Love Won (Winning at Love book 1) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  About the Book

  Dedication

  Part 1—She Said (Eastlyn)

  1. Who the Hell Are “They”, Anyway?

  2. Cleanup in Aisle One!

  3. Two Left Feet

  4. I Really Do Hate Cake

  5. Indifference, Maybe?

  6. Her Name Was Lola

  7. Don’t Make Me Get the Big Guns Out

  8. Bitch, I’m Madonna

  9. Coincidence? Or Something Greater at Work?

  10. Dutch Ovens and the Concussive Van Gogh

  11. Hello, My Name Is Invisible

  12. TD & BH

  13. Don’t Get Bent

  14. Coyville

  15. Coy Fish?

  16. Not a Problem

  17. To Fishbowls!

  18. Fishy Behaviour

  19. Fluff & Fold

  20. Stick Man

  21. Busted

  22. Just a Little Sniff

  23. Goodbye, Mosquito Bites, It’s Been a Slice

  24. The Out-of-Body Chip Encounter

  25. A Little Pep in My Step

  26. It’s the Thought That Counts, Right?

  Part 2—He Said (McCoy)

  1. Let Me Work Those Glutes

  2. Confessions of a Bromancer

  3. Clowning Around

  4. Kahoot!’ing

  5. Meetups and Downs

  6. Man Your Battle Stations

  7. Enter the Dragon

  8. Midnight Confessions

  9. Sorry Sack of Shit

  10. “Kino”? What the Hell Is Kino?

  11. Your Kiss Is on My List

  12. A Little Kino Goes a Long Way

  13. Better Than Dipping Sauce

  14. Sploshing

  15. Get a Room, Already!

  16. Introducing: Hellcat

  17. Not Just a Spring Fling

  18. The Last Laugh

  LOVE WON

  by

  Gillian Jones

  Copyright © 2017 Gillian Jones

  Kindle Edition

  All rights reserved. In accordance with the US Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading and sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  Enquiries please email [email protected]

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Gillian Jones is in no way affiliated with any brands, songs, musicians, or artists mentioned in this book.

  First eBook edition: 2017

  Edited by Quoth the Raven Writing Co.

  Cover design ©: Book Covers by Ashbee Designs

  Formatting by Paul Salvette

  About the Book

  McCoy Graves: Public Enemy Number One. The crusher of childhood fairy tales.

  McCoy Graves is arrogant. A jerk.

  McCoy Graves is my brother’s best friend…and my new boss.

  Oh, and did I mention, he’s also the love of my life?

  ’Cause, yeah, there’s that, too.

  My name is Eastlyn Hatfield, and this is a story about our feud.

  Dedication

  For the two incredible women who make this adventure so much fun. Thank you for always encouraging me, supporting me, and being there with each story from start to finish. I really couldn’t do this without you guys.

  Mom and Jen (ESM), this one’s for you!

  XOX

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  About the Book

  Dedication

  Part 1—She Said (Eastlyn)

  1. Who the Hell Are “They”, Anyway?

  2. Cleanup in Aisle One!

  3. Two Left Feet

  4. I Really Do Hate Cake

  5. Indifference, Maybe?

  6. Her Name Was Lola

  7. Don’t Make Me Get the Big Guns Out

  8. Bitch, I’m Madonna

  9. Coincidence? Or Something Greater at Work?

  10. Dutch Ovens and the Concussive Van Gogh

  11. Hello, My Name Is Invisible

  12. TD & BH

  13. Don’t Get Bent

  14. Coyville

  15. Coy Fish?

  16. Not a Problem

  17. To Fishbowls!

  18. Fishy Behaviour

  19. Fluff & Fold

  20. Stick Man

  21. Busted

  22. Just a Little Sniff

  23. Goodbye, Mosquito Bites, It’s Been a Slice

  24. The Out-of-Body Chip Encounter

  25. A Little Pep in My Step

  26. It’s the Thought That Counts, Right?

  Part 2—He Said (McCoy)

  1. Let Me Work Those Glutes

  2. Confessions of a Bromancer

  3. Clowning Around

  4. Kahoot!’ing

  5. Meetups and Downs

  6. Man Your Battle Stations

  7. Enter the Dragon

  8. Midnight Confessions

  9. Sorry Sack of Shit

  10. “Kino”? What the Hell Is Kino?

  11. Your Kiss Is on My List

  12. A Little Kino Goes a Long Way

  13. Better Than Dipping Sauce

  14. Sploshing

  15. Get a Room, Already!

  16. Introducing: Hellcat

  17. Not Just a Spring Fling

  18. The Last Laugh

  19. The Power of the Whirlwind

  Part 3—They Said

  McCoy

  Eastlyn

  Playlist

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Follow Me Here

  Books By Gillian Jones

  She Said

  “I fell in love with a boy. Sure, he was a jerk. But he was also so much more.”

  —Eastlyn Hatfield

  1

  Who the Hell Are “They”, Anyway?

  They say, “Everything happens for a reason.”

  I call balls.

  I say “They” are full of shit.

  Sure, I agree that some things happen for a reason, but there are clearly events not even They can justify the reasons for.

