Ruin Me: The Summer of Secrets: Part 1

by Christina Hart

  “Even when I try to do right by you, I fuck up,” he says to me, getting on his knees and taking my hand. He looks up at me as he squeezes my hand. “But everything I do, every good thing at least, I do it for you. Because of you. I will sit here begging you like this, on my knees, until you believe me.” Then he stands and turns to my sisters. “I know you guys probably don’t, but it’s the truth. I’m done with all that shit. Baby Bordeau here changed my life and me as a person, for the better. I’m sorry for not becoming the man she needed me to be sooner. But I’m here now. And if you give me the chance, I’ll prove it to you. For the rest of my life if she’ll let me.”

  He looks back at me, waiting for a response.

  Tears form in my eyes before I can try to wish them away. And my mind goes blank with anything other than yes.

  But I look at my sisters, waiting for their responses as he waits for mine. I wonder if they believe him. If they will support this rekindling of our crazy love for each other.

  Sophie throws her hands up. “Fuck, he got me with that. That was some romantic shit. All right, Joey. If Kitty wants this, you better be good to her, or I’ll fucking kill you.”

  Lucy laughs. “You know, that could rival some of the stuff in these romance novels, Joseph. Have you ever considered penning a book?”

  He laughs and shakes his head, mouthing the words “Thank you” to them before turning back to me.

  “So, what do you say? Is this seat taken or what?” he asks me, pointing to one of the empty chairs.

  I grin and lunge myself into his arms. “It is,” I whisper. “That damn seat will always belong to you.”

  Epilogue

  OCTOBER 4, 10:23PM

  If you’ve never been to pier forty-two,

  I can show you the way.

  Grab your sweetheart, your muse.

  And on their lips and sacred skin,

  write all the words they inspire in you.

  Even the ones you cannot find.

  Especially the ones you cannot find.

  Remind them of every single thing

  that sent you tumbling into love with them.

  And then, remember them all.

  Even during the pitfalls.

  Especially during the pitfalls.

  Because although it’s hard to find,

  it’s easy, too,

  to lose your way

  back to pier forty-two.

  “Joey!” I call from the bedroom.

  “Yeah?” he yells back from the kitchen, where he’s making me the sandwich I just asked for.

  With extra fresh meat.

  But I don’t think he received my pun.

  “If you don’t hurry up I’m starting the next episode of Californication without you!” I yell.

  “Wait for me! I’m coming!”

  Little does he know I’d always wait for him. I wouldn’t press play on a single thing without his presence beside me.

  We’ve been binging the show from the start, for three weeks now. We’re on season four, episode three.

  In our relationship, we’re on season ten, episode who-knows-I’ve-lost-track-of-the-days-because-I-am-in-bliss.

  I sprawl myself out on the bed as seductively as I can manage, although being intentionally sexy isn’t one of my strong suits. I try to spread eagle it and think again. Then I throw my legs in the air and start doing bicycle exercises for no real reason.

  When I hear his approaching footsteps, I settle for lying on my side—elbow propped up on the bed, hand under my chin—and I toss my hair over my shoulder so it looks like it naturally got that way.

  When he walks in, plate in hand, he smiles. “What are you up to?”

  “Notice anything, stud?” I ask in the most porn-star-ish voice I can muster, as I graze my fingers against the baby blue lace.

  He sets the plate down on the nightstand and climbs into bed with me, crawling on top of me. He looks at my thong like he’s thinking it over, touching it where my clit rests like he’s trying to conjure up the answer.

  “Our deal,” he says finally, slipping his fingers inside the fabric where I’m already wet for him. “You really saved them for the fall.” He smiles against my lips as he kisses me. Then, he stops all movement with his fingers and he looks at me. “Wait, is there a catch here?”

  “Sort of,” I say, removing my one hand from around his neck and reaching under my pillow. I pull out a new pack of panties. “How about a new deal? I’ll let you take each of these off me if we can save the white pair for winter.”

  “Every season is for you, Kitty. With or without the thongs,” he says, removing my underwear as he moves down my body, kissing me.

  I lean my head back against the pillow and close my eyes, wondering how he makes the future feel like something I want to hopelessly fall into with him.

  Ready for Lucy’s story?

  Keep reading for a sneak peek at the second installment of The Summer of Secrets: Hate Me by Cynthia A. Rodriguez

  Acknowledgments

  SEPTEMBER 4, 11:48PM

  I’m so tired, and I have to get back to editing, so this will be short and sweet.

  Jen, Cynthia, to just say I love you would not be enough, because at this point, I also hate you both quite often. I kid. In all seriousness, though, I really don’t know what we did this summer…but I’m so glad we did it. These sisters stole my heart (and a lot of my time, as well as yours #ruinedmyself), but I think they needed to be here. I’m so glad for Jersey bagels, and the disco fries we didn’t eat because we were busy plotting this out on the back of Cynthia’s damn menu with the pen she “borrowed” from the waitress.

