by Cindy Miles
STUPID LOVE
A New Adult Romance Novel
by Cindy Miles
Special Preview of STUPID LOVE
I was on the bottom step, leaning against the porch post when Jace pulled up. My hair was wadded up in a messy ball on top of my head, still damp from my shower. There were those dratted butterflies again, stirring up in my belly. When he swung out of the truck, they kicked up even fiercer.
“I’ve been thinking about something,” I called out.
Jace said nothing; just walked toward me with long, purposeful strides. A dark skully covered his head; he wore his usual faded Carhartt, and jeans that hugged his hips. I watched that bow-legged stride as it carried him straight toward me. Eyes focused, clear, and on mine. A muscle flinched in his jaw as he grew closer. Walked right up to me.
“Did you hear what—”
My words were cut short by Jace’s mouth as it covered mine. His hands—rough, warm, grasped either side of my face and he tilted my head just so until I was where he wanted, an exact fit, and his mouth moved over mine, slow, resolute, and his tongue felt…perfect. Erotic. I inhaled, breathing him in, and he deepened the kiss.
When Jace pulled back, he rested his forehead against mine, braced his weight against the post, and we were both somewhat winded, and the chilled air turned our warm breath into small puffs of white.
“What,” he said quietly, “were you thinking about, Ms. Thibodeaux?”
Table of Contents
STUPID LOVE
Other Books by Cindy Miles
Prologue: Salutations
1. Memory: First Impressions
2. Jace: First Impressions
3. Unawares
4. Serendipity
5. Captivated
6. Hot Pursuit
7. Jace
8. #HardNutToCrack
9. Hooked
10. Jace
11. Unavoidable
12. Decisions
13. What If?
14. Falling
15. Forgetting
16. Running on Empty
17. Confessions
18. Jace
19. Hearts Wide Open
20. Flyin' High
21. Perfect Fit
22. Caught Up Thus Far
23. Pulling Back
24. Jace
25. Truth or Dare
26. Eye of the Tiger
27. Jace
28. Shot Through the Heart
29. Don't Want to Miss a Damn Thing
30. Promises Kept
31. Such Sweet Emotion
Acknowledgments
Just In Case You Missed It!
About the Author
Copyright Information
Other Books by Cindy Miles
The Stupid in Love Series:
Stupid Girl
Stupid Boy
Stupid Love
The Cassabaw Island Series:
Those Cassabaw Days: A Malone Brothers Novel (Book 1)
Other Titles:
Forevermore (Young Adult, Scholastic books)
Spirited Away (Adult ghost romance, NAL)
Into Thin Air (Adult ghost romance, NAL)
Highland Knight (Adult ghost romance, NAL)
MacGowan’s Ghost (Adult ghost romance, NAL)
Thirteen Chances (Adult ghost romance, NAL)
Visit Cindy on her website, Facebook, Twitter, or Goodreads!
Contact her at [email protected]
Dedication
For my husband, Brian. Thanks for putting up with deadlines and edits and all things Authorish. Also, for your in-depth knowledge on Panty Tag and your expertise on brazing and welding. Now, can you PLEASE help me weld a 12-foot T-Rex for the front yard? I’ll even let you name it. Love ya, mean it!
Dear Diary,
It’s Memory Thibodeaux, reporting in. Sorry I haven’t cracked you open since you were given to me many Christmases ago, along with that god-awful cat sweater. If it makes you feel better, the sweater met a tragic end. Death by bleach bottle. It was ruled accidental, of course.
Since you’ve managed to survive my more destructive years, let me catch you up to speed on Life Thus Far. When I was seven years old I survived an ATRT—Atypical Teratoid/Rhabdoid Tumor. A rare, high-grade tumor of the brain. To make a long story short, it should have killed me. My survival rate was nada. But instead, somehow, I Kicked Its Ass. There were no lingering side effects, except for the nifty Frankenstein scar on my head. But my hair covers it these days. No harm, no foul. I’m basically a goddamned walking miracle.
