Bound to You: Volume 1

by Vanessa Booke

  Bound to You: Volume 1

  Copyright 2014 Vanessa Booke

  First Edition

  All rights reserved as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976. No part of these publications may be reproduced, distributed, transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the Author. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the publisher.

  These books are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Formatting by ShoutLines Design

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Rebecca

  Rebecca

  Rebecca

  Nicholas

  Rebecca

  Nicholas

  Rebecca

  Nicholas

  Rebecca

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Mom, thank you for being my number one cheerleader and for being the source of why I love Romantic Fiction so much. Thank you for everything you’ve done and will do for me. I can never say that enough. Melinda and NJ, thank you for encouraging me to keep going and for your feedback on all of my writing. I’m proud to call you my friends. I wish you both the best in your careers. To my editor, Carolyn, thank you for working with me on such short notice. I really appreciate the work you did for this book. I’m glad I found a gem like you. To my readers, thank you for buying this book and for taking a chance on me. I’ve often found that people who have potential sometimes need a chance or opportunity to let themselves shine. So thank you for giving me this chance. Dear husband, thank you for putting up with me. Seriously, thank you. I know I can be moody when I’m writing or when I’m trying to explain my ideas. Thank you for always being encouraging, funny, uplifting, and the only thing that keeps me anchored in this crazy and sometimes fucked up world. You’re the moon of my life. My sun and stars. My Mr. Darcy. I’m so lucky to have found you. Remember, when you read this I get extra brownie points that I can cash in for you doing the dishes. ;)

  He’s cheating on me with her? My hand burns as I slug the tall blonde in front of me right across her collagen-injected face. A smile of satisfaction spreads across mine as blood gushes from her nose like a busted faucet. She leaps back, falling, as she clutches for the bed behind her. Her almost too symmetrical tits bounce as she lands with a loud thud on her ass. Adrenaline pumps through my veins as she leans against the bed, clutching her nose. I’m shaking, but I’m ready for more. A furnace of rage burns through me as she sneers at me and mutters the word bitch under her breath. I’m usually not in the habit of punching people I don’t know, but I’m ready to do it again.

  “Rebecca, stop!” Miles scrambles toward me as he pulls his pants up like the floor is on fire. His honey colored eyes stare back at me in disbelief as he assesses the carnage that’s ensued. It was only an hour ago that I was on my way to his apartment to celebrate our anniversary together. The last thing I expected was to find him here with another woman.

  “Who is she?” I snap. I can’t stand to look at him, and at the same time I can’t look away. His usually silky brown hair is disheveled into a messy flop of fuck-me hair. The overpowering amount of evidence sends a wave of nausea right through me. You’re disgusting.

  “She’s my co-worker on the show.” The realization of who she is hits me as I look down at her petite frame leaning against the bed. She plays his love interest on the show Future Outlaw. It’s the TV series Miles has been working on. He’s described it as a fictional reimagining of Jesse James with time traveling cowboys fighting off the Italian Mafia. I’ve only been able to watch a couple of episodes because I’ve been so busy filling out grad school applications, but I’m shocked I didn’t immediately recognize her. Apparently, the lines of reality and make believe have been blurred, because a minute ago I walked in on the two of them fucking like cats in heat.

  “Becca, are you okay?” His voice is full of concern but it’s meaningless.

  Miles steps closer, snapping me back to reality. I don’t want him anywhere near me. The truth of his betrayal confounds me. It didn’t take me long to realize something was terribly and utterly wrong from the moment I stepped into the apartment. There were rose petals meshed against the carpet leading to the bedroom, a bottle of wine sitting on the dining room table, and a note sitting on the stand in the hallway. I was surprised by Miles’ overly romantic gesture. It’s not his style. He’s simplistic and so unromantic. He’s never bought me flowers and I’ve always been stupid enough to tell him that I don’t care for them, when the truth is I love them. I was enjoying my ignorant bliss up until the point where I heard a sensual giggle echo behind the double doors of Miles’ bedroom.

  “Rebecca, it just happened,” Miles starts to say. Just happened?

  “So your dick just happened to fall into her?” I ask.

  “He’s been fucking me for a while,” Scarlett says, standing back up. “He said he was tired of fucking you. Too much baggage.” She smirks as she gives me a once over. “ You’re a lot bigger than I imagined. He said you were curvy,” she says with a smile. “But I think he was just trying to be nice…”

  It’s been three weeks, 21 days and 504 hours since I last saw and spoke with my cheating ex-fiancé, Miles. Since the brutal encounter with Scarlett and him, I’ve been seeing two new men in my life. The first is Ben and the second is Jerry. They’re sweet, dependable, and they know just the right spots to hit. The sad part is, they’re not real. Nope, I’ve been having a three-week affair with several different pints of ice cream. I know, the scandal! Everything from Americone Dream to Milk and Cookies. The only thing to break me out of this endless loop of misery is an e-mail that I received yesterday.

