Copyright © 2015 R.C. Martin. All Rights Reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and other elements portrayed herein are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real persons or events is coincidental. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.
Cover Design by Cassy Roop at Pink Ink Designs ©2015
Formatting by Brenda Wright at Formatting Done Wright
To my brother, Jonathan—the Hustle Junkie who always reminds me to never give up.
And to everyone who longs for that forever kind of love.
Table of Contents
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Epilogue
Sneak Peek – Reckless Surrender
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Contact R.C. Martin
I wake to a screeching noise coming from the other side of my bedroom wall. “Ugh. Seriously?” I whine as I listen to the barely recognizable melody Sarah is singing in the shower. It’s too early to endure such torture.
I love that girl, I do, but she cannot sing. She’s been my best friend for the last three years and my roommate for the past two. She’s got so many things going for her, but the sound of her voice is almost worse than the beeping of my alarm clock, which isn’t even set to go off for another ten minutes. I’m half tempted to bang on the wall and signal my insistence that she stop—but I’m already up. What’s the point, now, really? She’s obviously in a good mood and I don’t want to ruin it.
Maybe if I join her, I’ll drown her out. At least in my own head, anyway.
I’m half singing, half humming as I make my way out of my room. We live in a three bedroom apartment just a couple blocks away from the CSU campus with my other half. Sarah and my rooms straddle the bathroom and Avery’s room is kitty-corner to mine. Lucky for her, she has a bit of a buffer from the sounds coming from the shower. Not that it would matter—Avery can sleep through just about anything.
I’m on my way to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee when I notice Avery’s long, dark hair draped over the arm of the couch. I peek over and see her stretched out, asleep under a pile of sheet music and a notebook. She’s still in a pair of running shorts and a t-shirt, cluing me into the fact that she didn’t even get around to changing into her pajamas. I smile, amused that she is currently the perfect portrayal of how we spent our Friday night. It most certainly wasn’t the most glamorous evening we’ve ever had, but finals week is only a week away and we’ve all been hitting the books aggressively the past few days.
Today, to break the monotony of our frantic studying, Sarah has volunteered to make us breakfast—us being Avery, myself, and our favorite neighbors, who reside in the apartment just below us. Sarah is fantastic in the kitchen. She’s the master of anything and everything sweet. This morning, we’ve been promised pancakes. My mouth is watering just thinking about them.
Sure that Avery will most definitely not want to be discovered in her current state when our company arrives, I decide to wake her. I make my way around the front of the couch and give her a little shake. I notice, with my hand against her arm, that her skin has turned a shade darker than mine—evidence that she’s resumed her outdoor runs. I’m not a runner. I prefer yoga—away from the elements, in a quiet space, on a cushy mat. Needless to say, my tan will probably not be catching up to hers any time soon. Not that I’m complaining, it’ll give people something else to help tell us apart.
Avery and I are identical, all the way down to the mole at the base of our necks. We’ve never really made it easy for people to tell us apart. Once you get to know us, I’m sure it’s no sweat, but if you don’t spend a lot of time with us—good luck. Aside from our physical appearance, our style is also very similar. We’re in each other’s closets all the time. Even our initials, A.J.G, are the same. The dead give away—in our opinion—is our hair. She keeps her long black hair cut halfway down her back; mine stops just past my shoulders.
“Avery,” I say with another gentle shake. “AJ, wake up.”
She groans and turns away from me.
“I’ll make us coffee,” I sing. I know I’m dying for a cup, which means she will be, too. We both have an incredible fondness for coffee—a taste we acquired our freshman year in college. It wasn’t because of too much studying or too much partying and not enough sleep; more like, too many opportunities to meet up with friends at one of the zillion local coffee shops in Fort Collins. “Sarah will be out of the shower soon,” I coax, in my continued attempts to rouse her from her slumber, “which means her stress baking will commence and breakfast will be ready before you know it!”
“Oh,” she sighs, slowly opening her eyes. “Oh!” she gasps as she pushes herself into a seated position. “I need to get up.”
I laugh, knowing for certain that her second oh came after she remembered Grayson will be joining us in just over an hour. It’s like pulling teeth getting her to admit it, but she’s so head over heels for the guy.
She moves to stretch, her muscles probably protesting her night spent away from her bed. We’re not tall, by any means, so she fits just fine on the couch, but I’m not surprised her body feels the difference. “Ugh. Seriously?” she mutters, dropping her hands to her sides. “She’s singing…I love that girl, but—” she cuts herself off with a shake of her head and I laugh my agreement.
“How about that coffee?”
“Please. It is half the reason I just got up.”
“What’s with the sheet music slumber party, anyway?” I ask as we make our way to the kitchen. “I thought you said you weren’t going to be up much longer after I called it quits.”