The problem with cheating Death once, though, is that I got too comfortable…and too cocky. I fancied myself a “Superhero.” Jumping buildings in a single bound—no problem. Give me a bungee cord, and I’ll take a flying leap off of just about anything. And, don’t even try to challenge me in a game of Truth or Dare. I am the Queen. I am invincible. Or, I was. Fearlessness flooded my body like liquid metal, filling every pore, every cavity, and every sneaky little shadowy place Death tried to hide. I didn’t care. I’d kicked the Grim Reaper’s ass once. I had this.
But, I belatedly discovered a problem with cheating Death.
Complacency.
It’s one of Death’s little dirty, underhanded tricks, and I possessed a serious dose of epic proportions. I stopped worrying about how my health affected my life and everyone in it. I’m talking IDGAF-complacency falling out of my ass. Only, I didn’t know it before now. Not until The Boy Who Changed Everything brought me back down to Earth with one, short kiss that warmed the entire surface of my skin.
Ever hear of Stupid Love, Diary? Yeah, of course you have. It’s the kind of stuff you were made for. I never thought I’d get all fluttery and weak-kneed about some guy, but it turns out I am human after all. I guess I’ll start from the night I met The One Who Fucked Up My Life Thus Far.
Also known as, the night I almost threw up on Jace Beaumont’s boots…
Mid-January
Present day
Saturday night
“Mem! You want me to go with?”
Music thundered inside the old converted barn out on Route 80, an easy twenty miles past Covington’s city limits. The sounds of electric violins and guitars reverberated and thumped inside of my chest and body, seemingly in sync with the strobe lights flashing from the stage. Shadows danced across my best friend Claire’s face, and I wondered if I looked as crazy to her as she did to me. A fine sheen of moisture clung to my bare arms beneath the worn leather jacket I wore, and Claire wrapped her skinny fingers around my wrist beneath the cuff and yanked me to a halt.
“Do you?” she yelled above the music.
I laughed and shook my head. Fought the urge to press my palms against my temples to ease the dizzy feeling swamping me. It had to pass soon. It had to. It would. But I had to get out for a minute. Get some fresh air. Just a few seconds and I’d be all right. But it had to be sooner, rather than later, or else I’d lose it all over Claire’s favorite pair of Old Gringo boots.
I waved her off, easing my wrist from her grasp. “No, Peeshwank! It’s okay—I’ll be right back!” I yelled.
Claire Conrad—better known to me and my father as Peeshwank, which means tiny runt in Acadian French—shrugged, gave me a thumbs-up and began her free-spirited discombobulated jump-dance. She bounced between Brie Glass and Sugar, our nickname for Candice Sweet, and I laughed. With Claire’s blonde pixie-style haircut she reminded me of Tinkerbell. At a country rock rave.
“Hey Mem, bring me back some suds!” Sugar yelled.
Brie shrieked out, “Me too!” She put an imaginary bottle to her lips and pretended to throw it back. It made the messy bun of brown hair she had piled on her head slip sideways.
I waved, turned and pushed my
way through the crowd as I made my way outside. Once away from my friends, though, I held up the façade of lighthearted crazy fun for as long as I could before my face crumpled in sync with the nausea rolling inside of me. After being jostled by a half-dozen people entering the barn, I eased outside and clawed my jacket off. Stopping along the side of the old wooden building, I grabbed my knees and bent over at the waist, my hair falling over my face. The late night air cooled my clammy skin, almost too fast. In and out, I sucked in long, deep breaths of frosty January air. Willing the nausea to pass. Behind me, the music walloped through the wood, and I felt it pulse through my body, throwing my equilibrium off even more than it already was. Making my nausea worse. I wavered, breathed more. A little deeper. God, what a pain in the ass. Dammit, please pass…
“Ma’am? Are you all right?”
My eyes blinked open—I didn’t even realize I’d closed them—and came to rest on a pair of worn, dusty boots standing close to me. Ma’am? My eyes fixed on those boots, but I held up my hand, still drawing in air to ease the nausea. The boots shifted. I hoped I didn’t hurl all over them. That voice. Deep timbered, and a little raspy. Calm. Unfamiliar.
