The Mitchell Sisters: A Complete Romance Series (3-Book Box Set)

by Samantha Christy

  “Because I don’t feel like it, Karen. We did lose today, in case you already forgot.”

  “All the more reason to get drunk with me tonight.” She smiles.

  “I don’t think so,” I say.

  She plops herself down on the couch next to me. “What is with you, Gavin?”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “What’s up with you lately?” She maneuvers herself next to me so that I have no choice but to look at her. “At first I thought it was you just being all soccer-y and stuff, but you haven’t been acting like yourself for the past month,” she says. “You’ve been leaving parties early. Alone. Or worse, not bothering to go at all, like right now. Are you doing drugs, Gavin McBride?”

  I choke on the water I’m drinking. “Shit, Karen. You know me better than that,” I say. “Not only would I never stoop to that level, but they do drug test college athletes, you know.”

  “Then what is it?” she asks.

  I shrug my shoulders. “Maybe I’m just tired of getting laid by any girl in a short skirt.” I let out a big breath. “It’s all so fucking meaningless.” I look around to make sure none of my buddies are here to call me a dickless freak.

  Karen merely stares at me with her mouth hanging open.

  “Plus, there’s this girl,” I say.

  She closes her mouth only to resume her pucker from earlier which is now accompanied by her raised eyebrows. “Girl?” she asks. “What girl?” I don’t miss the way she says ‘girl’ like it’s a bad word. “Are you dating someone Gavin?”

  “No,” I say. “But I think I might want to.”

  “What, date someone? As in have an actual girlfriend?” she asks, incredulously.

  “Well, yeah,” I say. “I thought I might try it for a change.”

  She throws her head back and sighs, causing her platinum-blonde hair to fall behind her shoulders. Then she looks down and picks at the seam of her jeans. “Who is she?”

  “You don’t know her,” I say. “It’s just some girl I ran into back at orientation.”

  “Ran into?” She studies me. “Oh, my God, you don’t mean ‘Thing 2,’ do you?”

  I laugh, remembering that stupid shirt Baylor was wearing the day we met. I nod my head. “Yeah, why not her?”

  She rolls her eyes at me. “Nobody I know would be caught dead in that atrocious shirt she was wearing,” she says. “She’s a toddler, Gavin. You could do so much better.”

  “Maybe I don’t want to do better, Karen.”

  She dismisses me, shaking her head. “It’s a good thing winter break starts next week. Five weeks back at home will do you some good.” She stands up and grabs my hand. “Now get your ass up off the couch and go get ready. You’re going to this party with us.”

  I let her pull me up. I guess it will be nice to get out of the house and let loose after soccer season. “Fine,” I say. “Just let me jump in the shower.”

  She squeals and pulls out her makeup bag to put more unneeded shit on her face.

  I come jogging around the corner and see Baylor waiting in front of Fetzer Hall. I know I have a silly fucking grin on my face. But I don’t care.

  I spent the entire time at Saturday’s party silently deliberating how I’m going to get through the five-week break without seeing her face. I drank and talked and tried to be social so Karen would get off my ass, but the whole time I was thinking of ways to get my parents to spend Christmas in NYC or Boston, just to be closer to her.

  “Miss me, McBride?” she asks, running up alongside me. I laugh at how she’s turning the tables.

  “No,” I reply.

  “Liar.” She elbows me.

  “Yes,” I acknowledge.

  “Sorry you missed getting to the Final Four,” she says. “It was a close game.”

  I raise my eyebrows in question. “You watched?”

  “Of course I did,” she says. “I know this guy who’s pretty good at scoring goals.”

  “Oh, yeah?” I ask, smiling.

  “Yeah, it’s Dean Jorgensen. You know of him?”

  I elbow her back. “Traitor,” I say at the mention of my best friend.

  “I hear he’s the best wingback-center-striker on the team.” She laughs at her own ineptitude about soccer terminology.

  “I have a lot to teach you about soccer, Mitchell.”