  Case in point: McCoy Graves.

  Why did I have to meet the one person who didn’t want me, like I wanted him, when we were kids? What was the point in that? Why would the universe bother presenting me with such a perfect boy—who so easily stole my breath and made my heart skip with an erratic beat reserved solely for him whenever our eyes would catch—if, in the long run, I wasn’t going to get to keep him?

  The first time I met McCoy, I thought he noticed me in the same way I’d noticed him:

  Immediately.

  Instinctively.

  Hypnotically.

  Life-alteringly.

  It was a pulse-pounding, heart-slamming-against-my-chest sensation. A feeling that gave a kick start to the crotch of my prepubescent self. A reaction which called my inner woman into action and pushed my outer tomboy aside, making me wonder: “Oh, what do we have here?” Making me realize for the first time in my twelve-and-a-half years of life that boys existed. And I might even like them.

  Well, I might have, until this one opened his mouth.

  He was a jerk from the beginning but, despite his jerkiness, my heart simply ignored the notification
s that my brain tried to send time and time again.

  We all have that one boy we never really get over, even if we never actually got under him—McCoy was mine.

  I’d love to know what They would say if I were to ask Them why McCoy Graves was always what I envisioned as my fairytale ending. Because to me, he was the Ross to my Rachel, even though to him I was—and always would be—just little Eastlyn Hatfield, his best friend’s sister.

  Apparently, I was fucked, no matter what They had to say about it.

  2

  Cleanup in Aisle One!

  One Mississippi.

  Two Mississippi.

  Three Mississippi.

  Four and go, go, go!

  I silently cheer myself on as I haul ass across one aisle, then the next, and the next, trying my hardest to go unnoticed.

  To the average consumer, I’m sure I look like some sort of escapee right now: sweating, breathing heavily, my long dark hair fanning across my face like a shield, my green eyes open wide on high alert, my curvy frame camouflaged by the rattiest grey yoga capris, old flip-flops, and an oversized Gnarls Barkley T-shirt. Going unnoticed is going to be a huge feat, considering I shop in Weller’s, the world’s smallest grocery store. However, I admit that my severe addiction to the culinary genius of the Açaí Bowl is driving me to continue my quest regardless of the consequences. My current predicament will be worth all this effort, if only I can make it to the cashier unscathed.

  Damn you, frozen açaí berries, making me hunt your ass down every week. Who could have guessed the whole world was going to go so crazy for you? All that frozen, mixed-up, grape-like goodness topped with other fresh fruits, granola, and vanilla yogurt…gah, it’s bliss in a bowl, its natural caffeine-like stimulants jump-starting my day. In the defence of açaí, I don’t think there are too many who, like me, tried it and weren’t immediately hooked like fish on a line. So heed my warning: try it with caution! I have been addicted to açaí bowls since I read an article in Vogue about their superpowers. Or is it simply a superfood? Either way, I can use a little of both in the morning.

  At twenty-six, I’m nowhere near where I thought I’d be at this point in my life. I always thought I’d be married by now, with the proverbial white picket fence and 2.5 kids, along with a tiny dog named Hoya resting on my lap. Not still single, living on my own, and having weekly dinners with my parents, who subject my poor unused uterus to the “we want grandchildren” spiel they love giving my brother and me.

  But back to my current predicament. Having my fellow consumers stare at me like I’m unstable is fine by me, since I’ve now successfully retrieved a pack of frozen açaí berries from the frozen section. But they have no idea how important it is that he not see me.

  These gawking shoppers—like the tiny grey-haired lady giving me the evil eye from the meat counter, and the teenage boy giving me the once-over while pretending to scoop pretzels from a bulk bin into a plastic bag—need to stop staring at me so hard, or they’ll give away my position and he’ll see me. I take a deep breath and try to fade into a wall of cereal, doing what I need to do. To hell with any of the possible consequences: shelves falling on top of me and knocking over said grey-haired lady (who is now blocking my escape route and moving way too slowly), or tripping over someone’s shopping cart which could lead to possible mutilation.

  But, Açaí Bowls…

  “It’s worth the risk,” I whisper softly, taking one last look over my shoulder before bee-lining it to the next aisle.

  Made it.

  “Phew. Score one for the good guys,” I mutter, as I give a little victory fist pump. I lean around the end of Aisle 4. I’m careful with my footing; the last thing I need is to trip into the large tower of Cheerios (which are on sale for a pretty good price, I note) which have been carefully stacked there. Shaking my head out of sale mode, I forget the cereal and take another deep breath before rising on my tiptoes. I crane my neck so I can peer around the aisle’s corner, trying to look casual, scoping out the way I’d just come, looking back into the produce section.

  Shit.

  The target is still visible.

  Shit.

  Shit!

  Abort mission! Abort!

  “I have to get out of here, and now. You can do this, East,” I tell myself. I decide that my açaí must sadly become a casualty of war, and place the small plastic bag of frozen berries on a shelf next to the instant coffee. There’s no way I could make it three more aisles to the checkouts and still have time to stop and pay without detection, and shoplifting was never a part of this mission. “I hope the stockboy saves you in time, little buddies,” I whisper, hoping the bag will find its way back to the freezer section before it thaws.

