The Five Stages of Falling in Love (29 page)

Please enjoy an excerpt from Rachel’s new adult romance, Bet on Us

Chapter One

I blamed this on Kelly Clarkson.

On Kelly-Freaking-Clarkson.

The angry man standing across the kitchen island looked like he was about to throttle me. I had visions of large hands gripped firmly around my neck shaking me like a rubber chicken. His eyes flashed with frustration and I cursed Kelly Clarkson straight to the grave.

Things started out so well this morning, so unbelievably, unnaturally well. I should have known better. But at the time, I woke up in my bed to the powerful chords Kelly Clarkson belted through my radio alarm, and laid there for the length of the song just to let her words sink in.

Stronger.

In fact, I started to think Kelly Clarkson was a genius. And like maybe we were soul sisters that survived something awful but came out on the other side of it
stronger
. I started to think maybe she got me.
 

Because the bed
did
feel warmer.
And I
did
dream in color again. I never felt lonely when I was alone anymore and I really
was
standing taller. Kelly Clarkson had it all figured out.

Well “was” as in the seriously past tense because with monster-man looming over me, pissed off and yelling about money he wanted that I definitely did not have, I wasn’t standing taller anymore. I was shrinking slowly into what I assumed would soon be the fetal position.

But this morning, even as the warm sun sifted through my bedroom window and heated my exposed skin, everything seemed possible. I felt strong enough to get out of bed today and conquer the world, or at least the closest Starbucks and my Econ class.

Which come on, that’s close enough right?

And even though last week I missed a seriously important pop quiz in my post-break-up-cowering phase and now my grade was in some trouble… and then it started raining and I happened to be wearing a white t-shirt and red bra.

Who does that by the way?
Me apparently, in my Kelly-Clarkson-gave-me-the-strength-to-be-a-skank-mood.

And then even after I came home to my roommate on her way out, for what she promised was just a bite to eat even though she was two months behind on her share of the rent, I believed today was the start of better things to come.

All thanks to Kelly Clarkson.

After setting my purse down on the kitchen counter because the entry hall table that I usually placed it on had been moved, I started to wonder if maybe Kelly Clarkson lied to me.

Well, okay, that’s not exactly true. First I wondered if I was hallucinating. Then I ran through the possibility of being robbed. But my roommate’s casual departure quickly negated that idea.

I blinked.
And blinked again.
And then blinked so hard tears formed in the corners of my eyes and I felt like I was trying to be the second coming of
I Dream of Jeannie
. If I willed all of my furniture and belongings to reappear, they would.

But they didn’t.

And that was just the start of my disappointment.

Then there was the letter… The one that calmly explained my roommate had a clinically diagnosed gambling addiction and that she was thousands of dollars in debt. She explained that she had to sell the furniture,
my furniture
, to pay for rehab. Her family insisted on it. She had a real problem.
A
real problem
.
And I needed to understand that anything she had done to hurt me was her addiction and not the real her.

Well her addiction wasn’t going to replace all of my furniture.

Her addiction wasn’t going to come up with the other half of my rent!

And her addiction really wasn’t going to explain to the man across the kitchen yelling at me that no matter who he thought I was
,
I did not owe him seven thousand dollars!!

I picked up the handwritten letter-of-crazy with a shaky hand and held it out to him.

“What’s this?” He paused in his tirade to take the half sheet of torn notebook paper. I noticed my Biology notes on the back of it for the first time. Seriously, she couldn’t even use her own paper???

“Um, see? I’m not the one that owes you money.” I sounded confident, but inside I was a trembling, terrified puddle. And on second thought, maybe I didn’t sound quite so confident…

“Who’s Tara?” he grunted after skimming the note quickly.

“My roommate,” I said simply and then thought better of it.
“My
ex
-roommate.
She’s moved on to group therapy and the twelve steps, apparently.”

“And who are you?” he asked carefully. His eyes swept over me in a way that made me feel like he had x-ray vision. Suddenly I felt very vulnerable and very naked.

Okay, more vulnerable.

And not really naked.

