First Love (Winning at Love Book 2) Read online

  “I’m almost done it. I’m just finishing the bibliography then you’ll have it, I promise,” he assures me, and I nod, offering him a warm smile because I know it’s true. Luca is a great student who’s going through a tough time at home right now with his parents separating, so when he came to me asking for a week’s extension and a quiet place to work, I had no problem agreeing.

  “I have no doubt. I can’t wait to read your arguments. I know you’ve worked hard on it.”

  “I did. I think it might be my best paper all year. ’Night, Miss,” Luca calls over his shoulder as he opens the grey steel door leading to the staircase. Once he’s gone, I pick up a few pieces of paper scattered in the hall to toss them into the recycling bin, then make my way back to my desk. After giving the seating plan one last check, I happily save the file, and drag it into the folder marked “Grade 8 Grad” on my desktop, before shutting it down for the weekend.

  There were some notifications flashing on my phone throughout the afternoon while I was teaching, so I finally take a break to reach for my cell and see what’s up. Unlocking it, I find a bunch of texts and a few missed calls, as well as the usual new posts on Facebook and Instagram. I open and reply to the texts from my mom about our upcoming trip Down East to Prince Edward Island, the one we take every July, then do the same with the ones from my sister Jane. She’s not coming home tonight because she picked up a nightshift at the hospital.

  After stalling until I can no longer stand the anticipation, I move to my text thread with Keaton. I start reading from the top of this week’s messages—for the umpteenth time—before allowing myself to read his newest one.

  I start at Sunday’s text following the Holly incident.

  Keaton: Sorry about Holly. She’s just a friend, not my gf. As for McCoy being in town, I’m sworn to secrecy.

  “Of course, you are,” I mutter, rolling my eyes like I’ve done each time I’ve read this over the last week. I should know better; Keaton would never break McCoy’s trust, even for Eastlyn, his own sister. I had wanted to write back and scold him, to remind him that blood is supposed to be thicker than water, and how Keaton should’ve at least given Eastlyn a heads up that McCoy was going to be in town. But I didn’t.

  I had ignored his subsequent messages because I’m still not talking to him, and as much as I want to say it’s only about the McCoy thing, it’s not. I’m hurt, and I need to start pulling away. And, it would have been pointless to waste the data on deaf ears, anyway. Keaton Hatfield and McCoy Graves have the ultimate bromance. They’re the Goose and Maverick to East’s and my Thelma and Louise, so I get it. I don’t like it, but I get it.

  I’m not sure why I still haven’t responded to the text he sent Sunday morning, or to the ones that followed all week long, but I haven’t. It’s been six days now, and his messages have been sitting unanswered. For some reason, I can’t seem to bring myself to reply right away like I usually would. Maybe I’ve already started playing the Moving On game. Or maybe I just want to make him work for my attention a little, because “working for it” where a woman is concerned is—I’m sure—a foreign concept to Mr. Keaton Hatfield.

  “Wish I could be oblivious for once,” I huff, annoyed at how much I allow this man to get to me. But I’m also excited to read each message in spite of my feelings, because he was, in fact, making a bit of an effort.

  Reading that text one last time, I fight the same urge I’ve had all week. I want so badly to reply to The Holly Comment with a snarky: “Aren’t they all always ‘just friends’?”, but I’m aware that sarcasm doesn’t travel as effectively via text as it does in real time, so I don’t respond.

  I scan down to Monday’s message.

  Keaton: You can’t ignore me, Hellcat. I’m relentless when it comes to you.

  Monday’s message also included an attached photo, and then a lengthy text talking about a crazy client for whom he’d inked a rectangular Pac Man game level on her back. The photo was of the complete piece. It was extremely detailed, with Power Pellets and floating fruit along the game dots. It was a text that nearly killed me not to reply to, because…come on! Instead, I’d laughed out loud when looking at the attached image, and struggled really hard all day Monday not to cave and reply: “Who asks for that?” like I usually would when he shares his tattoos-gone-wrong stories with me. Considering the client’s unusual image choice, the tatt itself ended up looking pretty freakin’ cool, but I’d venture to guess it was only because Keaton is the best at what he does.

  But he’s still the shithead who won’t tattoo me, I think, as I scroll down further to reread Tuesday’s unanswered text for the hundredth time.

