t exactly competition, either. Not yet. Not until I knew what her plans were.
I cleared my throat, trying to mentally prepare myself for a year-long battle. “Did you see this morning’s newsletter?” I asked when she’d walked over.
“Yes.” She tilted her head, her cell phone in one hand like she’d forgotten she was in the middle of texting someone. I made a mental note to talk to her in between competitions more often to spare her the suspicious confusion she had written all over her face.
“Are you signing up?” I asked. There was no need to specify what I was asking. Just as I knew there was only one thing of significance in the newsletter—though Braylen’s attempt to get more graphic novels in the library was admirable.
Zoey chuckled like she’d thought I was going to ask her the answer to a physics equation. “You’re kidding, right?”
I laughed, too, though it was forced. It was a stupid question. Why would the heir apparent to Handler Organix need to go out for a full-ride college scholarship? Her dad had likely already paid for her entire four years, but I couldn’t help wanting to know for sure. I sighed, and the smile that followed was genuine. “That’s a relief.”
Confusion danced over her green eyes for a moment, and I couldn’t help but shift my weight. It was hard to not notice how gorgeous the girl was when we weren’t actively competing, though I’d always known she was pretty. It was her ruthless wit that intimidated me, and kept me fighting tooth and nail for as long as I could remember.
&
nbsp; My first memory of her was in kindergarten as we battled for a coveted popcorn prize in the class spelling bee. She beat me because I missed one letter in my word.
It never stopped—with each grade we found ourselves pitted against each other. Sometimes I’d surpass her and others times, she’d best me. I didn’t know if it was because we thought the same or because we were the only two students who enjoyed academics as much as we did, but either way there was never a time in my life where she wasn’t some kind of threat. I was thankful this time wasn’t one of them, but I’d be just as happy to send Branch her way on just about any other competition coming up.
“I didn’t think so,” I said when she continued to stare at me. “But I had to know.”
“Okay,” she said, the glitter in her pink lipstick catching the light when she smiled. “You looking forward to our senior year?” she asked, and cringed a little bit after the forced question.
“I am now.” I wasn’t sure if anyone else in the class would be going out for the scholarship, but if Zoey wasn’t, then my odds went way up. “You?” I asked, gripping the bag on my back tighter.
I couldn’t help but want to both keep talking to her and not—a weird battle that always raged inside me whenever I was around her. She was the reason I stayed so sharp, and yet she had also hand delivered so many insane blows academically. It was hard to know whether to like her or hate her, so we usually hung out in the awkward area in between.
“Anything that gets me closer to Stanford has me excited.”
“I heard you’d applied there, too.” I swallowed hard. It wasn’t like if she attended I couldn’t, but it was an instant physical reaction—Zoey’s presence meant my battle instincts were up regardless if there was nothing to fight over. History of competition ran deep.
She startled and her eyes darted to her cell. An alarm bell was blaring, but I couldn’t read the note on her screen. “I’ve got to bolt,” she said, motioning over her shoulder.
“For sure,” I said, waving her off. “Good luck.” I pressed my lips together after the words blurted from my mouth. I didn’t have a clue what I was wishing her luck for.
“You, too.” She laughed as she spun around and damn near power walked down the hallway.
Well, at least I won for being most awkward on the first day of senior year.
Chapter One
Gordon
The sound of clanking pans and the occasional sizzle drew me to the kitchen. I glanced at my watch, noting I was right on schedule for the day—5:15 a.m. I cherished this early morning time where the house was usually silent and I was able to enjoy it for ten blissful minutes before having to rush off to my dad’s restaurant to help prep before school.
I couldn’t wait to get to school today because I’d find out if I got the scholarship my entire future depended on. Dad insisted he’d somehow help pay for whatever I couldn’t cover, but if I got this? He wouldn’t have to spend a dime.
“Why aren’t you at the restaurant?” I asked as I rounded the corner.
My dad froze at the stove, the spatula in his hand stuck in midair as if he was vying for the best mannequin pose award. The non-movement was a rarity—normally you put my dad in front of a burner and it looked like an electric choreographed dance that ended with the best food in a fifty-mile radius.
I sat my bag on the table, the lightness of it throwing me. Today was graduation and I’d handed in all my books before leaving school yesterday.
“Dad?” I urged when the smell of bacon turned this side of burned.
His back was to me so I couldn’t see his face, but he jolted and went back to work flipping the bacon and eggs that filled the cast iron skillet. “Morning.”
I walked farther into the kitchen, rolling up my sleeves to wash my hands. “You need some help?” I eyed the prep bowls filled with cheese, sliced ham, and green onion beside him.
“No,” he said, sliding the over-easy eggs onto one plate and the greasy bacon onto another covered in paper towels.
