First Love (Winning at Love Book 2) Read online

  FIRST LOVE

  by

  Gillian Jones

  Copyright © 2019 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.

  Inquiries 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: 2019

  Edited by Quoth the Raven Writing Co.

  Cover design ©: Book Covers by Ashbee Designs

  Formatting by Paul Salvette

  About the Book

  Kami Sutherland is gorgeous and—if the rumours are true—a virgin.

  That—and the fact she’s my sister Eastlyn’s best friend—should be enough to keep a guy like me from crossing any lines.

  However, our glances, subtle touches, and feelings are evolving beyond just friendship and being running buddies.

  Despite my sister’s attempts to keep us apart, I only want Kami more.

  I know I shouldn’t crave her like I do, but she’s too damn hard to resist.

  Kami has an infectious smile, one I look for whenever she’s near, one I want all to myself.

  And as the years pass, it’s all clicking into place: Kami wants me, too.

  So, all bets are off.

  There’s no way I can resist making her mine.

  Dedication

  For Angie, because without you, there might have been fisting.

  Thank you for being there from start to finish, for letting me rant and rave, and, most for all, for being my cheerleader. I could not have done this one without you!

  XoX

  “Meeting you was fate, becoming your friend was a choice, but falling in love with you was beyond my control.”

  —Author Unknown

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  About the Book

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter 1: Stud Muffin

  Chapter 2: I Always Knew You Were a Weirdo

  Chapter 3: The Masochist

  Chapter 4: That Son-of-a-Cake-Baker!

  Chapter 5: Another One Bites the Dust

  Chapter 6: The Virgin on the Bus

  Chapter 7: The Art of Avoidance

  Chapter 8: Denial, Thy Name Is Not Only Kamalot

  Chapter 9: Sure, I’m a Virgin, but Am I a Masochist, Too?

  Chapter 10: Help! Someone Save Me from Myself

  Chapter 11: Wakey Wakey Eggs’n’Bakey

  Chapter 12: Welcome Home, Pumpkin

  Chapter 13: She Really Is Something

  Chapter 14: Only When the Coast is Clear

  Chapter 15: Bikini, Tankini, Toe-May-Toe, Toe-Mah-Toe

  Chapter 16: Only When You’re Ready

  Chapter 17: Death by Spandex

  Chapter 18: Do Not Disturb

  Chapter 19: Dead Man Walking

  Chapter 20: Don’t Quit Your Day Job

  Chapter 21: You Got Yours, Now I’m Getting Mine

  Chapter 22: Why Aren’t You Picking up What I’m Putting Down?

  Chapter 23: Date Schmate

  Chapter 24: Some Much Needed Distance

  Chapter 25: Set Adrift on Memory Bliss

  Chapter 26: A Man’s Gotta Do What a Man’s Gotta Do

  Chapter 27: Winos, Texting, and Falling off the Wagon

  Chapter 28: Something Stupid or a Leap of Faith

  Chapter 29: Broken Promises

  Chapter 30: Getting There

  Chapter 31: Full-Court Press

  Chapter 32: A Girl Like You

  Chapter 33: You’re a Steamroller, Wish I Could Be

  Chapter 34: When You Put It like That

  Chapter 35: Leaving Me Hanging

  Chapter 36: Mr. Fix It

  Chapter 37: My One Phone Call

  Chapter 38: Everybody’s Looking for Lurrrve

  Chapter 39: Working Out the Kinks

  Chapter 40: It’s My Party, I Can Do What I Want To

  Chapter 41: Forget Leaping, I’m Ready to Jump

  Chapter 42: Feels Like a Forever Kind of Thing

  Chapter 43: Cat’s Out of the Bag

  Chapter 44: Time to Ditch the Bra and Ride the Coaster

  Chapter 45: Feels Like Heaven

  Chapter 46: The Ties That Bind Us

  Chapter 47: Premonitions and the Power of Sunday Brunch

  Chapter 48: To Begin, Begin

  Chapter 49: You’ll Always Be My Hellcat

  Epilogue

  Playlist

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Follow Me Here

  Love Won Preview

  Books By Gillian Jones

  Prologue

  Kami

  There is a famous quote—which has often been credited to the legendary Chinese philosopher, Lao Tzu—which says, “Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength, while loving someone deeply gives you courage.”

  It’s a philosophy I’ve believed in since hearing these words many years ago. A philosophy I feel references the two faces of love: the love you give, and the love you get.

  Although I’ve yet to experience the strength provided from being loved by someone other than my family, I do believe it exists. So, in the meantime, I will continue to draw on the love from my parents, sisters, and friends whenever I come face to face with adversity or trying times.

  As for the “loving someone deeply” face of love? I am the poster child. You could literally plaster my starry-eyed face on a brightly-coloured billboard with an overhead quote reading, “The Look of Love”.

  Tonight, I’m relying on some of that courage Lao Tzu has promised me for being a believer.