  Keaton: We running tomorrow morning? We’ve got races to prep for. We need to make sure you’re keeping nice and limber. *wink, wink*

  God, he drives me crazy! This one was a lot harder to ignore, knowing he’d show up at 6 a.m. whether I replied or not. Keaton and I run together a few times a week. We’re both training for the Thanksgiving Day race—we’re running the 5K—and then the Marden Marathon next year in early April. The Marden is a 10K marathon that the city of Guelph holds every year, and we’ve been going at it extra hard to make sure we’re ready. Both are charity runs, and with the Marden, all the profits raised are specifically donated to the Groves Memorial Hospital. It’s a fantastic event Keaton and I have participated in over the last couple of years. I love these particular races because of them being local, so I not only get to race against Keaton, but also some fellow staff members. It’s a huge deal to win because it not only gives me bragging rights with Keaton, but in the staffroom at Westwood, too.

  Instead of replying to Keaton’s text, I’d awakened extra early and taped a cardboard smiley face to my door, along with a note explaining that, “After much consideration, I decided I couldn’t possibly train with The Enemy”.

  His response? He used the pen I’d left for him on the doorstep to scrawl at the bottom of my note: “I’ll be available later for massages if your muscles feel ‘tight’. Message me when you’re back.” He’d followed it up, asking point blank: “You aren’t giving me the slip on purpose, are you now, Kamilla?”

  And then there was the bloody text he sent Wednesday afternoon. One that’s messed with me ever since.

  Keaton: You’ll have to talk to me at trivia tonight. Might as well get it out of the way now. You’ll feel better if you get it off your chest. Shit, now I’m thinking about… Call. Me.

  “Thinking about what?” I ask myself aloud again, as I have every damn time I’ve read and reread this particular text all week. To say I was dying to text him back is an understatement. Was he thinking about my boobs? Or just boobs in general? I’d ended up bailing on trivia Wednesday; I’d had a hair appointment booked for ages that I’d almost forgotten about. And again, I’d left his message unanswered.

  I stifle the giggle that tries to escape as I read the text he’d sent late Wednesday night. I can totally picture his annoyed face as he typed.

  Keaton: Really? A no-show tonight? Don’t avoid me. We’re not doing this, Kam. I’ll show up at school. I’ll be a sweetheart and bring my sister and her bestie lunch. You know Bev loves me and will let me in to see you if I time it just right. Answer me!

  He’s right, too. Bev, our office assistant, does love Keaton and would totally let him upstairs to our classes to see us. Still, I took the risk and ignored him. I figured the odds would be in my favour since he was normally busy at work. Luckily, I was right, and there were no embarrassing intrusions to my classroom, like Keaton showing up with lunch consisting of a pile of egg salad and tuna fish sandwiches that would make my students gag from the stench.

  Too bad Thursday night’s text left me in the same confused state that seeing him in person would have.

  Keaton: Your ass is lucky that I was booked solid today. Time’s tickin’, Kami. I’m getting pissed.

  Was it the fact that he texted again, or Keaton’s word choice, that made my cheeks flush? Which left me sp
ending my entire Thursday night having naughty thoughts, imagining all the things Keaton could do to my ass. Slap it…rub it…kiss it…fuc—!

  I clear my throat and work overtime to shut out the visuals before they take centre stage. Again.

  “Damn him,” I mutter, as my eyes zone-in on the message he sent only an hour ago.

  Keaton: We aren’t kids anymore, Kami, stop ignoring me. If you keep this shit up, I’ll stop letting you beat me every race like I did last year. You’ll lose all your bragging rights at school. Maybe I’ll toss it to Hillman. Lord knows, the guy could use a break.

  I swear I can see the smirk that must have been on his smug-assed face as he typed each and every word, knowing he’s probably getting to me by now. Telling me he’ll “let” me win is always a surefire way to get me going. Then to threaten to toss the win to Hillman! Oh, hell no! Barry Hillman is the last person who deserves to win; the guy is already so braggy at work. We’d never hear the end of it. About how fast—how limber!—he is, and what stellar shape he’s in.

  Still I resist.

  As much as it’s killing me.

