Signs of Attraction

by Laura Brown

  Dedication

  To Kari,

  My cheerleader. You believed in this story when I lost faith. You loved my characters and helped me shape them into who they needed to be. And you pushed me forward when I would have held back. It’s because of you this book is what it is.

  Acknowledgments

  THIS NOVEL HAS been quite the journey for me. I am so fortunate to have had many eyes on it at different stages, all helping me arrive at this final, incredible point. From early readers to late, each one of you has made a huge difference. Thank you for everything, Josie Leigh, Adrienne Proctor, Alice Bell, Cara Bertrand, Vanessa Rodriguez, Karen Mahara, Heather DiAngelis, and Mom. Your feedback was invaluable.

  Kari, Heather, and Vanessa, you rock at ripping apart my novels and helping with ideas on how to put it back together—or just listening to me babble. You’ve held my hand through this amazing journey, and I feel so blessed to have you by my side.

  To writers I’ve met and interacted with on Twitter and Facebook, you all are amazing and talented and full of support and encouragement. I’m so grateful for your friendship.

  I had the amazing fortune of entering Signs of Attraction into writing contests, even more so for being picked for the final agent round. Thank you, Sharon Johnson, E. L. Wicker, and Elizabeth Briggs. Not only did you choose me as a finalist, but you also provided feedback on my first chapter as well as tons of support. And a special thanks to SC for not only running a diverse contest but also choosing me as a finalist.

  To my agent, Rachel Brooks. Thank you for falling in love with Carli and Reed. You challenged me to bring them to the next level, and I’m so thrilled I get to work with you. You deserve a superhero cape with your name on it!

  To Elle Keck and the entire Avon Impulse team. Thank you for loving this story as much as I do and embracing all the diverse elements presented. You not only gave me a chance but helped put hearing loss front and center in a romance novel. I feel so fortunate to be an Avon writer and to work with all your talent.

  To my husband and son. I know it hasn’t always been easy to handle the time commitment writing takes. I love you both, and you’ve helped me achieve this goal, even when distracting me from my computer.

  Contents

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  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

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  An Excerpt from Change of Heart by T.J. Kline

  An Excerpt from Montana Hearts: True Country Hero by Darlene Panzera

  An Excerpt from Once and For All by Cheryl Etchison

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter One

  Carli

  THE MINUTE THE professor opened his mouth, I knew it would be a long semester. The muffled sound struck a vein deep inside my skull, vibrating tension destined to trigger one of my frequent headaches. I slid my hand under my long brown hair, scratched my cheek as a decoy, and then ran my finger over the microphone of one hearing aid. Static rang loud and clear, confirming my suspicions. My hearing aids were fine.

  The professor was the problem.

  His booming voice ricocheted an accent off the walls of the small classroom. An accent I identified as . . . not from around here. Dr. Ashen’s bushy mustache covered his top lip. Students shifted. Pages turned. Pens moved.

  I flicked my pen against a random page of my thick book. Words spilled from his bottom lip, and I couldn’t understand one fucking sound. Survival skill 101 of having a hearing loss: blend in. I’d grown skilled at blending, almost mastering the task of invisibility. No cloak required. Take that, Harry Potter.

  I always, always, always heard my teachers. Until now.

  Big Fuck-Off Mustache + My Ears = Not Happening.

  Dr. Ashen glared my way. He tapped his textbook and went right on speaking.

  I couldn’t see his book; tapping it didn’t help. Moron. I rolled my eyes and landed on my neighbor’s book. I scanned the words, hoping something, anything, would match. Nothing did. What a waste of a class. I shoved my book and slouched in my seat. No way could I keep up. No chance in hell.

  With a sigh, I focused on two women standing by the dry-erase board, both dressed in black, heads close as they chatted. They looked much too old to be students, but considering this was an undergrad/grad class, anything was possible. Perhaps they were assistants to Dr. Ashen. They looked to be following him about as much as I was, but that didn’t mean they weren’t his assistants. They could’ve heard his spiel one too many times before. I wished I’d heard him at least once.

  One of the women wore the coolest glasses with tiny gemstones in the corners. If I ever needed glasses, I wanted those. Chic Glasses Lady glanced at the clock and said something to the other, who had long brown hair in perfect ringlets. If my hair had curls . . . I shouldn’t be shopping for fashion styles in my linguistics class. They moved to get their bags as the door opened.

  You know those corny movies where the love interest walks in and a halo of light flashes behind them? Yeah, that happened. Not because this guy was hot, which he was, but because the faulty hall light had been flickering since before I walked into the room. His chestnut hair—the kind that flopped over his forehead and covered his strong jaw in two to three weeks’ worth of growth—complemented his rich brown eyes and dark olive skin, which was either a tan or damn good genetics.

  Not that I paid much attention. I was just bored.

  And warm. Was it warm in here? I repositioned my hair, thankful it not only covered my aids but also the sudden burning of my ears.