  “Bring it on, McBride,” she challenges. “Maybe you can teach me to play someday.”

  God, I’d love to teach her to play soccer. I can imagine taking her out on the field and dribbling the ball with her. I can see her running down the sideline, wind in her hair, looking back at me and nodding for me to pass her the ball. What is it about this girl that has me fantasizing about playing soccer with her instead of dreaming about getting to all the ‘bases?’

  “Well, it’ll have to wait until spring,” I say sadly. “This semester went by so fast. I can’t believe we’re in exam week already.”

  “I know,” she says. “My last final is Wednesday. When’s yours?”

  “Thursday,” I say. “You going to be able to run Wednesday?”

  I think I literally hold my breath while awaiting her answer, which is not a good thing to do while jogging. I can’t imagine this being the last time I’ll see her until January.

  “Yeah, sure, I can run Wednesday. I wouldn’t want you to miss Bay Watch,” she teases.

  I notice that we keep talking and never speed up to a full-on run. I smile inwardly thinking to myself that she doesn’t want to leave me, either. Damn, I’m going to miss our Monday and Wednesday runs.

  Then I have a thought. “Bay, do you want to keep running with me during winter break?”

  She gives me a strange look. “Uh, you coming to Maple Creek?”

  Yeah, I wish.

  “No. But we can still run together. You know, every Monday and Wednesday at this time.” I notice that she’s quiet and I want to slap the shit out of my forehead for being such a pussy-whipped douchebag.

  Then I see the smile creep up her face. “How will we handle the time difference?” she asks. “Will you run earlier, or should I run later?”

  “I don’t want to have to get up too early on break. How about you run an hour later?”

  “I can live with that,” she says. “But it’s a shame I won’t be able to see your ugly, sweaty mug in person.”

  That gives me another idea. One that will benefit me as well if I play this right. “Give me your phone.” I stop jogging and hold my hand out. She stops with me, furrowing her brow as she hands it over. I hold it out at arm’s length and take a picture of myself. Then I hand it back to her and start running again.

  She comes up behind me. “What am I, chopped liver?” she asks. “Don’t you want one, too?”

  Yes! Mission accomplished.

  “Of course,” I say, knowing all the other girls in my life would be mortified to have their sweaty appearance documented that way. But this is Baylor. She’s the opposite of all the other girls in my life. That’s one of the things I love about her.

  Like.

  That’s one of the things I like about her.

  “Give it here,” she demands, stopping us once more.

  I hand my phone over and what she does next is truly amazing. She takes three or four pictures of herself, all while making incredibly silly faces. All with a sheen of sweat dotting her hairline. All with her windblown hair haphazardly coming out of her ponytail.

  Fuuuck me.

  I can’t wait to get home and look at these pictures.

  Baylor: Sorry, Gavin. I didn’t look closely enough at my schedule. My last final is in the morning, not the afternoon like I thought. I’m going to miss our run tomorrow.

  Shit.

  How could she not have known when her last final is? Our professors practically shove it down our throats the last week of classes. Maybe she’s lying. Maybe she told the asswipe about our runs and he won’t let her do it anymore. I have to know. I can’t let her leave for break li
ke this.

  Me: Did you tell what’s-his-name about our runs?

  Baylor: Chris? No.

  I’m happy to see she’s still playing our little game.

  Me: Are you going to?

  Baylor: Yes.

  Me: Liar.

  Baylor: Maybe.

  Me: Did you really not know about your final?

  Baylor: I knew. I just didn’t want it to be weird, that’s all.

  This is news. Does that mean she’s going to miss me and she didn’t know how to say goodbye? Shit, this girl has me all over the place. I switch my phone over to my picture gallery and look at her gorgeous face. She’s sticking her tongue out at me in one picture. Another has her puckering up while her nose crinkles. The last one shows a big cheesy smile, one that brings out that dimple in her right cheek—and she’s cross-eyed.

  Me: Thanks for the pictures.

