“I am not,” I answer, barely able to see over my own tears.
“And you will promise to never enter into such an engagement?”
“I will not.” The class cheers, and I can’t hold back my smile. “You have insulted my family and me in every possible way. Now you must leave.” I go to the door and hold it open.
Romeo storms off, and when I shut the door, my class erupts into a cacophony of cheers.
* * *
Greer: I’m going to puke. Fifth period starts in five minutes. I know what’s supposed to happen today.
Stella: You know what you want, right?
Greer: I want him.
Stella: Then take him . . . take all of him.
* * *
“Miss Gibson?” Simone in the front raises her hand.
“Yes?”
“Uh, there’s ten minutes left before school gets out. Is Mr. Turner going to come in?”
I glance at the clock and try not to show my disappointment.
“I don’t know. But let’s concentrate on what we’re doing right now, okay?” I take a deep breath and move to the side of the classroom close to the windows. I’m about to ask another question when the door to the classroom bursts open. A gust of wind blows in and Arlo stands in the doorway, wearing a white cotton button-up, brown jeans, and an overcoat. The shirt is open, a fan blows behind him, impersonating wind, and he stands there, proud.
He slowly walks toward me, and in that Darcy-like voice he says, “I couldn’t teach . . .”
I love his twist on the storyline.
Getting into character, I say, “Me neither.”
The class quiets, and I catch them all leaning forward.
“My aunt—how do I ever apologize for his behavior?”
A few chuckles.
“For I’m in your debt,” I say. “For what you’ve done for . . . Chuckie, and my family . . . for my career. I must be the one who makes amends.”
Chin held high, his voice cracks when he says, “You must know. It was all for you.” He takes a pause and then says, “If your feelings are still what they were two weeks ago, tell me now. My affection for you has not changed.”
There’s a slight gasp in the air.
“But if they have changed, I must know, because I need to tell you this.” He pauses again, his words almost drowned out by the rapid beat of my heart. “You have bewitched me, body and soul,” he says, just like Mr. Darcy. “And I . . . I love you. I never wish to be apart from you . . . from this day on.”
Taking a deep breath, I stare him in the eyes, the moment heavy, intense, so palpable that I can feel the truth in his words, the meaning behind them.
“Well then, shall we never be apart again.” I say, lifting his hand to my mouth, where I place a kiss on his knuckles.
I look up at him, and our foreheads move in, touching, our noses move closer, and then . . .
The bell sounds off, signaling the end of class.
Collectively, everyone shouts, “Nooooooo.”
Chuckie, in the nightgown still, for God knows what reason, says, “Kiss, kiss, kiss.”
Laughing, I glance up at Arlo, and he cups my chin. Everyone joins in the chant and before I can decide what to do, Arlo presses his mouth against mine. The cheers fade into the dark, the raucous behavior is out of mind as I get lost in his touch, in the feel of his mouth, in the capturing of his love.
Body and soul. Jane Austen could not have said it more perfectly.
Pulling his mouth away, he brings his lips to my ear and says, “You make me incandescently happy.”
Tears fall down my cheeks.
I pull away and cup his jaw. “Mr. Turner, you have no idea.”
Epilogue
ARLO
“We’re going to win. I can feel it in the air,” Gunner says, jumping up and down in ridiculously short cotton shorts.
No man should ever wear shorts that length.
But he lost a bet to Romeo—still not sure what that was about—and he showed up to the teachers’ league wearing red hot pants. And he’s playing it up, big time, bending over and stretching in Romeo’s face. I’m pretty sure Romeo is regretting making the bet at this point.
“Greer, are you stretched?”
“Yes,” she answers, exasperated.
I kiss the side of her head and whisper, “He’ll be worse during the game, so prepare yourself.”
“You’re lucky you don’t have to play. I wish I was the one who broke my thumb.”
I hold up my small cast. “I can arrange that. I’ll smash it right now with my club hand.”
She chuckles and snuggles in close to my chest.
Come to find out, a grand gesture doesn’t solve all problems.
Shocking, I know.
After I swept Greer off her feet, Mr. Darcy style, I thought we were going to pick up right where we left off.
Boy, was I foolish.
Nope. There was a lot of talking.
I mean . . . a lot.
We had to hash out every last detail, which made sense in the long run because it has helped us establish a more solid foundation of a relationship, something we can stand on through the good and the bad. It’s been hard work, but worth putting the time toward. This might not be a shock to you, but relationships don’t come easy to me, so the more we communicate, the more I learn and that’s what we’ve been doing, communicating a lot.
And even with how open we’ve been with each other; Greer still took it slow with me. She didn’t move in right away like I thought she would. Instead, we went back to dating.
Real dating.
I started sending her notes again, telling her how much I love her, entertaining her with dirty poetry (originals), and opening up to her in a way I feel comfortable. We’ve been spending Friday nights together, focusing on dates and getting to know each other on another level, not just sex. We’ve hung out with our friends, gone on double dates with Gunner and Lindsay, and have even attended some cooking classes together.
