by Emily Snow
This Love
Copyright © August 2018 by Emily Snow Books
Cover designed by Emily Snow Books, LLC
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.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photo copying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission from the publisher in writing. For information message [email protected].
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Dedication
The Playlist
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
Epilogue
Books by Emily Snow
About the Author
DEDICATION
To Lisa Pantano Kane, Heather Orgeron, & Crystal Spears.
Thanks, ladies, for all your amazing feedback.
You all ROCK!
THE PLAYLIST
"This Love" by Maroon 5
"Fallin'" by Alicia Keys
"Take On Me" by a-ha
"Dirty Laundry" by Blackbear
"Ain't No Sunshine" by Bill Withers
"Move Bitch" by Ludacris
"Cold" by Crossfade
"Heartless" by The Fray
"Blame It" by Jamie Foxx, T-Pain
"I Will Follow You Into the Dark" by Death Cab for Cutie
"If Our Love Is Wrong" by Calum Scott
"Brooklyn Baby" by Lana Del Rey
"Harder to Breathe" by Maroon 5
"Unhinged" by Nick Jonas
"Decode" by Paramore
"Let Her Go" by Passenger
"What If" by Safetysuit
"Bittersweet Symphony" by The Verve
"Tangled Up In You" by Trapt
Click here to listen to the entire THIS LOVE playlist on Spotify
Click here to see Emily's THIS LOVE inspiration board on Pinterest
CHAPTER 1
VERONICA
July 2002
Sometimes, I forget how different their world is from mine.
I was thrust into this one twelve years ago, after my mother came home with the news she had gotten a new job—working as nanny to the Delaney boys, Cain, Bennett, and Graham. There’ve been summers in The Hamptons, winter breaks on Lake Placid, and, eventually, a full-ride scholarship to Birchwood Academy, from where I graduated last month.
But the truth is, to these people, I’m an outsider. Lucky. To be included, to breathe their air, to be here tonight, even if Graham Delaney is one of my closest friends. Nights like this remind me of that.
Nights where girls decked out in the latest from Saks prance around the main living area of the penthouse’s first floor, boasting about who’s vacationing in Europe or screwing the heir to whatever empire. Then there are the guys. The ones destined to rule those empires. Tonight, they take advantage of the Delaneys’ infamous hospitality: a DJ, open bar, and a multi-million-dollar view from the top.
Of course, it doesn’t matter what they’re wearing or who they’re hooking up with—not when he’s in the room. Standing less than ten feet from me, by the terrace doors with Judson Frasier and Zeke Hunter. Golden Boys. That’s what someone started calling the three of them a few years ago. The name fits; they’re all tall and blond and stunning. Royalty.
Bennett, though, is the prodigal prince, recently returned from college in North Carolina.
He’s taller than the rest, with blue eyes framed by thick, dark lashes and a strong, straight nose bisecting a bronze jawline. That jaw, his entire face and body, seems to be carved from granite. And all those elements together are the ones that cause side effects: loss of breath, vertigo, and irregular heartbeat.
Which is why a collective sigh floats up around me when he sweeps his palm out and says, “I’ve always wanted a Mustang. Especially a Cobra.”
Forty-eight hours. Bennett’s been home two days, and already, he’s throwing parties and racing cars and triggering my pulse. It speeds at the crook of his finger. The sad part is, the gesture isn’t directed at me but to the pink slip in Judson’s hand.
The veins on Judson’s neck strain while he watches the paper vanish into the back pocket of Bennett’s jeans. “Your Supra is still a piece of shit.”
Bennett’s mouth turns up. “Your car title in my pocket said you can suck a dick.” That earns him a piercing glare from Judson before Zeke passes them each a bottle of beer and tells them they’ve wasted enough of his “Fucked-Up Friday” on cars and other bullshit.
That’s another reason I know I’ve transitioned from Queens to the Upper East Side: The rules. There are none—not for the beautiful, the staggeringly wealthy, the elite. Where else does someone accept losing his car with only a two-minute, half-hearted argument before having a beer with the winner?
“Can you believe that?”
Though I recognize Charlotte’s voice, it takes a beat too long to wrench my gaze from Bennett. He’s laughing about something, oblivious to the appreciative looks from almost every female in the room and his ex-girlfriend, who’s made it a point to situate herself by the grand piano—right in his line of sight.
“You should ask him for a ride in his new car,” my friend continues.
I knead my earlobe between my thumb and forefinger and frown. “What? Why?”
“Because the view is probably better with only a stick separating you.”
That snags my attention. I whirl around to face her. She’s over half a foot shorter, so her knowing eyes land on my flushed chest first.
Folding my arms beneath my breasts, I poke my tongue in my cheek. “I wasn’t staring.”
“Right. Because he’s so hideous.” Rolling her eyes, she hands over one of the drinks she brought over. It’s a dainty concoction in a real glass, not the red Solo cups used at parties in my neighborhood.
“It smells like cotton candy,” I muse aloud, eager to change the conversation.