“I lost track of the time. This semester’s theory class is kicking my butt. I think I’ll do fine on the final, I just—”
“Oh, please,” I interrupt with an eye roll. My sister is practically a prodigy. She’s going to be a professional cellist—and I’m not just saying that out of sisterly pride. The girl can play. In fact, even that is an understatement. “You’re the best cellist this school has. I’m sure you’ll ace your final.”
She shakes her head as she grabs two coffee mugs. “My ability to play is not transferable to my ability to discern the intricacies that define music, AJ—I have to study just like everyone else.”
I roll my eyes again. She’s brilliant and will never be able to convince me otherwise.
I hop up onto the counter and watch Addie as she moves about the kitchen preparing our coffee. My
sister takes care of me like no one else can. We call each other my other half for a reason—I tell people all the time that she is proof that God loves me. We’ve been close always. Of course, we’ve had our disagreements and our fights, but we’re more than sisters and we’re more than friends. I’m convinced that sharing a womb with someone links them to you in a way that simply cannot be understood by anyone who isn’t a twin.
Sarah belts out a particularly shrill “note” and, this time, I can’t help but laugh. I’m so tickled I have to hold onto the counter to keep myself from falling off. Addie met Sarah freshman year. They both have plans to teach elementary school, so they met by way of a handful of shared classes. Sarah is easy to like and a blast to live with, aside from her lack of musical skill; and while she can’t hold a tune to save her life, Addie has a beautiful voice. She’s been singing at our church going on two years, now. Mom always calls her Addie Jane, her little songbird.
“Can’t blame her for trying,” says Addie. “Her lack of shame is actually sort of endearing, don’t you think?”
I raise my eyebrows at my sister in question. “One day, when she meets the love of her life and she gets married, I want you to ask him that.” She flashes me a goofy smile, implying her sympathy for Sarah’s future beau. “Speaking of the love of one’s life, what time are the guys supposed to be here, again?”
“Ten,” she answers, filling up my mug, complete with a spoonful of sugar and a splash of nonfat milk. She pours herself a cup as well. By the time she’s doctored it, her caramel creamer makes her coffee barely recognizable as such; it’s the color of our complexion when she’s done. “That is, if Beck doesn’t over sleep,” she tacks on as an afterthought.
The guys consist of Beckham, Jackson, and Grayson.
Beckham—or Hammy, to me—is Addie’s sweetheart. They’ve been madly in love since we were sixteen. I have not a single doubt in my mind that they will get married one day. I know if it were up to Addie, he’d propose this summer and they would be married before he heads off to medical school—but even if that doesn’t happen, they’re destined to be together.
Jackson is also the sweetheart to a special someone. He’ll be coming with his girlfriend Claire. She spends most weekends downstairs, even though she’s got her own place a few blocks away. We’re quite used to having her around and we like her a great deal. We consider her an honorary roomie.
And then there’s Grayson. Well, I call him Sonny.
He strolled into my life about the same time that Sarah did. He was introduced to us through Beckham. They were paired together as roommates in the dorms freshman year and they’ve been best friends ever since. To say that I was instantly attracted to him would be one hundred percent true. It surprised me at first, because I didn’t think that someone like him was my type, but I couldn’t argue against the evidence of my attraction—which manifested itself by way of my stomach’s somersaults every time I saw him. I’ve never been that girl who falls for the hot jock. I’m a nerd; total band geek and completely unashamed. As for Sonny…hot jock describes him accurately, as he is a distractingly handsome football player. A couple years ago, football was so far off my radar I couldn’t even tell you what the role of the quarterback was—so Hot Jock was just nice to look at.
But then I got to know him.
I guess I should have known, if he was able to get along with Hammy so well, he had to be more than just his good looks. The tight knit group that started off as Addie, Hammy and me grew to include Sarah and need Sonny. While he’s a wonderful sportsman and great team leader, he’s also just a really good guy. Even still, it took about a year of friendship, and Addie and Sarah’s incessant goading, before I was willing to admit that, yeah, I like him a lot.
He, on the other hand, does not feel the same way about me. I know this to be a fact, as he has never even hinted to thinking of me as more than a friend. Seriously, if I made a list of all the things that we do that ensures me that I’ve been delicately stored in the friend zone, I could fill a book. For about the last nine months, Addie and Sarah have been trying to convince me otherwise, but neither of them have been able to give me a good reason as to why he’s never asked me out—so I rest my case.
Besides, he’s way too popular.
Who knew that word would follow my social life outside of the halls of high school? “Hey, Twinkies!” greets Sarah, strolling into the kitchen.
Her long blonde locks are wet and she’s wrapped in only a towel. Neither Addie, nor I, bat an eyelash at her lack of clothing. She’s easily a half a foot taller than us and she’s shaped like a greek goddess—voluptuous with a small waist and a bust size at least two times the size of mine—which, I suppose, makes her about average, if I’m being honest. She’s got piercing blue eyes and milky skin and I decided a long time ago that if she wanted to walk around in her underwear, all the power to her. She has a body worthy of admiration.