  Baylor: You, too.

  Me: Good luck on your last final and have a safe flight back home.

  Baylor: You, too.

  Me: Don’t forget about our runs.

  Baylor: Not a chance. See you in January, Gavin Maddox McBride.

  Me: See ya, Baylor Christine Mitchell.

  So that’s that.

  I put my phone down. This is going to be the longest fucking month of my life.

  chapter eight

  I’m early. I know I’m early, but I couldn’t wait. I check my watch again.

  We never talked. We never texted. We never said anything about spring semester and what would happen the Monday morning that classes started.

  Yet, here I wait like a fucking puppy waiting for its owner to take it out for a pee. I circle around, wondering if she will show up. It’s been five weeks. A lot can happen in five weeks. She could have a goddamn ring on her finger for all I know. That shit happens a lot around the holidays.

  I told my mom about her.

  I told my mom about a girl for the first time. Ever. My mom simply sat and grinned at me the entire time. I think it took me an hour or more to tell her everything I wanted to get off my chest. Then I told her what I did about school. Something I haven’t told anyone. Not even Baylor. She hugged me. My mom hugged me and said she was proud of me. The congressman, on the other hand, will have a coronary when he finds out. So I didn’t tell him—on my mom’s advice. Now I know how she’s put up with him for so many years. Selective information sharing. She’s a smart one, my mom.

  I check my watch. Two minutes after eight.

  Crap. She’s never late.

  I’ll wait three more minutes and then I’ll go on with my morning run. I mean, I’m not that desperate. I’m not about to wait around all day.

  I check my watch again.

  Okay, I’ll wait ten minutes. But not a minute longer.

  Pussy.

  At ten after eight, I reluctantly break into a slow jog away from Fetzer Hall. It doesn’t mean anything, her not coming. We didn’t discuss it. We didn’t plan it. Maybe she’s just settling back in this morning. Or maybe her flight was late.

  “Miss me, McBride?” I hear from behind.

  I briefly close my eyes. I’m not sure what this strange feeling is in my chest. It’s like my lungs have been re-inflated after not being able to breathe.

  “No,” I say, finding it impossible to hide my face-splitting smile.

  “Liar,” she says.

  “Yes,” I respond. And just like that, we’re Baylor and Gavin again, running as if we never missed a beat. As if I didn’t spend thirty-four agonizing days fantasizing about her while staring at those stupid pictures she took on my phone. As if I didn’t purposefully leave my phone behind most of those days to reduce the temptation to text her. As if I didn’t google Maple Creek, Connecticut on my laptop just to feel like I learned something about her world.

  Damn. I resist the urge to reach down and make sure I’m even in possession of a pair of balls anymore.

  We stare at each other out of the corner of our eyes. She blushes. I laugh. We run.

  She’s gotten faster since last month. She must have been really pushing herself. Was she doing that for me, I wonder? I try to inconspicuously look at her left ring finger to make sure there’s nothing there, but she keeps moving it so I can’t get a good look without being painfully obvious.

  Okay, here goes.

  “Did you tell what’s-his-name about our runs?”

  “Yes,” she says. No laugh. No smile. No elbow.

  Crack.

  The goddamn thing just splintered and fragments of it are stabbing me. I stop running. “For real?” I ask.

  She nods. “Yeah.”

  “Well, what did he say?”

  “I told him and then we broke up,” she says.

  Hope hits me square in the chest, taking my breath away before my heart starts beating again.

  “He broke up with you, Baylor?” I ask, a little too incredulously.

  “No. I broke up with him,” she says. “But it was more of a mutual thing, really. We are better as friends.”

  “So, you’re still friends then?” I ask, not quite knowing if I like the idea of ex-asswipe being in her life after being her boyfriend.

  “Of course. Chris will always be my friend,” she says. “You don’t have a problem with that, right?”

  Well, what am I supposed to say? I have Karen, the queen bitch of all girl-intimidators, on my coattails twenty-four-seven so I can’t really complain about what’s-his-name.