Suddenly, the boots shifted again, and the body connected to them squatted down to my level. A shadow, nothing more than a dark silhouette, studied me. With his thumb, he pushed the straw hat he wore further back and ducked his head to take a look. Engulfed in shadow, I still couldn’t see his face. Only the frosty air that collided with his warm breath, turning it into white draughts that puffed out with each exhalation, made me realize he was there. Alive. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I answered. The nausea was passing. I could feel it easing away. “I’m fine. Thanks.” My fingers dug into my knees, then I pushed myself upright. He followed. Who was this guy? Still a silhouette, for one. Narrow hips. Bow-legged, muscular thighs. Tall. Broad.
“You sure?” He pulled his hat down over his brow.
With my fingers, I pushed my hair off my face and peered into the shadows, trying to make out his features. It was a no-go. He might as well have been one of those black cut-out cowboys some people strategically place next to a tree in their yard. “Yeah. Pretty sure.”
“Damn, Memory Catherine Thibodeaux! Are you already wasted? It ain’t even ten thirty yet! For shame, girl!” He let out another whoop. “Ragin’ Cajun!”
That voice I definitely knew. Several laughs erupted before I could even glance behind me. I didn’t have to, though. I knew the speaker right away. I looked over my shoulder and smiled. Shrugged. Affixed the cocky grin everyone had come to know and love.
“Hey. A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do, Crisco!” I fell into my heavier Lafayette accent and slapped the guy I’d known since my freshman year on the back. “Am I right?” My gaze darted back to the stranger in silhouette. He was gone. Damn. Too bad.
Crisco laughed. “Hell yeah, she does!” He let out a bellowing whoop. “You done pukin’ or you got more in ya?”
Richard Komlinski, aka Crisco, aptly nicknamed because of the big slip-n-slide covered in lard he’d created out of a giant industrial roll of plastic lawn bags, was tall and lanky, weighing all of a buck-fifty soaking wet. Not much more than me. He had a sincere smile and a kind heart and all the girls loved him. He kept his dark hair buzzed-cut, probably just so the girls would all run their hands over the stubble and tell him it felt like velvet. The rascal. The yard lamp threw light in his eyes, making them glassy and twinkling. He was infectious. Like always.
At five feet eleven inches I was nearly as tall as six-foot Crisco, and what my daddy had always referred to as big-boned. I draped my arm around his shoulder. “Well, aren’t you elegant? For your information I am finished for now. “ I gave him a squeeze. “All puked out. Thank you for asking, my good man,” I teased. Lied. Then I inclined my head to the entrance. “Let’s go grab some suds and show these younguns how it’s done!”
“Woohoo! Hell yeah!” Crisco hollered, and he pushed ahead, clearing a path to the bar. He bent close to me. “How many?”
“Two,” I answered, and he held up three fingers to the bartender. He grinned, wiggled his brows, and turned back to wait for our order. I watched his lanky profile, the cocky angle of his hat and protruding Adam’s apple and wide, friendly smile, and I shook my head. Crisco was about the funniest and sweetest and craziest guy I knew. He grabbed three Solo cups of beer—one for himself—and held them above his head and followed me through the crowd until we found Claire, Brie and Sugar. He handed over their beers, and we all started dancing. Just watching Crisco jump and bump between Brie and Sugar like a pinball made me laugh. Like some rubbery legged Gumby doll. Made me forget the spell I’d just had. Crazy ass fool.
The music started winding down around midnight, and we all made it outside and picked our way through the dense gravel lot of pick-ups and cars. Conner Colton and Bentley Jameson—Crisco’s roommates—joined us.
None of my friends knew what I’d gone through as a kid. None of them knew what was happening now. I’d purposely kept it from them. From everyone. Because I’d be damned if I was going to be treated like some frail antiquity. Some fucking piece of expensive china that would break if touched. I didn’t want to be treated any differently than anyone else. Wrong? Not in my mind.
“What are you, the Deuce tonight?” Crisco said, elbowing me playfully. His term for a double-D. The designated driver. “Thought you were pukin’ suds outside?”
Damn. Busted. “Just got a little overheated,” I answered, then gave him a teasing stink-eye. “You don’t think I can hold my booze any better than that?”