“Morning, Baker Babe,” says Addie. “Thanks for the wake-up tunes.”
Sarah throws her head back in laughter. “Sorry. I’ll make it up to you,” she promises. “I’ve got blueberries, chocolate chips, and strawberries in the fridge—all of which go quite nicely with pancakes.”
“Mmm. You’re forgiven.”
“And now that I say that, I realize I really should get a move on. Just wanted you to know the shower’s free.”
“Me first!” I cry, jumping from the counter. I don’t miss the amused glances that pass between the two of them as I make my exit. I ignore them both, sipping at the warm nectar in my mug as I go.
Forty-five minutes later, I’m standing in front of my closet, fretting over what to wear. Yes, I’m aware that I probably spent too much time blowdrying my hair—I so would have curled it if I had the time. Yes, I’m aware that I only have about fifteen minutes to decide on an outfit, dress, and throw myself back on the couch so that it looks like I didn’t agonize over my appearance this morning. Yes, I’m even aware that all I’m getting dressed for is breakfast with some of our closest friends—but when I know that I’ll be seeing Sonny…
“AJ!” I call out as I hurry my way into her room. She’s sitting in the middle of the floor, leisurely blowdrying her own wet mane.
“What do you need?” she asks as she pauses.
“I need to borrow something,” I answer, sweeping my hands in such a way to signal my current lack of clothing.
She turns the hairdryer back on and speaks loudly over the hum. “You know he’d notice you if you were wearing a paper bag, right?”
I tilt my head to the side, agitated that she’s jumped to the conclusion that I’m trying to dress to impress. I am—but we certainly don’t need to talk about it. “Excuse me, anyone would notice me if I was dressed in a paper bag! I’d look ridiculous.” She arches and eyebrow at me in response. “I just haven’t done laundry yet. I don’t have enough options. This is not about Grayson.” The second before I yell out his name, she turns off the hairdryer. I can’t help the blush that colors my cheeks.
“Did I hear someone mention Grayson?” asks Sarah as she races her way into the room. She’s wrapped in her pink apron, which covers a pair of shorts and a tank top. I notice Addie has on shorts, too, only with a long sleeved t-shirt.
“She needs help picking something to wear.”
“What’s wrong with what you’ve got on?” Sarah teases. I look down at my bra and cotton shorts and then back at her. She snorts as she makes her way to Addie’s closet. “You know he’d notice you no matter what you wore, right?”
“I’m not trying to dress up for him, you know?” I lie, folding my arms across my chest.
“Oh, sweetie,” Sarah murmurs as she presses a kiss on the top of my head, “denying your feelings won’t make them go away.” I narrow my eyes at her and she offers me a smirk. “He—”
“Isn’t interested,” I interrupt, finishing her sentence for her.
“Here we go again,” Addie says as she stands.
Sarah grin
s at her from over her shoulder before returning to her task, decisively reaching for items of clothing. “My argument that he is interested still trumps yours. Shall we go over the list again?” She pauses as if to wait for an answer, but before I can speak, she’s yanking off my shorts and encouraging me into pair of distressed jeans, complete with holes in each knee. “He always walks you to our front door after you guys hang out—even if you were just downstairs.”
“That’s just him being a gentleman. All of us get escorted home—by him or Hammy.”
“I’ve seen him carrying your cello more than once,” pipes in Addie, ignoring my rebuttal. I forget to make my counter argument as I’m temporarily distracted by the fact that Sarah’s dressing me—and I’m actually letting her. “And the kicker,” she says, tugging a spaghetti strap tank over my chest, “is that he’s been to three of your orchestra concerts.”
“First of all, everyone came to my last one—even Jack and Claire,” I mutter, finding my words once more. “Second, he was just being supportive. I go to his football games.”
“Yeah. Because you like him,” argues Addie.
“He practically stamped I like you back on his forehead at your concert,” says Sarah, plucking a thin, loose knit, sweater from a hanger. “He wore slacks and a collared shirt,” she insists, pulling the garment in her hands over my head. “He dressed up for you,” she adds, as if her previous statement needs clarification. She sweeps my hair out from underneath the collar and it falls down my back. “He’s shy,” she explains.
“No—see, that is the biggest hole in your entire argument. He’s the star quarterback! He’s one of the most well known people on campus—where thousands upon thousands of people attend school—he is not shy,” I say with a laugh.
“You look adorable, Ave,” says my sister, guiding me toward her full length mirror. “How could he not be shy around you?”
A knock sounds at the door and, for a moment, we all fall silent. “They’re early,” I announce.
“Go let them in,” says Addie. “I just need a couple more minutes to finish drying my hair.”
The Promises We Keep (Made for Love Book 1) Page 1