But feeling
more
vulnerable was a hard emotion to feel since he elbowed his way in here not even ten minutes ago and started shouting at me and threatening all kinds of legal action and at times bodily harm.

“I’m, uh, wait a second! Who are
you
? You’re in
my
apartment!” I dug deep for some courage. I slammed my fists on my hips and tilted my chin in my best I-mean-business pose.

“Don’t get cute with me.” He sneered. I wanted to explain that I wasn’t being cute. I was being tenacious. But I decided to stay silent when his full upper lip curled in frustration and his dark, chocolate brown eyes narrowed. “I’m the guy you owe seven
thousand
dollars!”

Ugh, he was still stuck on this! I cleared my throat and tried again, “How could I possibly owe you seven thousand dollars? I’ve never even met you before! I don’t even know your
name
.”

“You’re really going to stick with this whole doe-eyed-innocent act?” he scoffed unkindly. He walked forward and placed two meaty hands on the kitchen counter slowly, like he was weighing his strength against a fragile surface. His broad shoulders tensed and stiffened and his entire body went rigid with frustration. I almost felt bad for him.

Almost.

But then I remembered I was not that person anymore. No more pity for people that didn’t deserve it. No more sacrificing my time and money and energy for people that would just screw me over when they got what they wanted. This was the new me.
The stronger me.
The me
that was soul sisters with Kelly Clarkson.
The I
-get-what-I-want-me! And right now, I seriously wanted this guy out of my life, or at the very least, out of my apartment.

“I’m not innocent,” I spat back with my arms crossed firmly against my chest and my hip jutting out. I realized that maybe that wasn’t my best defense but I pushed forward. “And I’m not doe-eyed!”

His face suddenly opened up in some shock and his lips twitched like he had to hold back a laugh. “I can’t believe this.” He rubbed two hands over his face in a sign of exhaustion and turned his back on me.

With his body more relaxed I saw him in a new light. He was less macho-Neanderthal in this posture and more holy-sexy-back-muscles-batman. Obviously the disaster that was my last boyfriend did a number on me if I was checking out the confused hit man pacing back and forth in my kitchen.

I mean, honestly, fantasizing about what his back could potentially look like under his thin t-shirt was seriously clinical, right? Maybe Tara wasn’t the only one that needed medical observation and group therapy.

“I think there has been some miscommunication,” I ventured, now that he appeared somewhat relaxed. “You think I am someone that owes you money, but I am not. Do I look like a drug addict to you?”

He swung his head back around to face me. “You think I’m a drug dealer?”

“Seven thousand dollars is a
lot
of money,” I sniffed.

“Yes, it is. And you think the only way to go that much in debt is by drugs?” His eyes widened in disbelief.

 
Now that he was even calmer, I noticed his face wasn’t necessarily menacing, but more chiseled and dignified. Actually when his dark eyes weren’t bugging out of his head in rage, he looked more like a Calvin Klein model than Tony Soprano. And his hands weren’t so much meaty as they were just large and connected to
very
defined arms. And okay, originally I was under the impression that his neck was the size of a redwood, but now that I was really paying attention it was more just a very strong, carved out piece of art, attached to an equally and artfully sculpted body.

To top it off, he had great hair. I just needed to admit that. He had amazing hair. Hair that I was instantly jealous of!
Dark, rich coffee-colored hair that matched his eyes.
Short on the sides, and just a little longer on top. It was stylish and trendy, not at all ex-military-renegade-private-security like I originally thought.

Wait a minute, I didn’t think I liked that he was attractive… more than attractive, hotter-than-hot attractive. When I finally took in the scruffy growth across his jaw
that partially hid too-full lips
, I wanted to roll my eyes. Who
was
this guy?

“Well, it’s one of the ways,” I huffed impatiently.

He cocked his head back, seemingly surprised with my answer. “I actually have no argument for that. You’re
right,
drugs are one way to go into that much debt.” I smirked at him, momentarily satisfied until I realized he was really a drug lord and he thought I was his client! A client that owed him money! “But that’s not why you owe me money. I’m not a drug dealer.”

Oh, whew. Sure, I knew that.