  To: Rebecca Gellar

  From: HR@SHPublishing.com

  Subject: Interview Invitation

  “Ms. Gellar,

  It is with great pleasure that we invite you to come in for an interview for a position at StoneHaven Publishing Co…”

  I re-read the email over and over, letting reality set in a little more each time. The obsessive part of me has compulsively checked my inbox every five minutes, deathly afraid that the email will magically disappear. I’ve even forwarded it to two different emails, just to make sure I’m not dreaming it up. Everything is going exactly how I hoped for. I’m moving to New York and now I have an interview for my dream job. This is really happening. The past four years of working my ass off has finally paid off.

  StoneHaven Publishing Co. is one of New York's oldest and most respected independent publishers. They’re well known for their debut authors and I haven’t seen one that hasn’t become a bestseller on any of the major lists - NY Times, USA Today, and Publisher’s Weekly. The thought of potentially working with one of them sends a warm rush of excitement through me. I have to admit I love the written word. There’s just something about reading a story that makes me happier than anything else in the world. Even chocolate. And for me that says a lot, because I love my chocolate. My hips even agree.

  The timing of this email literally couldn’t be any more perfect. In less than
two days, I’ll be on my way to the Big Apple. Carol Livingston, my best friend and college roommate, whom I haven’t seen in over two years, will be picking me up at the airport, and then my new life begins.

  “You know, you don’t really have to move all the way to New York City,” Mom says, slowly unzipping my hideous pink suitcase covered in glittered Hello Kitty stickers. As much as I want to, I can’t get rid of the bag – my grandmother gave it to me. She has a thing for cats and the color pink, and the fusion of them together equaled my college graduation gift.

  My mother isn’t the sort of woman to be in her pajamas all day. She’s always quick to get dolled up, even if it’s just her and me in the house, so I’m pretty sure this current choice of outfit is an open protest to me going to New York. It’s 1 o’clock in the afternoon and she’s still wearing her overnight pajamas, fluffy pink slippers, and her baby blue curlers. It’s the 21st century, but I still can’t convince her to use an actual curling iron for her hair.

  I’ve been trying to avoid the “goodbye” conversation for the past week. I sort of sprang moving across the country on mom and she’s still upset with me. Despite the fact that I’m 24, she still acts like an overprotective mother bear. I’m pretty sure the only reason she hasn’t locked me in my room is because my father convinced her to be civil with me while he’s away. He’s a truck driver, and most weeks he’s driving up to Northern California, delivering barrels of wine to local restaurants.

  For the past week, my mother’s been trying to convince me not to leave Los Angeles. She’s told, asked, and even pleaded with me to stay. There’s no convincing her that this is the right move, and there’s no convincing me that it isn’t. Dad always tells me that I got my stubbornness from her. I think he might be right. We’re both relentless in our nature.

  “I know you’re worried,” I say, grabbing the last pile of outfits off my bed and stuffing my phone back into my pocket. There isn’t enough time in the world to try to explain to her why I needed to leave California ASAP.

  “Of course I am. I don’t understand why you’re moving across the world?”

  “Don’t exaggerate.”

  “I’m not, I think you should stay and find work here. You won’t like it in New York.”

  “This is a great opportunity. I’m surprised you’re against it, you always told me to go for my dreams,” I say. “And you were always the one saying how living in New York was such a big deal for you when you were my age.”

  “I think it’s great you’re going after your dreams, Rebecca, but I just wish that meant you living in Los Angeles. How do you know if you’ll even like New York?”

  It’s true. I’ve never been to New York City. I’ve only seen it in pictures, movies, my mother’s old postcards, and reruns of Sex and the City. But the thought of going somewhere new is exciting. I need it. Staying in California means facing reality, and my reality is I’m recently single, because my boyfriend of three years cheated on me with his TV co-star. I’ve permanently set Miles’ ringtone to Puddle of Mudd’s She Hates Me.

  It doesn’t help that every inch of this state reminds me of him; from the concert at the Roxy in West Hollywood where we had our first date, to the Getty Museum where he asked me to be his girlfriend, to Malibu Beach where he proposed. There’s no getting around him. And the worst part is – I miss him.

  “Carol is offering me a couch to crash on until I find work. Her cousin Ken gave me a great reference at StoneHaven Publishing. He’s an Associate Editor there.”

  “Carol Livingston?” she asks.

  “Yes, you remember her, right? She was my college roommate at UCLA.”

  “What is she doing in New York?”

  “She does freelance public relations. She works with a lot of big name clients.”

  Carol graduated two years before me and she moved to New York right away. It didn’t take long for her to find her niche. She’s great at what she does, and now she’s making the big bucks. After she left, we never lost touch. She kept inviting me to come to New York, but I could never make it because of school. Despite the thousands of miles between us, we stayed best friends. I called her for advice on moving to NY. She didn’t hesitate for a second. Within a few minutes I received a text confirming a booking for a flight from LAX to the JFK airport. She had paid for my airfare.