  “I am the queen of stubbornness and I will not cave!” I repeat the mantra I’ve been using all week, and close the Messages app with a finality I rarely feel where Keaton is concerned.

  8

  Denial, Thy Name Is Not Only Kamalot

  Kami

  “Kami! Are you going to keep pissing my brother off?” Eastlyn’s voice suddenly kamikazes, and I almost fall out of my desk chair.

  “Mother of all Shittles!!! You scared the dark ones outta me!”

  “I’m going to ignore that whole sentence, Ms Sutherland, and pretend those vulgar images did not just fall from your pretty mouth.” My best friend, and work colleague, teases while I work to control my heart rate.

  “What are you, East, a freaking stealth-ninja? I didn’t even hear you come in,” I say, putting my phone down and meeting her green eyes.

  Eastlyn giggles. I punch her arm as she walks past my desk to take a seat in front of me. “Seriously though, Keaton’s been texting me non-stop. He’s blowing a gasket that you’ve been ignoring him so long. Are you planning to answer the man? He said he’s texted you every day this week.”

  “I will. I’ve just been…busy.” I shrug her off.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “What does that mean?” I say. But I pick up my phone, deciding to relent and kill two birds with one stone, knowing it will appease both Eastlyn and her damn brother if I respond.

  Me: Really, you told on me to your sister?

  I hit send.

  His reply is immediate.

  Wow, maybe I do have some power…

  Keaton: And there she is.

  Me: Siccing your sister on me? That was an all-time low, even for you. Just wait and see whose side she’s on when I tell her I suspect you knew damn well that McCoy was going to be in town. The betrayal!!!

  Keaton: Jesus, Kam. Really? THAT’S what this is about? Let it be. You have no idea.

  I read the text, shaking my head.

  No. This isn’t just about East and McCoy and their drama. It’s about you and me, and all of the Hollys. However, I don’t dare bring “us” up.

  Of course, his response had been as dramatic and ominous as he could make it (“You have no idea!”), and heaven forbid that he confide in me. So, he’s right. I don’t have an idea, because he hasn’t clued me in.

  “It means this isn’t like you,” Eastlyn says in answer to my earlier question. “Blowing Keat off, ditching trivia night at Brass Tapps…what did Keaton do this time? It must have been really bad,” she observes.

  I snatch my phone from the desk and wave it at her. “I texted him, okay? And you knew I had to get my hair done on trivia night. I told you before I wouldn’t be there this week.”

  “That’s true,” she sighs. “Whatever. But I’m grateful you finally caved and messaged him. He’s like a man-child when he doesn’t get his way, especially where you’re concerned,” she muses innocently, not knowing how hard I’m now working to keep images of Keaton Hatfield having “his way” with me from forming in my mind. Gah!

  Eastlyn drones on, unaware that I’m only half-paying attention. “Don’t do that to me again, Kamalot. I was seriously contemplating blocking my own brother, he was texting me so much.” We share a laugh.

  “I can imagine how well that’d go over. How in the world would he ever keep tabs on us if I ignore him and you block him?” I ask, and we laugh harder.

  “I might have to. You two really need to work each other out of your systems. Just admit your love for each other and make us all happy!” she says wistfully, as if it’s that simple.

  I roll my eyes. “Please. You know better, we’re not like that. Besides, you’d have an actual coronary if we ever did get together,” I tell her, somewhat truthfully, because for years I think we’ve both suspected I’ve longed for more. Actually, I know for a fact Eastlyn more than suspects it, because one drunken night a long time ago, I admitted it. I’m just grateful she lets me off the hook from time to time, me simply chalking it up to a reaction to the alcohol.

  “That’s only because I want to make sure he’s ready to be the man you deserve, not some man-child who isn’t ready to give my bestie the ‘ending’ she deserves. Sue me.” She shrugs and gives me a pointed look as she stresses the word.

  I can’t really argue with that, now can I?

  “Well, you needn’t worry,” I say. “Nothing more than friendship and maybe a little harmless flirting are what’s in the cards for us, so I stand by my earlier comment. It’s. Not. Like. That.” I put myself out there once, and never again.

  She simply stares, waiting me out.

  “Fine. Anymore,” I tack on, to appease her.

  “Aw, Kami, Kami, Kam. Denial, thy name is Kamalot.”