  “What? No, of course I don’t,” I lie through my teeth, hoping my pants don’t catch on fire.

  She turns off when we get to her dorm. “See you Wednesday, McBride,” she says, jogging up the stairs.

  “Not if I see you first, Mitchell.”

  She gives me a confused look as she heads into her building, but I just wave and keep running.

  Spring is our off-season. We still have occasional games with other schools, but they are scrimmages really, just to keep our skills fresh. We workout or run every day. We have practice three times a week. But for the most part, nights and weekends are free. I love the off-season. And I love that I have so much free time to put my new plan in place. The plan that gets Baylor to go out with me.

  This is all new. I’m in virgin territory here. I’ve been with dozens of girls, but never one that I’ve wanted a relationship with. I’m not exactly sure how this goes. What I am sure about is that I don’t want to fuck this up. It has to be perfect. Because she is perfect.

  I purposefully walk in a few minutes late to Philosophy 101. It’s a huge class in one of the largest auditoriums on campus. Because of this, I know most students like to sit in the back and there will only be seats left down in front. So as the TAs hand out syllabi, I casually walk down to the front, having already spotted Baylor in the sixth row. Sixth row—she’s a good student then. I excuse myself as I squeeze past several people to find a seat in the middle of row three. After I sit down, I turn around just enough to see Baylor’s jaw dropping into her lap. I wink. She blushes. We smile.

  “You knew we had a class together, didn’t you?” she asks, on our way out an hour later. “I thought you acted strange this morning.”

  “How could I possibly know that, Baylor?” I feign innocence.

  “Well, then why are you taking a freshman level class?”

  “Because I need an easy A,” I reply. “I have a tough schedule and I’m going to need the break.”

  “Oh,” she says, accepting my explanation. We emerge from the building into a blast of arctic air. All I want to do is put my arm around her to warm her as she shivers. But, that’s not part of the plan. I have to stick to the plan. She points in the opposite direction from where I’m headed. “I have to get to Comp Two now. I only have a fifteen minute break.”

  Of course, I know this since I have a copy of her schedule in my back pocket.

  “See you Wednesday,” she says, as she walks away.

  “If you say so, Mitchell,” I tease.

  She glances
back and rolls her eyes at me.

  My plan couldn’t have come together any better. Five days a week. I’ll see her every weekday all semester, and if I’m lucky, I can work in some weekend study time on top. My advisor worked hard to fit my new schedule around the two classes I wanted to take with her, assuring we’d have face time on a regular basis. Yes, I’ll admit, being a college athlete does come with perks. As in priority class registration.

  So on Tuesday, when I walk into her Film Studies class, Baylor laughs. Out loud. Shit. That throaty laugh of hers hits me right in the balls, doubling me over with the incessant need to make her do it again.

  I slip into the empty seat next to her. We try to focus on our professor, but if all the doodling in her notebook is any indication, I’d say she’s experiencing as much sexual tension sitting two feet away from me as I am with her.

  “Tough schedule, eh?” she says on our way out.

  I shrug. “Hey, I heard we have to write a lot of papers in this class. That’s tough,” I say. “We also have to watch a shit-ton of movies. I think we should set up a schedule now.”

  “A schedule for what?” she asks.

  “For movie watching,” I say. “Thursday nights good for you?” I would have suggested Friday or Saturday, but that would seem too forward and date-like and I have to stick to the plan.

  “Oh,” she says, surprised. She looks down at the long list of movies on the syllabus. “You want to watch these together?”

  “Yeah, why not?” I ask. “It would make watching”—I look at her list—“uh, ‘Citizen Kane’ a little more bearable, don’t you think? Is that even in color?”

  She smiles over at me. “Thursdays work for me.”

  Yes! Part two of my plan is falling into place.

  “Uh, Gavin,” she says, her face quite serious now, “aren’t you going to fall behind in Poli Sci if you take so many electives?”