Uncovering You: The Complete Series (Mega Box Set) (207 page)

Andrew's interest is wholesome and sweet. Spencer's is edgy and raw. My choice should be easy. But there are always complications, and sometimes, matters of the heart take the least expected turns.

This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or have been use fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.

NEVER LET GO

Second Edition

Copyright © 2013 Edwards Publishing, Ltd.

All rights reserved.

Edited by Gail Lennon.

Cover design by Scarlett Edwards.

Interior design by Scarlett Edwards.

Published by Edwards Publishing, Ltd.

Edwards Publishing

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Suite 107-154

Blaine, WA 98230

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Chapter One

I grunt, setting down the last of my suitcases in front of the unfamiliar building. Even though the sun has already set, it’s hot. Late summer is here with a vengeance.

I sit on the steps to catch my breath, wiping the sweat from my brow. “Looks like it’s just you and me, buddy.”

Meow.

“Oh, come on, don’t look at me that way. I know this is far from home, but at least getting here a day early means we’ll have our pick of rooms.”

Meow?

“No, I’m sure you’re not the only cat on campus. Just because we haven’t seen any others so far doesn’t mean they don’t exist.”

Meow!

“Now you’re just being grumpy ‘cause you’ve been stuck in that cage all day. I’m not going to keep you there forever! Just let me rest a bit, and then we’ll go upstairs and—”

I freeze when I hear somebody chuckling behind me.

“Don’t let me stop you,” a very
male
voice announces. “What happens when you get upstairs?”

Heat rushes to my cheeks.
Oh. My. God.
I could not be more mortified if somebody had dunked me in a tank of molasses, poured chicken feathers all over, and forced me to walk around campus like that for a week. Being known as the crazy girl who talks to cats is
not
how I want to start my new life.

I debate staying absolutely still and attempting to blend in with my surroundings. Given that I’m sitting on the gray stone blocks wearing a bright yellow blouse and tiny green denim shorts, that course of action seems unwise. Of course, I could just pretend not to have heard him. Maybe he will go away.

“Well?” the voice behind me prompts. “You were saying?”

Damn
. That doesn’t look like it will work either. I have no choice but to face my demise.

Please be ugly
, I beg in my head as I slowly turn.
Please be hideously, horrifyingly, mind-numbingly deformed…

Nope. No such luck. The guy standing there, smiling at me, has a face that belongs in a fashion magazine. He’s wearing cargo shorts and a tussled white polo. His light brown hair curls a little on top, with the sides cropped into a stylish cut.

Just one flaw,
I think, downgrading my expectations.
Please, please, please have just one discernible flaw.

I look him up and down. I can’t find anything wrong. He’s got a sweet smile, nice white teeth, and an athletic build. Maybe he’s one of those mortal beings with one or two glaring
personality
flaws.

“You’re new here,” he says, startling me from my reverie. It’s not a question.

“What?” I swallow and brush the hair out of my eyes. “Um, yeah.”

What God did I piss off to meet the most attractive guy I’ve seen in a year in my condition? I have no makeup on, a sweat-stained shirt on my back,
and
he’d caught me talking to my cat.

Kill me now.

“I can tell by the suitcases,” he says, nudging one of them with his toe.

I stare up at him. I don’t say a word. Belatedly, I realize he’s made a joke. Is it too late to laugh?

God, why do I have to be so awkward? Usually I’m not like this. But usually I don’t meet hot guys after sixteen grueling hours on the road.

“Um, okay,” the guys says. “Do you speak English?” He enunciates the last word loudly. “
ENGLISH
.” He tries to frown, but his grin keeps winning out. “Yo hablo español. Hablas español?”

He’s making such a ridiculous effort I have to laugh. It seems to perk him up.

“So you do have some social skills after all,” he smiles. “I was afraid you only talk to that guy.” He jerks a thumb in the direction of the cage.

“Yes. I mean, no. I mean—”
Damn.
I’m flustered. I decide to tackle things head-on.

I stand up and offer him my hand. “I’m Paige,” I say, doing my best to appear somewhat normal.

“Andrew,” he replies, shaking my hand. There’s an interesting twinkle in his eye as he does it. “So, are you going to tell me what you were going to do once you got upstairs? Or is it a secret between you and the cat?”

“His name is
Pickles
,” I explain, unclasping the latch and letting the tabby out. He stretches, hops on top of the cage and settles down, watching us. “And don’t you dare laugh. My grandma named him.”

Andrew holds his hands up defensively. “I’m not one to come between a woman and her cat,” he tells me with mock sincerity.

I decide on the spot that my fears of a bad first impression were unfounded. Andrew has a good sense of humor. He did not judge me once.

“That your car?” Andrew asks.

I look over my shoulder at the red Volkswagen Beetle. “Also my grandma’s,” I correct.

“Okay. But this has to be your stuff, right? I hope your grandma’s not the one moving in.”

I laugh. “Yeah. All my stuff.”

“Great!” Andrew surprises me by grabbing two suitcases off the ground. He turns toward the building. “You gonna help me with the door, or what? Chivalry only goes so far, and besides, I’ve only got two hands.”

***

Fifteen minutes later we’ve hauled all the stuff to my room on the seventh floor. I say “hauled” because the elevator was busted and we had to use the stairs.