“Something going on at the shop today? Another pipe leak?” My stomach twisted. The last thing we needed was another plumbing problem. I kept pushing Dad to move into a more modern space, but his partner, Hank, always quashed the idea. And of course he would. He was the most silent of silent partners unless he was voicing his distaste for any kind of change I pressed for at the shop.
Why change something when it’s working? he’d say whenever I tried to emphasize the importance of keeping the menu fresh as the seasons changed. We were two years overdue for an updated gas range, but again, Hank hadn’t found a thing wrong with the old stove, so we didn’t get a new one. I had thought about busting the thing on more than one occasion just so he’d have to give us the funds for updates, but I knew my dad wouldn’t approve.
“No, nothing like that.” Dad moved slower than usual, as if there was an extra twenty pounds sitting on his shoulders. He pushed past me without making eye contact and set the plate of food on our small kitchen table before taking a seat across from it. “Eat.” He pointed to it.
I sank into my designated chair, my heart in my throat. My fingers trembled slightly as I reached for the fork. “Dad, I can’t remember a day in the last eight years that you were here when I woke up.”
He rubbed his palms back and forth as he chewed on his lip.
Scooping up a bite of egg, I gave him time to sort out whatever was on his mind. As I munched the perfection that was his cooking, I half prayed he wasn’t about to launch into some sentimental speech about graduation that would leave us both in tears. Neither of us needed that shit today. Or any day.
After I’d cleaned half the plate, I dropped my fork. “What is it?”
Dad jerked his head up from where it had hung between his shoulders like a scolded dog, his eyes finally locking with mine. Something in the look made me push the plate away, a cold dread filling my gut and threatening to expel the goodness I’d just consumed.
“I wanted to wait until after graduation to tell you this,” he said, sucking in a deep breath. “But I can’t put it off any longer.”
I shifted in my seat, swallowing the acid that bubbled in my throat.
“Son, I…” He raked his fingers through the hair that was as brown as mine. “I have to close the shop.”
I slit my eyes at him, my heart thudding in my chest like I’d just kept pace with Fynn at one of his track meets. “For renovations?” I asked, but I could tell by the twisted way he shaped his face that the idea was a distant dream.
“No. I have to sell it.”
The floor dropped beneath my seat. “What?” I asked, sure I’d heard him wrong.
He laid his hands flat on the table, leaning back in his chair as he sighed. “There was a complication with the books and now…we’re out of funding.”
A vacuum sucked damn near all the air out of the room. “That doesn’t make sense. Our revenue was up twenty percent for the year the last time I ran the figures,” I said, rolling my eyes up to my head to pull the date out of my brain. “Four months ago.”
“I know,” he said. “But that was before Hank…”
The longer he didn’t finish the sentence, the lower my mouth dropped as I stared at him. “What?” I asked again, sharper this time.
“He made some bad calls. Took money from the accounts without me noticing. And I don’t have any extra to keep us afloat after what he did.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t have time to find another partner to help with the transition to make up for what Hank took. I either have to sell the restaurant or win the lottery in the next three days.” He laughed, but it was too forced.
“Who are you going to sell it to?” I asked, unblinking, unbelieving.
“Look, I don’t want to go into all the details with you. This isn’t for you to worry about.”
I scoffed at him. “Are you joking?” I slammed my fist on the table, unable to contain the building rage roaring in my chest. “I’ve worked my ass off at that shop
since I was ten!”
“I know. I know.” He raised his hands, trying to calm me. I took a deep breath, but it wasn’t enough to stop the adrenaline from shaking my limbs. “Mr. Handler has been asking me to sell for years. Flipping prime business spaces is a hobby of his. I’ve already spoken to him. We just have to have a face-to-face.”
“What does he want to turn it into?” I growled, thinking of him bulldozing it to make way for a pompous gold member’s only club or some shit like that.
“A coffee shop,” Dad said. “I think.”
“Tell him we’ll invest in a damn espresso machine.”
“It’s not that simple, son. Like I said, Mr. Handler isn’t looking for a partner.”
No, he was looking for another way to add to his already insanely large bank account. Zoey Handler—the one girl who was capable of beating me in any given academic competition, and did so any chance she got—would likely be able to get through to her father. Maybe if I spoke to her about it…but we weren’t exactly friends.
Sure, we’d had civil conversations after competitions, regardless of who won or lost, but she wasn’t exactly a favorite in the contacts on my cell. Besides, I wasn’t sure if I wanted the heiress to the Handler fortune to know about my family’s financial desperation.
“You’re on your way out, anyway,” Dad continued, forcing a smile. “Stanford, remember? There is no way you’re not getting the scholarship. Right?”
My shoulders sank, my stomach dropping as if the floor had disappeared beneath me. The way he emphasized the word right told me everything I never wanted to know. If I hadn’t earned that scholarship, then I wouldn’t be attending Stanford. The college I had spent my life working for—studying more than partying, taking all advanced courses, clocking in countless extracurriculars, right alongside plugging in hours at my dad’s restaurant to help him.