  Leaning back as far as I can, I count again, readying myself.

  One Mississippi.

  Two Mississippi.

  Three Mississippi.

  “Four…and go!” I hiss.

  And I make it into Aisle 3!

  I allow myself a quick smile before peeking around the nose of the aisle, bracing myself against a refrigeration unit bunker which holds a variety of frozen meals (also on sale, I notice). Damn, I should’ve put the açaí berries here, so they wouldn’t suffer. I shake my head again, realizing I’m being utterly ridiculous about a goddamn breakfast food. Eastlyn, focus! “Almost to safety,” I whisper.

  Peeking back down the aisle, but now not seeing him, my pulse begins to race. “No, no, no! I’ve lost visual…” I take a second to steel my nerves.

  Dammit, where are you, you sneaky bastard? I quickly decide to take a chance, and dart blindly over to Aisle 2. Another glance. Luckily, he’s nowhere to be found. Phew.

  Okay, time to regroup. I stare down the aisle, biting my thumbnail as I shift from foot to foot. It’s going to be all right. I’m in the home stretch. One more aisle to go and I’ll be near the front exit so I can get the hell out of here before he sees me. I turn, preparing to sprint over to Aisle 1 then make a dive out the front doors. A fine and reasonable plan. “You got this, Eastlyn. No fear. Ride or die, ride or die!” I hiss, and bounce on the balls of my feet, getting ready to sprint.

  I whisper, “Go, go, go!” and am about to spring into action when I feel a hand on my shoulder, right fucking behind me, like a damn stealth ninja.

  “I see you’re still your own best friend, Sprinkles. Talk to yourself much?” a deep voice says.

  Startled, I let out a very unladylike shriek, caught completely off guard by the baritone rumble in my ear. Not only do I scream like I’m in a horror movie, I jump like Jason Vorhees himself is hot on my tail and I’m about to die. Arms flailing, I lose my footing, tripping over my ratty flip-flops which have gotten tangled up around my feet, and land right in the centre of a display of Ritz Cracker boxes. And I don’t mean a few, I’m talking a frigging skyscraper of the “get-togethers done right” snacks (on sale, of course). There are hundreds of boxes, and they are literally flying and scattering everywhere, mostly on top of me.

  But that’s not what’s bothering me in the moment. No, it’s the sound of that familiar deep voice, one I’d recognize anywhere, always. It’s a voice that has always—and most likely always will—send a vibrating zing of awareness throughout my body, its smooth intonation attacking my senses without mercy or remorse, its deep humming sound affecting me from head to toe. That same voice I’ve dreamt about my whole life, wishing and waiting for the day when that voice would whisper sweet nothings in my ear while he made me his, again and again.

  “And I see you still have those two left feet,” McCoy Graves adds, his eyes shining with mirth as he extends a hand to help me up, just as the store manager and a stockboy make their way over to the toppled packages, looking alarmed.

  “Jesus, lady, you all right?” I hear the bigger man ask, walking closer to where I’m sitting, dumbfounded, among the broken boxes and spilled crackers. “Ethan page Les. We’re gonna need another hand on deck with a broom to get this cleaned up quickly,” he says,
obviously annoyed.

  Ha! I feel your pain, buddy. I almost made it out alive…

  “Come on, Sprinkles, let’s get you up,” that deep voice says, with the same effect it’s always had. I sit for a moment, registering the scene in front of me. Words elude me as I simply stare up into the blue eyes of the boy I could never forget. Silence surrounds us, or maybe I’m just so entranced that all sound has vanished. The bastard’s lips pull to the side, letting me know he’s trying not to laugh. I swat his hand away like a petulant child.

  “I’m fine,” I finally manage, mortified.

  So, here stands the infamous McCoy Graves, in his glory—all six feet of him—in his signature Blundstone boots and wearing his trademark smirk. His turquoise eyes sparkle, indicating that he’s enjoying himself far too much. Here in the flesh is the same boy I’d eyed across the family dinner table for years. The one I’d imagined swapping spit with more times than I could count as we grew from tweens to teens to adults. Especially after discovering that the swapping of said spit would result from having McCoy’s lips move over mine. Yes, here he stands, older and leaner and still fit, looking as lethal to the world’s female population as ever. His tight grey polo shirt stretches over the muscular chest I’d always admired from afar, the arms I’d longed to feel wrapped around me.

  God, the number of nights I’d fallen asleep thinking of those arms…

  Feeling my heart race as I try to force my eyes to stop drinking him in, I realize I still need to get the hell away from here. I just can’t look away. His brown hair is still buzzed along the sides like it always was, only a little longer on the top than it used to be, which suits him more. Lord, he’s even sexier now. Traces of a five o’clock shadow visible along his jaw do absolutely nothing to distract me from admiring the curves of his full upper lip.

  Instead of asking him, “What the hell are you doing back in town?” all I can do is think about how maybe this is my opportunity to convert my countless teen-girl fantasies of spit-swapping and bumping uglies into reality. Even if it has to happen here, at the end of Aisle 1, among a greasy spray of crumbled crackers…