  I feel that courage pulsing through my veins now as I cross the small dance floor at Brass Tapps, which is currently littered with all our friends and family who’ve come here to celebrate. This evening, not only will I, too, join in the festivities celebrating the opening of Guelph’s newest tattoo shop, Inkredible, I will also finally tell my best friend’s brother that I’m in love with him.

  Keaton Hatfield. The man I want to love me so deeply that I become a giant pillar of strength, while I simultaneously love him so hard in return that the courage I gain will propel me into superheroism (if that was an actual thing).

  “Kami! You look gorgeous!” Eastlyn, my best friend shouts over the music, enveloping me in a big hug when she sees me approaching our group. “Keaton’s going to swallow his tongue when he sees you,” she whispers, before pulling away and leading me over to the table she has saved with Jane, one of my sisters. I want so badly to admit that was exactly the response I was hoping for after I’d spent three hours trying on outfit after outfit before settling on a pair of tight jeans, and a sexy, off-the-shoulder, black shirt that molds to my chest. I’ve left my strawberry-blonde locks down and wavy, and topped it all off with smokey eyes for a sultry look, tinted lipgloss, and a pair of silver heels.

  Instead, I deflect and deny, not having yet found the courage to admit to Eastlyn how much I want her brother. “Please,” I say, “we both know K
eat won’t even notice I’m here with all these people.”

  “Then why has he come to our table three times asking Jane and me where you were?” she says over her shoulder, giving me an incredulous look. My stomach flutters at the thought of Keaton being so eager to see me.

  “East, give it up before we sit with Jane, okay? I don’t need both of you going off on me tonight,” I say, just before we reach the table where my older sister Jane is lining up a bunch of shots a server has just dropped off. The two of them are notorious for ganging up on me where Keaton and my feelings are concerned.

  “Just in time!” Jane claps. I take my seat, and proceed to indulge in a variety of liquid libations while scanning the crowd for Keaton as discreetly as humanly possible, and using the Force to try to bring him over to me.

  *

  “Shots! Shots! We need more shots!” Eastlyn’s voice tears through my thoughts.

  More tequila is the last thing any of us need.

  Ignoring the chants coming from the two drunk women sitting across from me, my eyes land on Keaton, who is slipping down the hall toward the washrooms. With courage both from loving him and the liquid kind on my side, I know this is my chance.

  “I needs to use the ladies, be backs shooon,” I say, slurring my words a little, definitely not needing any more to drink. I stand, a little wobbly, my eyes fixed on my destination.

  “Want zum commany?” Jane asks, then giggles, with Eastlyn joining in. I shake my head, laughing at how drunk we all are.

  “S’okay,” I say over the No, no, no! You’ll ruin my chance! that my brain is shouting at me.

  “Hurry back, we need shots! Mo’ shotsss!” Eastlyn shouts at my already-retreating back. I sway my way down the dim hallway.

  “Kami! You’re here,” Keaton says when his eyes land on me, where I’m leaning up against the wall, pretending to finish up a phone call.

  “I am.” I put my phone in my pocket, and step closer to him. “Congratulationsh, Keat! I’m sooo proud of you. You did it, your very own tattoo shop. Jusssht like you wanted,” I beam, and kind of stagger forward to wrap him in a hug.

  “Thanks,” he says, pulling me in tight, and I swear he inhales me. He feels so good that I’m reluctant to pull away. Yet I do, because with what I have to say, I need to speak to him face to face. I need to look into those two deep pools of green and see his reassuring smile while I tell him how I feel. It’s been such a long time coming. Keaton Hatfield has owned my heart for as long as I can remember.

  “You look sexy as fuck, Kam,” Keaton says, drawing my attention to the fact that those green eyes are slowly perusing my entire body. He steps in closer now, eating up the space I’d put between us seconds ago. This sort of thing has been happening between us more and more lately. We flirt, we show interest in one another, but then neither of us ever acknowledge what it means or try to take it any further.

  Until now.

  Until tonight.

  My body lurches.

  Keaton’s hands grip my hips, steadying me.

  “Thanks, so do you,” I say. And he does. He’s wearing one of his signature concert T’s, this time a white Beastie Boys Licensed to Ill shirt, dark jeans with natural rips at the knees, and a pair of cherry-red Doc Martens boots.

  We stand silently, each taking in the other.

  I’m not sure if it’s the alcohol or just nerves—or the fact that Keaton Hatfield just blatantly checked me out without pretence and is currently squeezing my hips—that makes me do it, but his name slips past my lips like a plea.

  “Keaton.” I stare up at him, unable to hide what I want any longer.

  “Yeah, Kam?”

  Kiss me. Kiss me please.

  I lick my lips.

  Keaton groans and pulls my front to meet his.

  He’s hard through his jeans, and I’m suddenly soaked.

  He licks his lips.

  My breath catches.

  Our faces start to drift toward one another of their own accord.

  This is it.

  “Kami,” he whispers softly, as his hands cup the sides of my face, and I feel our breath mixing together. Keaton tips his head, and I know his mouth is about to connect with mine.