“Boy, you don’t know Memory Thibodeaux too well, then,” Sugar chirped. Her brown hair was streaked with blond highlights and she wore it in a long ponytail. A pitcher for Winston’s girls’ fastpitch softball team, Sugar was a force to be reckoned with. Although I was taller, she outweighed me by sheer, absolute solid muscle. Complete with a six-pack. “She’s got a stomach like a cast iron pot. Just like you, Richard!”
“Don’t call me Richard!” Crisco laughed and swept Sugar up into his arms, and she let out a high-pitched squeal. “Holy shit girl, you feel like a ton of fuckin’ bricks!” He finally set her down at my Jeep, and Sugar climbed into the back.
“Damn, Mem,” Bentley said. He wore an old Twisted Sister T-shirt, and his mouth tipped up in a smirk. “You still driving this heap? I’m amazed it runs.”
I shook my head and slid into the driver’s side. He braced his arm over my head against the Jeep’s frame.
“I’m amazed you still run, Bentley. Where’d you find that shirt? Yard sale?”
A wide grin showed most of his teeth. We did this, Bentley and I. Traded insults. It wouldn’t be a normal day if we didn’t. Plus he knew my affinity for classic and eighties rock. “Jesus don’t like jealous, Thibodeaux.”
I grinned and started the Jeep’s engine. “Jesus don’t like you, Jameson. Now get off my baby.”
He winked at me and stepped back. “See you ‘round.”
“Not if I see you first.” I shot him another sly smile.
“Hey, Memory,” Crisco leaned in through the open door of my Jeep. Conner stood beside him, his blond, curly hair flipping in the chilly wind. “You up for a little zip-lining over the gorge next weekend?
“Oh my freaking god,” Brie screeched from the back seat. “As if you need to provoke her! The Winston Daredevil!”
I threw Brie a grin in the rearview mirror. Claire always said I was a cross between the St. Elmo’s Fire Rob Lowe character, bad boy Billy Hicks, and Demi Moore’s character, the crazy party girl, Jules. Silly, I thought I was just me. Living life.
“Didn’t you guys just do that over Christmas break?” Claire said beside me. She always was a worrywart. The mother hen of our little group. The little pixie Tinkerbelle mother hen.
“Aw, come on, Claire, that was last month,” Bentley crooned. He gave her a mock frown, and russet colored brows that looked exactly the same colo
r as his hair wagged teasingly. “Don’t be such a teeny little ole chickenshit.”
“I am not a chickenshit,” she corrected. “I’m in!”
Crisco slapped the hood of the Jeep. “Yeah!”
I just laughed at the sounds of my friends whooping it up and joined them, and put the Jeep in reverse. “Last one out of the parking lot buys next round at Rucker’s!” Our favorite local watering hole, Rucker’s was our rite of passage bar as seniors at Winston. Our St. Elmo’s Fire. But, I’d always thought I’d really miss the place once I was gone. No longer a Winstonite.
For some reason, the sexy-voiced, shadowy silhouette guy invaded my thoughts. I wonder where he’d disappeared to so quickly? I’d never seen him around before. His voice was smokin’ hot. How he’d slipped by my hot guy radar was nothing short of a miracle.
I waited long enough to see Crisco and his lanky Gumby self start scrambling for his truck. Conner and Bentley swore and took off after him. I backed out of my parking spot laughing, Claire, Brie and Sugar hollering at the top of their lungs, and I shifted into drive, and headed for the exit.
The tow truck’s headlights swept an arc over the older model Jeep, pulled off onto the dirt and gravel shoulder that ran parallel to a hundred acres of cow field. For the second time tonight I had a pick up at least a good twenty miles out of Covington. I slowed, shifted gears, my windows open. Freddy Mercury’s Killer Queen blasted from their sound system. Four girls stood in the back seat, holding onto the roll bar, waving at me—one had turned around and was doing some stripper dance move, all of them singing the lyrics.
“Whoo-hoo! Hey, darlin’! Over here!” one girl yelled out. Her wad of hair had slipped off its perch on the top of her head and was stuck just above her ear.