“Oh? Well that’s because the bartender infused the drinks with it. A bartender, Veronica. I feel like I should hold up my pinky.” To demonstrate, she wriggles her little finger and comes dangerously close to dropping her drink on the gleaming marble floor. “This whole place is like Richie Rich meets American Pie.”
“Except nobody’s sticking their genitals into a pie.” When she mutters “yet,” I pretend to dry heave then take a sip of my drink. I’m no alcohol connoisseur, I’ve drank only a handful of times and each one has someone with the last name Delaney attached to the memory, but this is the best drink I’ve ever tasted.
“Also—” I hold up a finger, pausing to take another swig. “We just watched a street race before coming up here, so how high does your pinky really need to be?”
“Hmm. Good point. And speaking of that street race...” Her hazel eyes retrace their path to Bennett. “Fast and the Furious might be hotter than Graham. Possibly. I can see why I’ve heard his name a million times since I moved here.”
Since she transferred to Birchwood last fall, I’ve mentioned Bennett’s name maybe a few times. Nowhere close to a million. I hotly point that out. She fishes a piece of ice from her drink and pops it into her mouth, shrugging.
“Maybe you haven’t, but you’re not co
unting every other girl at Bitchwood. Apparently, the guy’s a sex god and—” Her mouth gapes open. “Whoa!”
“Let me guess, the pie screwing has commenced?” But my amusement dies a swift and painful death once I decide to investigate what’s pocketed half the room’s attention. Monica. She’s descended from her third-story lair and is sidled up to Judson. Shimmery lips uttering something in his ear. One manicured hand gripping a glass of amber-colored liquid while the other alternates between fondling his chest and fluffing her honey blonde hair.
Charlotte drifts forward to stand next to me. “That is their mom, right? Think she’ll break up the party?”
“Unfortunately. And no, she won’t.” I scan the room for Graham. He’s where I last saw him, lounged on a tufted, ivory velvet chaise with a bottle of beer. His jaw is clenched but he doesn’t budge. Not that I expect him to; Monica is his least favorite person in the world. Our eyes lock.
“Need my help?” I mouth.
He mouths back, “Fuck Monica,” and jabs a finger in her direction. Bennett has already untangled their mother from Judson and is guiding her to the private elevator, his features stony.
It’s not like I haven’t seen this before. Before he left for Duke, he was always the one to take care of her whenever she got blackout drunk or popped too many pills. But tonight’s different. She’s doing it in front of his friends. His expression, the lack of emotion as he avoids their stares and whispers, snags something buried deep within the walls of my chest.
“Hmm.” Charlotte tweaks the thick strap of her purple tank top and grimaces. “The guy that lost his car doesn't seem to mind.” Sure enough, when I peek his way, Judson's bumping shoulders with Zeke. They disappear into one of the rooms branching off from the spacious living area, where Erik keeps a stash of expensive whiskey.
Assholes.
“They were in the same year and were always … competitive. I better go and check on him.” I shoot Charlotte an apologetic look, the soles of my strappy white sandals already slapping on the floor as I hurry toward the curved staircase. “I’ll be back fast, I promise.”
She waves me off. “No, take your time. I’ll just … wow. Wow. I’ll be right here.”
Before I’m out of earshot, I pivot around. “I guess it really is like something out of a movie, huh?”
And then it really is hard to forget where I am and how out of place my presence is.
I’m more familiar with the Delaney’s four-story penthouse than the two-bedroom apartment I share with my father in Queens. That sounds exaggerated, but sadly, it’s true.
For years, I spent more time here than I did at home, even after the guys were too old for a nanny. Instead of letting Mom go, Erik offered to keep her on as their housekeeper, so there were many Saturday afternoons and late nights where I helped out because an eight thousand square foot apartment is a beast for one person to handle alone. After Mom got sick last year, and it became clear she’d never return to work or leave the hospital, she was so confident in my knowledge of the Delaney’s place—and their wants and needs—she asked me to personally show the new staff the layout.
I know that, on this level, the floor creaks on the right of the hall. Mrs. Delaney swears it gives her a splitting headache. I’ve got no clue if she can really hear it, or if she just wants something to nitpick about, but I don’t risk irritating her tonight. Once I climb the two stories to the third floor, I hug the left of the hallway so closely my body grazes the elegant gold damask wallpaper.
“If I swear I won’t bother you, will you just give me the goddamn bottle back?”
Monica’s slur immobilizes me. She mumbles something else, her voice growing angrier by the second. I back away from her bedroom door, resting my hip to the gold filigree console table on the opposite side of the hall.
“I said give it back!” she growls.
Bennett’s masculine groan summons goosebumps on my skin. “For fuck’s sake, Mom, you’ve been at it since two this afternoon. You’ve had plenty. Go to sleep before they have to pump your stomach again.”
Hearing that pitches my stomach.
“Did Erik tell you to say that?” She laughs, but it teeters precariously on the edge of a sob. “What a complete son of a bitch. He ruins my body and my life and gives me rules while he’s out there just … fucking around.”
