by Liora Blake
I halt in place. The door has one of those industrial-style push bars on it, and when I pull my hand back slowly, it squeaks loudly under the release. Finally, the door clicks shut and the weight of it against my hips, threatens to toss me off balance. I keep my fingers against the cool metal of the door for a moment, trying to decide if I’m hearing things.
Shoelace.
Only one person in my entire life has called me that. The world’s lamest nickname. People have called me Lace for years, my father called me Lacie-Gracie, riffing off my first and middle names. But “Shoelace” was the invention of a boy who liked to rile me up, kiss me down after he did, and ended up tearing my teenage heart in two when he walked away without even saying sayonara.
As my feet shuffle across the five, long steps back to the waiting room, heart thudding angrily in my chest, I would swear my lungs are losing traction with every inch. I tip my head to the side and peer into the room.
Sweet Jesus.
Not possible.
Jake Holt. Live and in person. Standing there with the same crooked smile he used to give me when we were seventeen. The same blue eyes. The same dimple in his left cheek.
“Hey, Lacey.”
The same voice, every recognizable twitch of mischief and longing in his inflection. Just like he used to lay on me when we were alone and doing things I thought we shouldn’t but wanted more than anything.
Reckless things. Half-naked things. Semi-illegal things.
“Would I lead you astray, Lacey? Follow me, Shoelace. Hold my hand and don’t let go. Don’t worry so much. You’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen. I can’t believe it when you let me touch you.”
Slowly, Jake slips the gray beanie off his head, chin tilted down a bit so he can peer cautiously at me with only a small smile, and runs a hand through his hair. It’s different now; the last time I saw him it was longer and straggly, and one hunk would flop over his right eye every time he leaned forward to kiss me, obscuring the eyebrow ring he once had. When he did that—kissed me or put his face right next to mine to whisper something—the ends of his hair would tickle across my eyelashes. Now it’s shorter, less bright blond and absent of the green or blue streaks he used to dye in occasionally, cut into a shaggy but grown-up style.
And, good God, the rest of him grew up, too. The pilot’s uniform cuts close to his body, and he’s crossed his arms over his chest, a chest he actually has now, so I can tell that somewhere along the last decade or so, Jake Holt went and traded in his gangly, rangy body for one that is still lean but rife with dense, compact muscles. Everywhere, I’m pretty sure.
I don’t know what to say in response. A returning “hey” or “hello” doesn’t feel right, too casual for this moment. Probably because ten years ago, we never said good-bye properly. All I can manage is a stage whisper, but I get the words out somehow.
“What the hell took you so long?”
That question is for today, and yesterday, and every day between when he left town and now. How he might answer, who knows. How I might react? No telling.
Jake’s smile fades. “Sweetheart, I had things to do. Places I had to go.” He cants his head to one side a fraction. “I didn’t know anyone was waiting for me.”
So what if—somewhere in the reminiscent parts of my heart—I was? It’s not his concern. So what if I’ve always wondered what became of Jake Holt? So what if I’ve trolled social media for him when I’ve indulged in too much nostalgia, worrying that he died because he’s basically a ghost when it comes to the wilds of the ‘net? Who cares if I’ve sometimes imagined in full color what my life would have been like with him, from the places we would live, to the things he would say when we woke up together in our bed?
So. What.
A confused, heated, overwhelmed sting is brewing behind my eyelids. This is too much emotion for one day. New babies, old flames, unrequited hookups, all in the same building. Next thing you know, the eleven-year-old boy whose braces got caught in my hair during our first kiss will come walking through the door or something. And right now, there is no way I can handle another scene from This Is Your Life, the Lacey Mosely edition.
Kate will understand if I disappear. She won’t judge me for it, once she knows why. Once I come clean and tell her how I once gave everything to Jake Holt. When I tell her we were the kind of secret that was wonderful and wild, Kate will grant me a pass on leaving.
Since Kate’s opinion is the only one that matters today, I turn on my heel and throw the heavy door open so hard it nearly bounces back and whacks my shoulder before I can clear the opening. Then I get in my car, curse the radio for the throwback heartbreak song that’s blaring when the engine roars to life, and drive away.
About the Author
LIORA BLAKE is a contemporary romance writer. True North is her first novel in the True series.
FOR MORE ON THIS AUTHOR: authors.simonandschuster.com/Liora-Blake
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 by Liora Blake
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First Pocket Star Books ebook edition June 2015
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ISBN 978-1-4767-8631-5
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Acknowledgments
True Divide Excerpt
About the Author