  Dr. Ashen stopped talking as Hot New Guy walked over to the two women, shifted his backpack, and began moving his hands in a flurry of activity I assumed was American Sign Language. Chic Glasses Lady moved her hands in response while Perfect Ringlets addressed our teacher.

  “Sorry. My car broke down, and I had to jump on the Green Line,” Ringlets said, speaking for Hot New Guy.

  Car? In the middle of Boston? Was this guy crazy?

  Dr. Ashen spit out an intense reply. Chic Glasses signed to Hot New Guy, who nodded and took a seat in the back of the room.

  For the next two hours—the joy of a once-a-week part-grad class—I watched the two interpreters. Every half hour or so they switched, with one standing next to Dr. Ashen. They held eye contact with one spot near the back of the room, where Hot New Deaf Guy sat. I’d never seen ASL up close and personal before. My ears, faulty as they were, had never failed
me, at least not to this degree.

  From the notes the students around me took—pages of them, according to the girl on my left—this class was a bust. I needed this to graduate. Maybe my advisor could work something out? Maybe—

  Beep. Beep. Beep.

  Dammit. To add insult to injury, my hearing aid, the right one, traitorous bitch, announced she needed her battery changed. Right. This. Second. And if—

  Beep. Beep. Beep.

  I reached into my purse, rummaged past lip gloss, tampons, and tissues, and searched for the slim package of batteries. I had no choice. If I ignored the beeping it’d just—

  Beep. Beep. Beep.

  Silence.

  Fuck. My left ear still worked, but now the world was half-silent. And Dr. Ashen was a mere mumble of incomprehension.

  I pulled out my battery packet only to find the eight little tabs empty.

  Double fuck. No time to be discreet. I tossed the packet onto my desk and stuck my head in my bag, shifted my wallet, and moved my calendar. I always had extra batteries on hand. Where were they?

  A hand tapped my shoulder. I nearly shrieked and jumped out of my skin. Hot New Deaf Guy stood over me. It was then I noticed student chatter and my peers moving about. Dr. Ashen sat at his desk, reviewing his notes. All signs I had missed the beginning of a break.

  Hot New Deaf Guy moved his fingers in front of his face and pointed to the empty battery packet I had forgotten on my desk.

  “What color battery?” asked Perfect Ringlets, who stood next to him.

  “I . . . Uh . . . ” The burning in my ears migrated to my cheeks. I glanced around. No one paid us any attention. Meanwhile I felt like a spotlight landed on my malfunctioning ears. Hot New Deaf Guy waited for my response. I could tell him to get lost, but that would be rude. Why did my invisibility cloak have to fail me today? And why did he have to be so damn sexy standing there, all broad shoulders and a face that said, “Let me help you”?

  He oozed confidence in his own skin. Mine itched. Heck, his ears didn’t have anything in them, unless he had those fancy-shmancy hearing aids that were next to invisible. The kind of hearing aids I assumed old dudes wore when their days of rock concerts gave them late onset loss. Not the kind of aids someone who had an interpreter at his side would wear.

  At a loss on how I was supposed to communicate, or where my jumbled thoughts were headed, I waved the white flag and showed him the empty packet like a moron.

  He nodded, twisted his bag around, and found the batteries I needed.

  I glanced around the room again. No one looked at us. No one cared that a hot guy holding out a packet of hearing aid batteries threw my world off-kilter.

  This class was going on the List of Horrible Classes. Current standing? Worst class ever.

  He tapped the packet and signed. A few movements later, much like a speech delay on a bad broadcast, the interpreter beside him spoke.

  “Go ahead. Sharon says this guy has a thick accent. Must be hard to hear.”

  This could not get any more humiliating. I glanced at Perfect Ringlets, who I hoped was Sharon, and she nodded.

  “Thank you.” I took out one battery, pulled off the orange tab, and popped it into the small door on my hearing aid before shoving it back in my ear. Hot New Deaf Guy still hovered over me, wearing an infectious smile, a smile that made my knees weak. I handed the packet back. “You don’t wear hearing aids, so why do you have batteries?”

  He watched Sharon as she signed my words while putting the batteries away. “I work at a deaf school. Most of my students have hearing aids and someone always needs a battery. I keep a stash on hand,” he said via the interpreter.

  “That’s nice of you.”

  He smiled again. I wished he would stop. The smiling thing, I mean. Every time he did, I lost a brain cell. “My name’s Reed.” He stuck out a hand when he finished signing.

  I looked at his hand, a bit amazed at how well he could communicate with it.

  Not an excuse to be rude. I reached for his outstretched hand. “Carli.”

  Sharon asked me how I spelled my name. Reed looked at her instead of me. When I touched him, a spark of some kind ignited and dashed straight up my arm. A tingling that had nothing to do with my ears, or his ears. His eyes shot to mine and I froze. Unable to move or do anything human, like pull my hand back. All I could think of was the fact that I’d never kissed a guy with a beard before.

  I broke contact before I turned into a tomato. “C-A-R-L-I,” I said to the interpreter.