  Waitress, I am sorry Cynthia stole your pen. I know she seemed nice, and her smile fooled you, but she took that pen and wrote some dirty things with it (#hateme). I hope you ate the rest of our fries when we finally left. We deserved that for occupying your booth for so many hours.

  Casper, thank you for unknowingly giving me Joey—he wouldn’t exist without you—and for your help with that chapter (you know the one). I love you. Thank you for being so you.

  Mom, I finally wrote something happy—kind of—just like you’ve always wanted! I hope all the sex doesn’t #ruinit. I love you, forever and then some. My next book will likely be another sad one. I’m sorry in advance.

  My brothers, Tyler and Derek, I love you guys.

  My brave erotic beta readers: Anna, Amanda, Diana, Rhea, Talon. Thank you. Your feedback was invaluable, and your encouragement helped get me through this more than you could ever know. So much love to you all.

  Kat, for being you. My literal other half of Savage Hart. I love you and I can’t wait to write with you one day. Thank you for being part of this book.

  Diana, for the beautiful cover of Kitty’s poetry book. You are a gem. I am so thankful we found each other. I’ll come visit you in India one day.

  Heathens, I live for you guys. Thank you for your undying support. I love you so much.

  For everyone who was excited for this series. Everyone who shared, posted, screamed, and partook in the surprises, thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

  Last but not least, to Joey and Kitty. Thank you for coming to me. I’ll miss you both.

  About the Author

  Christina Hart is an author, editor, and animal whisperer. She has a BA in Creative Writing and English with a specialization in fiction. Her four self-published poetry collections have all become bestsellers. They can be found online, along with her six novels. Traditional publications include The Chapstick Chick (Unknown Press) and The Father They Didn't Know (Penmen Review). In her spare time, she plays with other people's books while simultaneously driving them insane in the process. She hopes you will read her other books and/or hire her to edit yours. She also hates writing bios.

  Also by Christina Hart

  Poetry

  Empty Hotel Rooms Meant for Us

  Letting Go Is an Acquired Taste

  There Is Beauty in the Bleeding
<
br />   Don’t Tell Me To Be Quiet

  Novels

  The Rosebush Series:

  Lavender and Smoke

  Woods and Ash

  Rose and Dust

  Fresh Skin

  Synthetic Love

  Hate Me

  The Summer of Secrets: Part 2

  As the second of three sisters, Eloise “Lucy” Bordeau was never known for breaking the rules. And since taking over the family business while her sisters ran from small-town living and escaped to the city, rules have become her life.

  Until a stranger walks into her bookstore and gives her a night that rivals even the steamiest of romance novels.

  Only, Ezra James isn’t a stranger.

  He’s the man trying to buy the struggling Bordeau Books from underneath her.

  And now that he’s had a taste of her, he’ll do anything to keep her underneath him.

  1

  July 4, 8:15Pm

  Sweat rolls from my neck toward my breasts as I fight the urge to fan myself with one of these beloved books.

  The buttons on my linen dress have been fastened lower than usual, but no one’s coming in here anyway. Modesty is low on my list of priorities tonight, with human interaction being minimal most days.

  It’s even rarer that a man offer patronage to this fine establishment.

  Owning and running Bordeau Books, known for catering to romance readers, doesn’t make for an awful lot of male interaction.

  Bordeau Books: Where you always come first.

  The slogan was my mother’s doing. I didn’t have the heart to change it, even after the car accident that left this place in my possession at such a young age.

  My eyes fall on the book I’d been reading earlier, before I stopped to stock shelves, and I sigh as I pick it up. The pages have yellowed, the thick width of it decorated by the dust it picked up over the years. When I found it, rummaging through my older sister’s things, I couldn’t help but take it back, wanting to relive those days.

  And the book was doing its job, bringing me back to a time when she and I weren’t just tolerant of each other, but close.

  Now I can hardly make conversation with the girl I once called Sophie, who stood in front of me again two weeks ago as a woman named Elizabeth, my younger sister Kitty in tow.

  I should continue with stocking, the box of books next to me behind the register reminding me that this is why I’m here anyway. But I need—I deserve—a break, I tell myself as I lean over to turn on the desk fan. With the paperback in hand, I perch myself on the edge of the stool.

  It was my idea—of course—to work during the Fourth of July festival, in spite of Kitty’s insistence. I reasoned that working at night when the sun wasn’t beating down on the store would make the labor a little easier.

  They’re out there, enjoying themselves—of course—and here I am, trying to make sure we’re still open for business.

  It’s what our parents would’ve wanted.

  I’m just opening the paperback when a group of loud kids pass, no doubt headed to the festivities. When they smile and wave, I offer them a polite tip of my chin.

  Across the street, I see a familiar head of brown hair, his gaze grazing over the store, as if looking for something.

  No, someone.

  But he knows, just as I do, there’s no one here for him.

  I never had the heart to throw away the love letters he’d left for Kitty. But it didn’t mean he deserved another opportunity to chase her from my life again.

  I moan, trying to wish the heat away.