  “What about graduate school?” my mother says, pulling out my acceptance letter from my dresser.

  “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that.” I grab the letter from her and stuff it back inside. “I don’t know if I’m still going.”

  “Is this because of Miles?”

  Just hearing his name sends my heart flip-flopping. It’s hard keeping things from my mother. She’s good at reading me – too good. I hadn’t explained my fiancé’s absence, but there’s never a good way of telling someone that the person you were planning to marry cheated on you – get ready for the fire and pitchforks.

  The sound of buzzing echoes from the front door all the way to the back of the house. I’m not expecting anyone... I look up at my mother, and the slight smirk on her face gives me the feeling that she is.

  “I wonder who that is,” she says nonchalantly.

  “Mother, who did you invite over?”

  “Just a friend,” she says as she quickly slips away.

  I watch her hurry down the stairs, halfway running. She hates keeping visitors waiting. As I step down the stairs, I spot a headful of brown hair peeking through the side of the doorway. The voice at the door is low, almost a whisper. Who the hell is my mother talking to?

  “I’m so glad you came,” my mother gushes. “Rebecca will be so happy to see you. I haven’t seen you around very much.”

  My heart stops at the sight of Miles standing on our front porch. From the look of his outfit, he must be on his way to the set for Future Outlaw. He’s wearing jeans, cowboy boots, and a green plaid shirt.

  What the hell is he doing here?

  He looks good, too good. It’s hard not to take notice of his tan skin and hazel eyes. They remind me of honey. Deep down inside I was hoping he looked as shitty as I feel, but I’m SOL. His eyes catch mine as I make my way down the stairs.

  “Becca, it’s good to see you.” The warmth in his voice sends chills down my skin as it washes over me. My heart hammers in my chest with a chaotic beat. It’s hard to pretend like everything’s okay. The scent of cedar and aftershave tickles my nose as he steps closer.

  “I’ll leave you two alone,” my mother says, scurrying off into the kitchen.

  “Mrs. Gellar, it was nice to see you,” he says, taking his hat off and bowing. It’s like I’m transported back in time. I hate the way he charms women – even my mother isn’t immune to his ways. Miles takes my hand and pulls me to the door. The gesture sends a shock through me and I pull back instantaneously. We haven’t touched since the day I found him in bed with Scarlett Jones, Hollywood’s sexiest starlet. On my way home the other day I saw that she had made this month’s cover of Maxim. It took every amount of strength I had not to fling the stack of magazines off the grocery rack. I was so close.

  “What do you want, Miles?” I try my best to sound apathetic. I don’t want him to know I care. I want him to think I’ve moved on because I have. Or at least that’s what I keep telling myself.

  “Becca, can we talk? Alone?” he says with pleading eyes. I hate when uses his sad-puppy-dog-eyes on me. It would be so much easier to hate him if he wasn’t so good looking. Not that looks are everything, but Miles is blessed with abundance. It’s like God puts men like him on this earth to taunt me.

  “I really don’t think there’s anything for you to say.” Miles smirks as I put my hand on my hip. He used to say that I was sexy when I was mad.

  “Would you just give me a chance to at least talk to you?” I step back as he tries to close the space between us. His presence is overwhelming. I hold back tears as a rush of sadness washes over me. We’ve known each other for so many years. How do
you just cut someone like that from your life? Being alone with my ex-fiancé is probably not a good idea, but my curiosity always gets the best of me.

  “Are you going to tell me how you didn’t mean to fuck her?” I can taste the bitterness of my words, but I don’t care if I hurt him. I want him to hurt.

  “Becca…”

  “Fine, let’s go outside. My mom doesn’t know what’s going on.”

  “You still haven’t told her?” he says in a hopeful tone.

  Miles and I sit inside his red Ford pickup truck staring out over the view of downtown Los Angeles. The sky is surprisingly clear of smog. It’s a rarity out here. My parents’ house is situated on a hill that has a beautiful view of the city. It reminds me of the view from Mulholland Drive. We used to love going up there. We’d drive up, pull off on the side of the road, and mess around. The few times I’ve driven up since we broke up have been heartbreaking. The scenery no longer brings me happy memories. Only tears.

  “I heard you were leaving,” Miles says, frowning.

  I reposition my body against the door, trying to distance myself from him. There isn’t much room between us, and each time he moves his hand, it brushes my leg.

  “I am.”

  “Why? Because of what happened?”

  He makes it sound like “what happened” isn’t a big deal. I don't need to explain myself to him. Apparently, I haven’t made it clear enough that I’m not his anymore.

  “Not everything revolves around you.”

  “Then why?” Miles says, putting his arm around the top of my seat. “Why haven’t you returned my calls, Becca?”

  The past few weeks have been difficult to say the least. I miss him – as much as I don’t want to. I know it would be so much easier to just slip back into his arms. To pretend like nothing happened, but my pride won’t let me.