  I want to tell her that it’s not “denial”, it’s more of a selfpreservation-kind-of-thing-with-a-bunch-of-mixed-and-misread-signals-and-a-whole-lot-of-self-inflicted-confusion, but I don’t. Instead, I cross my arms over my chest, give her a sidelong glance, and call her out. “You really want to go to Denialville with me, East?”

  She taps her index finger against her chin in fake contemplation. “Nope. I sure don’t.”

  “That’s what I thought.” I smile victoriously, as she sticks out her tongue. “Always the adult,” I tease.

  “Desperate times, yadda yadda…” She flaps her hand dismissively. “So, tell me what the big jerk did this time.”

  “He ignored my texts.”

  “The nerve!” she squeals dramatically.

  “Really, when I think about it, it’s all your fault, East.”

  “My fault?” She looks totally shocked. “How is it my fault?”

  “Two words: McCoy Graves.”

  Now it’s her turn to roll her eyes. “God, I hate that name. That big shit should be up there with V. from H.P. We should never utter his name aloud.”

  “Like Voldemort?”

  “Yes. McCoy and Voldemort are practically synonymous,” she says, and I laugh.

  “Sure they are, how could I be so daft? I think you lik—”

  “Kamilla Sutherland, we aren’t going there, remember?”

  “I know, I know. Fine, here’s what happened…”

  Eastlyn sits silently while I ramble on about the whole Holly incident. Eventually, she cuts me off. “Sooo…you were jeal—”

  “Don’t you dare say it!” I point at her, cutting her off. “I wasn’t jealous. The issue here isn’t Holly.” Having her name cross my lips makes me want to hurl. The image my stupid brain has conjured up of the infamous Holly—beautiful, brunette, and legs for days—makes me feel like my body is full of snakes. “The main issue is that I’m pretty positive Keaton knew McCoy was going to be in town,” I say, giving her a sympathetic smile, “and I think McCoy asked him not to tell anyone he’d be here—namely you and me.” I quickly move our discussion back to McCoy so Eastlyn won’t have to w
atch me shape-shift from her BFF to an ungodly, green-eyed beast called Jealousy. At least for a few minutes.

  “That shithead! I bet you’re right. There’s no way Coy would come back to Guelph and not tell—or see—my brother.” She starts to pace across the grey linoleum. I get why she’s pissed; there is—seriously—a whole other story of a crazy love/hate relationship between Eastlyn and McCoy. “How could Keaton not have warned me? He knows how much I hate that man. And Keaton also knows too well how shitty my luck has always been. Of course I’d run into McCoy if he were in town, it’s destiny’s way.” She throws her hands up in surrender. “I deserve to always, always have a heads up. Keat knows this. I’ve told him I always want a heads up…hell, I think my mom’s even told him,” she shouts, still pacing, her arms flailing this way and that. I think she’s actually the one in denial here, and needs to reevaluate her whole “piss or get off the pot” analogy, but I don’t say a word. I simply sit and listen, chiming in here and there when it suits, because I really do understand where she’s coming from.

  “I know,” I offer, “I said the same thing. Well, I thought it, anyway. After Holly answered Keat’s phone I’ve been ignoring him, so we haven’t really had the chance to discuss it. And, no, I wasn’t jealous of Holly,” I lie, “I’m pissed at your brother for keeping you in the dark, and for evading my questions about McCoy.”

  I deliberately left out the part where Holly had called herself Keaton’s “girlfriend”, and how much that had stung me. Also, how the idea of Keaton actually having a real-life share-their-lives-with-each-other-person-who-isn’t-me hits like a sledgehammer to my heart, breaking it into a bazillion fragments of future memories what will never be.

  That Keaton might Holly-up—he could very well fall in love with a Holly and not a Kami—is slowly eating me up inside. Oh God, the thought kills me.

  I swallow the urge to tell Eastlyn how crippling that reality has been. What’s more, I won’t admit that she’s right—that there is most definitely a green-eyed beast inside me, and if I don’t figure my shit out soon where her brother is concerned, I might go all Bruce Banner and lose a lot more than my shirt. I might lose whatever Keaton is—and my best friend in the process—if I mess things up by making it awkward. I’d never want Eastlyn to feel she had to pick a side.