“Okay, are you a bill collector then?
Because I don’t even have a credit card.
Well, I have one credit card, but it’s for emergencies only and I’ve
never
used it. Besides, it only has like a fifteen hundred dollar limit on it. And it’s actually in my brother’s name.”

 
I grew more impatient the longer he stared at me. It was like all of the anger that propelled him into my apartment to begin with had evaporated somewhere between drug dealer and bill collector.

Now his chocolate eyes lit with amusement and his mouth did that annoying twitching thing again. “And my roommate gets calls from debt collectors all the time.
Phone calls
- have you heard of those? You seriously did not need to come all the way over here. I could have explained this to you over the
phone
.”
  

“I’m not a bill collector either.”

This time I could tell he was laughing at me. The corners of his eyes crinkled with humor and he held his hands up, palms out as if to stop me from guessing anymore. But I wasn’t finished. If he wasn’t a hit man, drug dealer or bill collector but wanted seven thousand dollars from
me, that
left only one option.

I gasped, “Oh,
my gosh
, is this about prostitution? Oh, my goodness, are you a
pimp
?” I shrieked and backed up three steps.

“What?” he burst out in a bark of confusion. “Are
you
into prostitution?”

“What? Me? Do I look like a prostitute?” I was back to being angry; I narrowed my eyes, cocked my hands on my hips, and scowled in a tight expression.

“Well, no, honestly. You look more like a missionary.” He shrugged a casual shoulder and let his eyes travel over me.

“A missionary!”
I spit the word out like it burned me. I clutched at my gray infinity scarf that covered my black and white cowl-neck long sleeve tee. Okay, maybe it was a little conservative, but he seriously did not need to confuse modesty with missionary.

“Would you rather look like a prostitute?” He asked, his stupid dark brown eyes laughing at me.

“Why in the world would you think that?” I demanded. This conversation had the disorienting feel that we were going backward instead of forward; I started to feel dizzy from all the circles and the way his mouth quirked up when he tried not to laugh.

Wait, scratch that. I was only dizzy from the conversation!

“Listen, honesty, I don’t care what you are, I just want my money.” Some of his amusement faded and a wave of exhaustion flashed across his face.

“So this isn’t about prostitution?” I asked just to clarify. It was kind of important that this wasn’t about prostitution.

“If you’re not a prostitute and I’m not a pimp how in the
hell
could this be about prostitution?” he rumbled.

“Well, I don’t know. I just need to be… sure,” I finished lamely.

He ran a hand over his face again and growled out a frustrated sound. Then he pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and checked the screen. “This is taking up too much time. I just want my money and I’ll be gone. I won’t bother you any more, I promise. Although I strongly suggest that you stay away from anymore poker games. You are obviously not lucky enough to be as careless as you are with your money.”

That got my attention. “Wait.” I held up a hand like I was asking him to stop his vehicle. But then I didn’t know how to go on. Gambling? This sounded way too convenient… way too coincidental.

A man comes to my door, demanding a seven thousand dollar poker debt minutes after my crook of a roommate robbed me blind and headed off to rehab for a
gambling addiction
? “Okay, I don’t know what you’re talking about, but why don’t you tell me who you think I am. That might make things easier.”

A smug smirk turned his mouth and he said with confidence, “Eleanor Harris.”

That caught me off guard.
Because he was right.
“Um, Ellie,” I corrected before he stuck to calling me Eleanor. Ugh! Even if he were here to murder me I would make him call me Ellie.

“Fine, Ellie Harris.”

“Okay, you know my name, but you don’t know anything else about me. Like for instance, I don’t owe you any money!” I argued, still wondering how he knew my name.

“Alright, let’s see. You’re a sophomore, originally from farther up north. You transferred to La Crosse spring semester last year. You were originally at University of Wisconsin-Madison but you wanted to be close to your boyfriend who turned out to be a cheating douche bag. He broke up with you two weeks ago for another girl, and since then you’ve gone from being a straight A student with a nearly perfect attendance record to skipping all of your of classes, doing your best to fail out of school and now you’ve apparently acquired a gambling addiction with a side of pathological lying.”