  The stuffy air makes me want to prop the door open, but I decide against it, lifting one foot to place on the desk instead.

  I curse the universe for my inability to afford to fix the air in here in time for the summer months, despite all the work I’d put into making this place a safe haven for romance readers.

  My resigned sigh barely makes it out by the time I’ve reminded myself that it’s pointless to pity myself. I’m no one’s victim.

  I’m a young woman who’s single-handedly turned a once fast-failing business into one that’s survived the technology era.

  Like patching up a blown tire so it’s only a slow leak.

  I hear the crack of the story’s old spine as I settle back into a headspace I’m more comfortable in.

  With the book against my thigh, I start to head off into this fantasy world of love and lust and men who rip clothes off of willing female bodies.

  But the thing about fantasies is they don’t last forever. So, when the bell over the door jingles, signaling someone entering the shop, I force a smile on my face. Although we technically aren’t open, I’m willing to sell to anyone wanting to purchase.

  I can’t see his whole face—only his promising profile—his shoulder to me as he peruses the area.

  What looks like gray cotton covers broad shoulders. His twill shorts fit perfectly enough for me to witness the curve of a sculpted ass and my eyes follow every movement the rest of his body makes. The slow sweep of his arm as he pushes his hair away from his forehead. The way his biceps roll into a compact mound that makes my lips purse, as if I were brave enough to blow it a small kiss.

  He’s turned away from me now, and I wonder what he thinks of this space as I eye his calves.

  The shop isn’t big, but I’m proud of the work I’ve done here, the signings I’ve organized, the social media presence I’ve built, to make sure this place gets recognition from all over the world.

  Because we’re not only fighting against bigger bookstores, but online retailers.

  Still, Bordeau Books is an experience; the stacks of stories organized in ways to get readers excited, the decorations minimal but lending to the bookstore’s overall aesthetic. I love to let the wooden beams and the large windows speak for themselves. And the authors who’ve come here to sign have given us bursts of clientele, some of which have become loyal customers.

  “Welcome to Bordeau Books,” I say, leaning forward to set my own book on the counter.

  He turns as soon as I speak, his gaze zeroing in on my face for a moment.

  Until it travels down, over my cleavage showcased by my many undone buttons, down my torso, to my propped leg, the front slit of my dress leaving it bare to his stare.

  “Anything I can help you with?” I ask as he nears, bringing my leg down and adjusting my dress.

  He’s dark. Dark hair, thick dark eyebrows, and dark lashes that frame bright green eyes.

  His steps seem measured, they’re so purposeful. But he has a grace about him that makes me think he’s dangerous.

  I’ve read about men like him, never knowing what one looked like up close.

  Confident.

  My experience is limited in my time here, making my relationships with men in this town nearly nonexistent. These are the same guys I watched date and dismiss my classmates and get into trouble. The same ones who picked on me when I had braces and acne. Now that these were things of the past, I had no interest.

  My sisters had been the ones to leave while I stayed behind and tended to our mother’s dream, coaxing the bookstore into the new age of online competitors and the like.

  I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t resentment.

  For my lack of freedom, my lack of life and love experience.

  But the man approaching the desk doesn’t seem to be lacking in anything. He doesn’t offer words. Only a quiet smirk until he reaches me.

  “Just looking for a break from the crowd,” he says, his voice skating over me like the sweat sliding down the back of my neck.

  “Yeah, it can get pretty hectic,” I offer, unable to look away.

  His eyes say hello.

  His mouth says I’m trouble.

  My brain doesn’t give a damn.

  “Seems that way.”

  He turns and I try my hardest to ignore how soft his T-shirt looks, stretched over what looks to be a body that knows labor.

  “What’s your story?” he a
sks me.

  The chuckle that erupts from me wreaks of nerves and stops short when he glances over his shoulder at me. “What do you mean?”

  He’s pulled a book from its place on the shelf closest to me. I’m familiar with the premise and when his brows raise, I adjust my skirt again.

  No man so attractive should be in this shop alone with me, reading about a reverse harem.

  He sets it back and takes one of those audible breaths that doesn’t seem to do anything more than lead to words. “I mean, does it compete with the one I just picked up?”

  “As in, do I sleep with five men at the same time?” I uncross my legs, only to cross them again, reveling in the way his eyes follow the movements. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but my life is much tamer in comparison.”

  His laugh is the loudest thing I’ve heard in a long time and it’s as assaulting as it is sexy. Head back, chin up, body following that sound of humor in a way that has me smiling.

  “I wasn’t being literal…” He brings one hand to the back of his neck, eyes widening and brows raising a fraction while his other hand gestures toward me.

  Should I?

  Should—

  “Eloise,” I say.

  He doesn’t repeat it, much to my disappointment.

  “And you’re…” I catch myself leaning forward and acknowledge my interest. Not just in his name, but in him. In his voice, in his laugh, in the way his body looks in this hot-as-hell room.

  There’s already a sheen of sweat coating his neck. I can see it as he shifts under the lights.