  He signed something to her that she didn’t speak to me. Then she walked away and he squatted next to me. Soft jeans flexed over his knees, molded to his sturdy frame. He reached for my notebook—still blank—and pen. Even with the beard, he had a soul patch beneath his full bottom lip. My own bottom lip found its way into my mouth and my teeth clamped down. I tried to stop but couldn’t. A hot guy was taking an interest in me. It wasn’t a common occurrence.

  Why don’t you have any communication accommodations?

  He wrote in scrawly, messy words across an angle on my notebook. Close to me, so close if I leaned a little our shoulders would brush.

  I shrugged, careful not to brush him, and seized the pen.

  What would I have? I don’t sign.

  He laughed, the sound low, guttural, and without restraint. A bit jarring since not a single other noise had come from him. As he wrote, I glanced around again. Still, no one watched us. I swore eyes bored into the back of my head but couldn’t find any proof.

  You could have a CART provider.

  I wanted to write what the fuck is that? but figured it might be boorish. Instead, I stared at him, slightly less boorishly.

  He laughed again, the sound no longer low, but free, without any societal restrictions. It hummed in a quiet manner across my veins. He started scribbling again.

  CART, I forget what it stands for. You know those court stenographers who type everything in court?

  He looked up at me while I read. I nodded. I’d seen some frumpy librarian-type woman positioned near a judge in images before.

  The university provides that to Deaf and Hard of Hearing students. You should take advantage of them, especially in a class like this.

  He capitalized deaf and hard of hearing. I had no idea why. Everything about this conversation contradicted with my upbringing. I wanted to squirm, allowing only my foot to tap a jittered dance. I’d never spoken to a deaf person before. I’d never had one sitting in front of me, full of a normalness I never possessed. I picked up the pen.

  I can handle things on my own.

  Motto of my life. My father all but had it engraved over the front door: handle it yourselves. Next to that? Perfection is never overrated.

  Reed studied me with intense eyes. My breath caught as I resisted the urge to lean in closer. I tried to look away, really I did, but found I couldn’t.

  I’m sure you can. But getting help to hear is being independent. Without Sharon and Katherine, I wouldn’t be able to take this class. And without CART, neither will you. I can get it set up for you. Give it a try. What do you have to lose?

  He reverted to studying me intently as I read his words. I looked at him and wondered how to respond. This was so completely out of my comfort zone, yet he had a point. Without help, I was dropping this class.

  Dr. Ashen made a loud noise. Startled, I looked up, creating a chain reaction when Reed glanced over to the interpreters. He quickly scribbled something on my paper before heading back to his desk.

  I took a deep breath, ready for the last hour of the class. If a God existed, my inability to hear the professor was only due to my hearing aid battery dying.

  Nope. Was it too late to convert to atheism? I understood the spittle from Dr. Ashen more than any of his words. I turned my attention to the interpreter. Chic Glasses Lady, Katherine, stood nearby, out of spittle range. They must have learned fast. Her hands moved smooth and easy, her face full of expression.

  I knew I
wasn’t going to hear anything for the rest of the class. My head ached, and I was done pretending for the day. Instead, I focused on Katherine’s hands, fluid movement from one sign to the next. The beautiful motion transfixed me.

  Something deep inside me shifted. I had no clue what she said. But I felt it. Her words made sense on some level.

  I knew exactly one sign, I love you, and that wasn’t about to help me. I spent the rest of the class watching her, no longer hearing Dr. Ashen.

  When I finally looked at my paper, Reed had written a phone number down, plus text me if you want to talk.

  Students around me wrote notes. The interpreter signed. Dr. Ashen continued saying nothing I could infer. And I really didn’t want to delay my graduation. I didn’t come this far in my quest to be a teacher to fail now.

  I pulled my phone out of my back pocket and plugged Reed’s information into a new text message.

  Me: How do I get this CART thing?

  Chapter Two

  Reed

  THE LETTER ARRIVED on my twenty-third birthday. A stained, wrinkled, off-white envelope I equated with a bag of flaming shit. It lay on the passenger seat, burning a stink hole into the latte-colored fabric as I drove. The smell a clear indicator that nothing good waited inside.

  Only one reason remained for the adoption agency to contact me. I gripped the wheel as I swerved to avoid hitting a pothole. My stomach swerved just to be an emotional bastard.

  The letter had to come from my birth parents. Two adults who gave me up at the age of three without looking back. Two adults who nearly destroyed my life. Two adults I had no desire to ever meet.

  At the red light, my car idled, the rumble of the motor filling the car and everything inside. I gripped the wheel tighter. The letter stuck out its tongue, taunting me. Don’t you want to know why you were deserted? Maybe they feel bad. Maybe they need a kidney. I exhaled, eyes on the red light. Fuck it. I grabbed the offending piece of shit and tore it open. A folded letter fell into my lap, addressed to the agency. A straight slit indicated it had been opened and passed along.

  The light turned green, and I tossed the letter back to the passenger seat. City congestion crippled traffic to a slow crawl. Gas. Brake. Gas. Brake. The letter a beacon to my peripheral vision. I snatched it and looked down at the return address of the original letter.