Total pages in book: 18
Estimated words: 16403 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 82(@200wpm)___ 66(@250wpm)___ 55(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 16403 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 82(@200wpm)___ 66(@250wpm)___ 55(@300wpm)
They just wait.
_____________________________________________
Harriet
It’s my grandmother’s eightieth birthday, and all I can think about is how to survive it.
She gives me the attic loft, but I won’t be sleeping alone because I’m sharing the space with
… drum roll please … Heath Donovan.
You know the type.
The family friend who grew up next door, who spent every summer of my childhood stealing my s’mores and my good sense. The boy I trailed after like a stray. The boy I almost kissed the summer before college, right up until I made an absolute fool of myself and ran—two weeks early, all the way to a different coast, and straight into ten years of pretending it never happened.
He’s not a boy anymore. He’s six-foot-five, a professional athlete with a grin that still turns my brain to static, and I am absolutely not counting the space between his bed and mine.
I know how this goes. I reach, I get it wrong, I run.
It’s practically my signature move.
The problem is, ten years is a long time to convince yourself you’re over someone.
And eight feet is not nearly far enough to keep proving it.
_________________________________________________________________________________
One bed away from everything
she swore she was over.
_________________________________________________________________________________
The FAMILY FRIEND: a second-chance, one-bed romance with the boy-next-door
A childhood friends-to-adult lovers, second-chance, small-town, one-bed-vibes romance. Her 80-year-old grandmother pulls the strings. He’s back, not gangly anymore – a 6′ 5″ pro athlete, and they’re forced to bunk down 8 feet apart.
Spice with charm. Standalone. No cheating. No cliffhanger. Guaranteed HEA.
(WARNING: explicit)
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
1
HARRIET
"Honey, I'm so sorry, but you're gonna have to stay in the attic loft."
I set my duffle bag down next to the kitchen island and turn to look at Gram, who's standing at the stove stirring something that smells like butter and garlic and everything good about being back in this house. She doesn't look sorry.
"Yeah, sure, Gram. No problem."
"Okay, maybe a slight problem."
The wooden spoon pauses mid-stir, and I mentally brace myself. With Gram, there's always a second shoe, and it's always a steel-toed boot aimed directly at your comfort zone.
The thing about Gram is that she lies for the love of the game. She doesn't do it maliciously. She just enjoys the craft of it, the way some people enjoy crossword puzzles or sudoku.
"What is it?"
"You're sharing the loft with Heath, but no worries, I've placed the beds on opposite sides. You still have plenty of privacy."
Gram did not just say Heath, did she? Heath, as in Heath Donovan? The Heath Donovan? My Heath Donovan?
No. No way. Absolutely no way.
It's just a name, but I might as well have received the most devastating news. Well, not to be dramatic, but it is devastating—to my heart, my mind, and my entire person.
The Heath who was always next door every single summer since we were in primary school. The Heath who went to high school with me. The Heath I haven't spoken to in a decade. The Heath I've spent years trying very hard not to think about, which is difficult when his face shows up on sports websites and his name gets dropped in casual conversation by people who have no idea they're stepping on a landmine.
My parents are somewhere behind me unpacking groceries, and my twin cousins are thundering down the hall like a pair of seventeen-year-old rhinoceroses. Gram keeps watching me with those sharp brown eyes that miss absolutely nothing, waiting for my response, so I arrange my face into something that hopefully reads as normal surprise instead of internal catastrophe.
"Right. Of course."
But inside, every alarm bell I own is screaming at maximum volume. Three nights. Three nights in a room the size of a closet with the one person on earth I cannot be trapped in a room with. The one person who could unravel years of careful distance with one look, one word, one flash of that ridiculous grin that used to make me forget my own name.
I'm twenty-eight years old and a well-respected academic researcher to boot, but here I am, acting like a lovesick teenager all over again.
All that from just hearing his name.
"What if I just sleep on the floor of Mom and Dad's room?" I give Gram my fakest genuine smile. "Or … listen. I could take your floor, Gram. I don't mind the floor. I love a floor. Besides, I really, really missed you, and we could spend the whole night just, you know, bonding with each other."
Gram's eyebrows climb toward her hairline, and her mouth curves into a fake genuine smile that eerily mirrors my own. "Is it your birthday? Are YOU turning eighty? Are you about to celebrate what might be your very last birthday? Because if the answer is yes, I will gladly step back and let you make all the decisions."
There's no answer to this. There's never an answer when Gram plays the mortality card. We both know I'm going to fold like a lawn chair in a hurricane.
"Oh, it's fine, sweetheart," Mom calls from somewhere behind the refrigerator door. "We've known Heath since he was in diapers. Remember how he used to follow you around like a puppy?"
My face goes hot. No, actually, I remember being the one doing the following, trailing after him and his little sister like a stray they'd taken pity on, grateful for any scraps of attention he threw my way.
"Wait." My cousin, Jake, pokes his head around the corner. "Heath Donovan? Like, the actual Heath Donovan? The wide receiver? He's here?"
"He got in two days ago to help me get ready," Gram says, stirring her mysterious concoction with renewed vigor. She's always had such a soft spot for Heath. "Such a good boy. Moved all the furniture, fixed the screen door, cleaned the gutters. Not like some people who show up expecting to be waited on hand and foot."
Ouch.
I've been here exactly twelve minutes and I'm already getting guilt-tripped for not arriving early enough to perform manual labor.
"Where is he?" Jake's eyes have gone wide.
"Down at the dock with your uncle, checking the boat motor."
Jake and his twin, James, exchange a look, and I just know they're about to bolt for the door and spend the next three days following Heath around like he's the Pied Piper of professional athletics.
I need air. Or a time machine. Or both.
How I got here starts with a phone call a month ago, though if I'm being absolutely honest with myself, it really starts earlier than that. It starts with the fact that I've never successfully said no to Gram in my entire life, and she knows it, even that knitted cardigan she wears to town knows it.