“That’s everything, then,” Andrew announces as he sets the last of my bags down in the living room. “You didn’t forget your cat, did you?”

“Pickles?” I call out. When he doesn’t come, I shrug. “He’s probably out exploring. He’ll find his way back.”

Andrew nods. “Okay.” He sticks his hands in his pockets and looks at me as if he’s waiting for me to add something else.

I can’t think of anything to say. Maybe my mind would work better if I hadn’t spent all day driving across the country. Like an idiot, I rock on my heels and let the silence stretch.

When Andrew sees he’s not going to get another word from me, he clears his throat. “Just a heads up,” he says. “I’m not sure if the dean allows pets on campus. I won’t tell, but if you want to keep Pickles around, I’d suggest staying on the good side of your roommates.”

“Noted,” I nod. “Thanks for the tip.”

“No problem.” Andrew looks at me again, waiting for me to say something else. When I don’t, he starts for the door.

“Hey, hold on,” I call out just as he’s about to step out. He turns back. “I, um, really do appreciate your help.”

Andrew smiles. “Please. I couldn’t let a girl like you struggle all alone.”

He winks, and just like that, is out the door.

***

I stare at the closed door after Andrew leaves. I wonder what he meant by his comment:
A girl like you.

Eventually, I dismiss trying to gopher out any hidden meaning. I’m out of practice with boys. Not that I ever
had
much practice, but between taking care of my sick grandma and trying to earn the last of my high school credits online, my batting average for the past twelve months has been a big fat zero.

My grandma had been the one who raised me. I’d cried hard when she died eight weeks ago.

My real mother had me when she was fifteen. She was not ready. For the first eight years of my life, I’d thought my mom was a wild older sister. Because of that, I’d always considered my grandma as my only real parent.

I turn around, pushing those thoughts from my mind. Going to college is a fresh start. I don’t need the past clouding up my future anymore.

With Andrew gone, I have a chance to really look at my dorm. My bags make the living room seem smaller than it really is. A window overlooks campus to one side. There’s a little kitchenette in the corner. A hallway beside it leads to the bedrooms and bathroom.

My academic scholarship only covers the cost of tuition at Laurier U. I still have to pay for room and board. This dorm is my attempt to stay frugal. I’m to share it with three other girls—splitting rent four ways.

I debate unpacking, but honestly, I’m exhausted. I’ll get my things out of the way tomorrow morning, when I’m fresh and rested. My roommates aren’t due to arrive before then.

I walk down the hall to check out the bathroom. There’s a small shower stall adorned with a cloudy brown, rubber curtain. I grimace as I pull it back. It’s dirty. I wonder how long it’s been hanging there. The first order of business, after getting settled, is finding something much cuter to replace it.

I wander back out. Two doors lead to the bedrooms. I open the first and peek inside. A bunk bed stands against the far wall. There are two desks close together on the wall to my left, a closet, and one standing halogen lamp. It’s relatively clean, but unremarkable. I start planning ways to spruce up the place and make it homier as I stroll back into the hall.

I’m lost in thought as I open the final door. With only two bedrooms for four girls, each of us will have a roomie—unless we decide to convert the living room into a walk-through bedroom. That way, only two of us will have to share a bedroom, and we can even switch halfway through the year…

I’m ripped from my thoughts when I realize I’m not alone in the room.

No, far from it. The walls must be thick for me not to have heard them before.

There is a couple on the lower bunk. A
nude
couple. The guy is pumping his hips into the girl beneath him. The muscles of his arms and chest tighten with every thrust. She’s writhing with pleasure. I can’t see her face, but the sounds she’s making tell me she’s bathed in ecstasy.

I can’t move. I’m stuck, halfway through the doorway, with one hand on the doorknob and the other still covering my gaping mouth.
This is quite a welcome
.

Memories of my teens flash through my mind: My grandmother chastising me for wanting to go to the eighth grade dance with a
boy
. The mantra drilled into me at the all-girls’ boarding school I attended the last four years that
sex is bad.
The way my whole life has been structured to teach me the dangers of pre-marital sex.

The moans get louder. The strangers are completely absorbed in each other. The guy has long, straight, dark hair that falls a little over his eyes. A sleek tribal tattoo decorates his shoulders and upper back. The girl is blonde.

I step back, hoping to get away without notice. The floor dips beneath my foot. A long, slow creak sounds.

The guy’s head jerks up, and our eyes meet. I gasp.

He slows down. For some reason, he doesn’t seem startled, or surprised, or even fazed to find me there.

“Spencer, what the hell?” the girl below him complains. “Why’d you stop?”

“It looks like we’ve got company,” he says slowly, never taking his eyes from me. His irises are a pale gray, framed by long, dark lashes.

It’s funny the things you notice when all the blood has drained from your head.

“Company?” the girl asks. “What…?” She starts to twist over…

I break from my stupor. Before she can see me, I turn and slam the door shut, then steady myself against it.

My heart is racing. I feel too hot. The way that guy—Spencer?—looked at me… there was something very primal in his stare. The memory of it is enough to trigger a full body flush.

I need a drink. I need some air.

I push myself off the door and make a beeline for the bathroom. I turn on the tap and splash cold water over my face. Again, and again, and again.

The way the guy looked at me… the low rumble of his voice… his half-lidded eyes… it did things to me. Unusual, unexpected things.
Bad things
.