I also pop into her class every once in a while and declare my love for her, especially when she moved on from Pride and Prejudice and jumped into Romeo and Juliet. I wanted a firm grasp on what a relationship was before trying to move forward with anything else.
For Thanksgiving, I went to her house after all. Talk about nervous. I was a fucking wreck. Greer kept telling me her parents were going to love me but being the guy that broke her heart, I was skeptical. Thankfully, her parents didn’t know about the evaluation debacle, as Greer didn’t want to taint their opinion of me. When she told me that, I don’t think I could have loved her more. She gave me a fair chance to make a good impression. And of course, I took advantage of the opportunity and I worked my charm, while Coraline ate all their pie. We left with full bellies and a welcoming family asking us to come back anytime.
And the sex—well, that was put on hold for a while.
At first, I was okay with it. I knew I had to grow that trust with her again.
But after a few weeks of her kissing me goodnight and sending me out the door, I was growing desperate. It wasn’t until she asked me to come over to help her build her new dining room table, a table that I found her spread across in another lingerie set, waiting for me that she relieved me of my torture.
In full transparency, I came hard and quick. Don’t worry . . . so did she. After that, we made love several times through the night. The next day, she asked if the invitation to move in was still available. I started packing her up that day. Two days later, she was living with me.
And that’s how it’s been since.
Christmas is in two weeks, and Coraline and I already have one hell of a holiday party planned, as well as Christmas morning. A special Christmas morning. One that involves a sparkly item, and this one is not for Coraline.
As for my thumb, Gunner broke it last weekend. In a fit of rage while practicing badminton, he swung the racket and chopped my thumb. I swore violently while kicking him in the crotch.
We both fell to the ground. I was taken to the hospital, Lindsay iced Gunner’s balls, I wound up with a cast, and Gunner isn’t sure if he can deliver any more kids to Lindsay’s uterus. His words, not mine.
“Look at them over there,” Stella says. “All smug, thinking they’re going to win. They have no idea we have a human computer with us.”
After we realized having four Division-1 athletes on a team isn’t the best idea—since they all go after the shuttlecock at the same time—we enlisted Keiko to help us. She’s been secretly studying the teams all tournament and calculating the rate of their trajectory . . . or something like that. I have no idea, except that she’s pinpointed all their weak spots and has instructed each player thoroughly on the Forest Heights team about where they’re allowed to hit the shuttlecock.
They’re ready.
“Are there any questions?” Keiko asks. “I will be quite displeased if I have to repeat myself.”
“We got it,” Romeo says, bouncing back and forth like a tennis player, racket in hand.
“We’re going to annihilate them,” Stella roars, lifting her racket to the air.
“And then celebrate with donuts,” Cora says next to me, taking pictures.
Everyone cheers and heads to their positions.
Greer turns to me, cups my cheek, and says, “Wish me luck.”
“Good luck, babe.” I kiss her on the lips and look her in the eyes. “I love you.”
She smiles and replies, “I love you.” Then she leans in and whispers in my ear, “If we win, I’m sucking you so hard tonight.”
I whisper back, “When we win, you’re revisiting the kitchen island.”
Her cheeks redden and she pulls away. She gives me a quick wave, and I shoot her a wink as I watch her jog off to the court, her hair swishing behind her.
“God, you’re infatuated, aren’t you?” Cora asks.
“The proper term would be bewitched, Coraline. Utterly bewitched.”
THE END
Keep reading for a link to an EXTENDED EPILOGUE about Arlo and Greer’s future and for an excerpt from my baseball romance The Dugout which also features Gunner and Romeo.
Excerpt - The Dugout
Prologue
CARSON
Everyone knows me as the easygoing, fun-loving guy without a care in the world. You know who I’m talking about, right?
The guy who cheers when a couple kisses, who says stupid shit like YIPPEE when he’s excited, the guy who has no shame in shimmying his bare, bright white ass to his friends just to make them laugh.
I’m also the guy who is magically smart, can lead an entire bar to harmoniously sing any Taylor Swift song, lucks out in everything he does, and has impeccable taste in clothing—despite wearing a baseball hoodie every Monday. A dude must make himself feel better when the Monday blues hit and a hoodie does just that.
But have you guessed it? Do you see where this is going?
I’m not that guy anymore.
Nope.
Easygoing and fun-loving? Not anymore. I spit venom at whoever dares to be in my presence. You know the old man who throws endless piles of shoes at the street youths as they walk by? That’s me, minus the incontinence problem and mothball smell.
My days of singing Taylor Swift with a crowd are over. Instead—if I even make it to a bar—I bury myself in a corner and sneer. Oh boy, do I fucking sneer. I sneer at anything and anyone that even attempts to look at my face.
That impeccable fashion sense I was boasting about? Gone. I think I’ve been wearing the same pair of athletic shorts for a month—not really—but maybe it’s a little true.
And the guy who lucks out in everything he does? Ha, my luck was cut short at the beginning of the season thanks to the square ass, dirty dick named Kirk Babcock, also known as Kirk BADcock by my team.