  I close my eyes in anticipation of the one kiss I’ve waited for my entire life. “Kiss me, Kea—” I start to whisper.

  But I don’t get to beg.

  The sound of determined high heels clicking on the tiled floor has us jumping apart.

  A look of regret crosses Keaton’s face, the implications of what almost just happened seeming to suddenly click. He shakes his head, then averts his gaze.

  The click-clack of the high heels comes closer and closer until it stops beside us, the scent of Red Door perfume clouding our space sharply. “There you are, baby! You left me, and I need yo—”

  I bolt for the washroom without a word, not wanting to hear what another faceless name needs from Keaton.

  Locked in the cubicle, I start to cry. I stay for a few minutes, trying my very hardest to compose myself.

  I close my eyes and draw on the strength I get from the people whom I know love me. But deep down in my heart, I decide that not even my deep love for Keaton will ever give me the courage to put myself out there for him again.

  Later that night, after more shooters with my girls, I send him a text:

  Me: Let’s pretend that never happened.

  His reply, to my surprise, doesn’t take long.

  Keaton: Whatever you want, Hellcat. Whatever you want.

  And, true to our words, we’ve never discussed what almost happened in that dimly-lit hallway on the night we celebrated the opening of Inkredible.

  We did, however, manage to become a stronger, closer version of friends.

  Even if one of us is still secretly in love with the other.

  1

  Stud Muffin

  Kami

  Two years later

  I step up to the front door of Inkredible.

  “Today’s the day, Kami,” I tell myself, while tucking a piece of hair behind my ear.

  Not only do I take a fortifying breath, I work to steel my nerves, ready for battle. My curiosity piques as I pull the glass door open. My ears perk up in curiosity. The low hum of the tattoo irons can be heard working overtime, creating an array of masterpieces on human canvases. It’s something I want to experience for myself, badly.

  Keaton Hatfield has insisted we all use the term “iron” and not “gun” when referring to his most precious tool because, according to Keaton, the word “gun” implies damage, and that’s the last thing his work is doing.

  Excitement courses through my veins and causes a spike in my adrenaline, even though I’m not certain that I’ll finally get to experience his art firsthand today. As I inch through the door into the shop’s small waiting area, I rehearse the lines I’ve prepared for today’s battle.

  It’s the same war, on the same battlefield, a war I’ve been fighting with the same enemy for what feels like most of my life, yet in reality is significantly less. However, this time, I’m prepared to win.

  I will be leaving here today with my very first tattoo—an official Keaton Hatfield—if I have my way. Skin art coveted and praised by some of the best in the business. Regardless of what Keaton has to say about it, it will happen. My eyes scan walls covered in bright designs, client photos, and award after award, solidifying why my first needs to be done by Keat.

  I sigh, knowing this whole situation is really my own fault. It was a rookie mistake, one I’d made one night shortly after he’d opened Inkredible. I had shown him a cute little tattoo, one I’d saved from Pinterest—and one I’d wanted him to ink on me, as one of his first official paying customers. It was a really cool lotus flower. It looked perfect on the woman’s foot, and I thought it would be perfect on my foot, too.

  I was wrong.

  Dead wrong.

  Lesson learned: never ask a true artist to give you something generic, something another artist ha
s designed and inked. A design which already holds such special meaning to another person that they have inked it permanently on their body, making it truly theirs, and leaving yours a lacklustre imposter. Everyone knows you can’t replicate an original. Well, everyone except me. But I know now.

  And, Dear Gods of Ink, do not show a true artist a tattoo found on Pinterest. It’s legit a cardinal sin of the ink world or some shit, and can get you forever shunned or banished or banned or whatever from tattoo shops everywhere, according to Keaton. I think they put your name on some kind of “No Tatt” List.

  Unfortunately, Keaton was right. Although I hate to admit it—and won’t ever do so to the big dope’s face—I’m happy now that he refused to ink the lotus. I most definitely would have regretted it.

  Now though? No way. There isn’t a good reason for him not to tattoo me today. The tattoo I want is one hundred percent me. A Kamilla Sutherland original, if you will. Yet Keat refuses to even look at it whenever I get the opportunity to bring it up and try to show him. And his denying me has become a huge bone of contention between us, causing this war, a back-and-forth of wills.

  Plain and simple, he is a stubborn, stubborn man. But I’m an even more stubborn woman. One who will not back down.

  I smile when I see Becks come up to the counter from the back, already shaking her head at me, her purple-hued bangs falling over her face as she does.

  “Oh, let me guess? You’re ‘Andy Walsh’. Keaton’s three-fifteen?”

  I feel my cheeks heat. I hate manipulating, but he’s reduced me to these small fibs. This is literally my twenty-seventh attempt to trick the smarmy bastard into relenting and giving me my damn tattoo. The asshole knows I trust only him to be my first—and, unfortunately, that statement seems to apply to more than just the tattoo. Not that I’ll ever admit that tidbit, either.

  “You got it!” I smile, offering some of my best jazz hands at being caught as a trickster. I approach the counter, ready to fill out the standard waiver and liability forms.