Guilt rattles around inside me. I tell myself to leave, that following Bennett was a mistake since I’m not actually helping. And yet, I can’t move.
“Mom … Dad’s in Chicago on business, remember? He called earlier while you were napping and said he’s coming home. That’s why you should get some rest.”
“I’d rest if you’d just give me the bottle, it’s mine.” She hiccups and something hard slams onto the floor, stirring another grunt from Bennett. A second later, I hear a softer thud, undoubtedly him picking up and replacing whatever she dropped. Or threw.
“You don’t get to show up after months of being away and take over because I’m the adult here.” She lets out a wet, gurgled noise. “You’re just a visitor—a disappointing visitor. I should have stopped at Cain. God knows my career would have survived if I had.”
Rocking back on my heels, I splay my free hand palm-down on the table. Her words are razor sharp. They pierce through muscle and bone and marrow. It’s her special power—the only one not dulled by meds and alcohol.
I just wish I hadn’t witnessed it this time.
“You think you’re the only one disappointed? In case you haven’t noticed, Cain doesn’t even come around anymore.” Now, Bennett’s tone is severe. It usually takes a while for Monica to pluck a nerve with him, but it’s evident she’s all strummed out for the night. “Goodnight, Mom. I’ll see you sometime tomorrow afternoon … or whenever.”
Leave. Now.
The voice in the back of my head is clear. It's my brain and body that doesn't immediately sync, despite the increasing sound of his footsteps. At last, I coax my legs to life, but it’s too late. He storms out of the bedroom, cursing how her acting career was fucked before she ever signed on to her first project.
We collide, our bodies meshing.
And panic swells inside of me, swallowing me bit by bit.
I’m tall for a woman—at five-ten, I’m the tallest here tonight—but Bennett makes me feel tiny and fragile. He always has, even during that awkward period when we were kids and the same height. Now, though, he towers at least four or five inches over me, with an easy sixty-pound weight advantage. He grips my shoulders. Flares his fingers over my skin. And when I gasp, hauling in a breath so intense it scours my lungs, I taste his simple, clean cologne.
His lips move, but I can’t hear a thing because the sound is muffled. Overwhelmed by the pounding of my pulse and heartbeat.
“What?” I lick the corners of my lips so that they’ll open wider, produce something that won’t sound so garbled, when I add, “What did you just say?”
His fingers trail from my shoulder and up the slope of my neck to brush my cheek. He angles my face up to his. Our eyes link, his ultramarine blue and penetrating my cloud gray irises.
Then he tells me, “I was saying, Veronica, that I’m fucking glad it’s just you.”
CHAPTER 2
VERONICA
It’s just you. Always, always just you. Because of the relief etched on his features, I know it shouldn’t sting to hear that. And yet, the vise on my ribcage is so powerful, I feel it in the pit of my stomach.
“Is there a reason you’re creeping around outside my mother’s room?” The heavy brows above his vivid irises furrow then relax. “Besides the obvious, I mean.”
“I came upstairs to check on your mom. And then I lost my balls.”
He joins his lips into a smirk. “Sounds painful.”
“You have no idea.”
“You’re wet.” He shuffles backward, seizing his fingers from my face to pare them through his disheveled hair. “And pink.”
That’s an innuendo if I ever
heard one. I follow his attention to the pink stain blossoming over the front of my white eyelet blouse. It’s the first time I noticed the spill—and the scent of cotton candy and vodka overpowering my cherry-almond lotion. “Ah, fuck.”
“Fuck?” He scratches his finger down the center of his perfectly aligned nose as he inclines his head to give me a slow onceover. “I have been away too long. Who are you and what did you do to my sweet-talking Vero?”
His. His Vero. I take in a breath. “Same Veronica, I just stopped being twelve,” I say as I exhale. I grab a section of my top and wring it into the empty glass. My hands are sticky after I finish, so I scrub them over a dry section of fabric. “I’m making a mess. I’d better grab a mop and clean up before Monica sees this.”
By time I’m finished, he’ll have forgotten we ran into each other. In this case, that might be a good thing.
“No, stop.” He captures my wrist, and everything palpitates—my head, my brain, the core of my body. “It’s just a floor.” He withdraws one finger at a time. And I absolutely ache for more of his touch.
I press my thumb to the heel of my palm, massaging the spot where his fingers had joined. “It’s just a floor that I’m dripping all over, but don’t worry, I’ll clean it up before I go.”
“You're the one who's always worried too much, not me. It drives me crazy. Here—this is for your … dripping.” Before I ask, he whips his black tee shirt over his head.
My mouth goes dry at the wall of tanned flesh displayed before me. He’s … epic. All lean muscle, from the highest peak of his shoulders to the deep V of his torso. And that light trail of hair leading from his belly button and disappearing into his jeans…
“It doesn’t look as good as what you had on,” he continues, unaware of his body's effect on mine, “but if you’re wearing it, it won’t matter.”
I squint down at his shirt then back to him. “Won’t matter?”