What did this Badcock do, you ask?
If you’re thinking he poked me with said bad cock, you need to get your mind out of the gutter.
What he did was even worse than winging his willy around on the baseball field.
So bad that you might need to brace yourself . . .
**FLAILS ARMS**
He committed a sin against all baseball etiquette.
The cardinal sin.
The biggest sin of all sins.
Are you sitting? I don’t want you to faint from the blasphemy I’m about to share.
Deep breaths, everyone . . .
He . . . damn it, he slid late . . . at practice.
Gasp, I know.
I told you it was bad . . . my balls are shriveling up into my taint just thinking about it.
The dumbass freshman, who had too much juice in his junk, decided to book it to second during a practice game while Holt and I were fleshing out a double play. The dingleberry slid into second base two seconds too late.
Why is this a problem?
For those of you who might not be in the know—don’t worry, I won’t hold it against you—back in 2016, the gods of baseball developed a new rule; all players sliding into second must hit the ground first before touching the bag to avoid injuring the opposing players.
Layman’s terms: don’t be a dickhead and hurt people.
Apparently, Badcock didn’t get that memo, because the little turd nugget charged second base like an out-of-control steam train . . . just as I slid my foot across the base for the out. His dirty slide took my leg out, twisting me in the process, and tossed me to the ground.
As I fell, I heard a resounding snap that would make any grown-ass man throw up into his lap, followed by an immense amount of pain shooting up the back of my leg.
The motherfucker—stenchy bad cock—ruptured my Achilles tendon.
Like Achilles himself, I buckled to the ground and wallowed in pain while holding my leg, as if I let go, it would detach from my body and float right on up to heaven where it belongs for the many good years it gave me.
Badcock proceeded to fling his helmet off his head, get in my face, and apologize profusely, making up some excuse about tripping over his own damn feet.
Yeah, okay, fart breath.
I’d like to see the tape for a full review, because I’m questioning the shit out of that statement. Tripped, my left nut.
If I was a freshman and got hurt, I wouldn’t want to rip the skin off Badcock’s scrotum, maybe just give him a swift lodge of my foot up his ass. But ripping scrotum skin, nah.
But guess what? I’m not a goddamn freshman.
I’m a fucking junior, and if you know anything about baseball, you know being a junior in college is one of the most important times in a guy’s life.
Because that’s the year you’re eligible to be drafted.
DRAFTED.
Brentwood University is known as a breeding ground for exceptional baseball players; it’s where the scouts come to find their next top prospects. If you want to play professional baseball, you either choose to go into the draft right after high school or be recruited by Brentwood. I chose an education so I had a possible career to fall back on in case something happened to me . . . like rupturing my Achilles tendon.
Can you guess where this is going?
Strike up the violins, because a sob story is coming your way.
I was ushered off the field and straight to the state-of-the-art training room where, after an excruciating physical exam, I had an ultrasound. It was then confirmed I’d be out of commission for the season. I underwent surgery, had the stupid thing stitched back together—let’s take a moment to be physically ill over the thought of that—and then put through an extensive rehab, missing my chance to be drafted.
You read that right, I was not drafted. My best friends were . . . I was not.
Because no one wants an injured player, even if he has tons of promise.
Even if he was the best second baseman in the country.
Even if he was supposed to be drafted in the first round.
Not one single team wanted to take the gamble to see if I could make
a full recovery.
Isn’t that just peachy?
So needless to say, Kirk BADcock stays as far away from me as possible.
As for me, I’d like to say I’m not a bitter man with a chip on his shoulder, but that would be a massive lie.
I have the biggest fucking chip on my shoulder, so big that I named him Aloysius and I high-five him every morning, agreeing that we’re going to try to make at least one person’s life miserable that day.
My suggestion, if you see me around campus? Steer clear, run away, duck and hide, because I’m a polluted motherfucker with an equally rotten Aloysius on my shoulder ready to raise hell in your life.
Carson Stone is out for vengeance thanks to one moronic bad cock.
Chapter One
MILLY
“Fuck.”
Bat and helmet are tossed to the ground as the opposing team jogs off the field.
Yikes, that can’t be a reaction the coaching staff looks for from their players.
“Stone, get your ass in the dugout,” Coach Disik yells across the field, hands propped at his hips, a look to kill plastered on his face. Yup, doesn’t seem like they like that reaction at all.
“Oooo,” Jerry, one of my best friends, says next to me. “Someone’s in trouble.”
“Yeah, Disik is not going to like that,” Shane, my other best friend adds, just as he stuffs a handful of popcorn into his mouth.
“Stone is having one shitty season.” Jerry leans over and grabs a scoop of popcorn for himself but instead of unhinging his jaw and taking down a fistful of food like Shane, he pops in one piece at a time like a civilized human being.
“It’s only the start of the season,” I say, feeling bad for the guy. Once the lead-off hitter who led the country in hits, steals, and RBIs as well as fielding percentage, he’s fallen from grace after his injury last year and can’t seem to get it together his senior year.
See Me After Class Page 37