by Goode, Ella
Sweet Spot
Ella Goode
Contents
Summary
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
Epilogue
Also by Ella Goode
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Carrie has always been the one for me, even before I knew what forever was—she was mine. But our families couldn’t be more different, and our futures are threatening to tear us apart. She can’t leave her family business, and my sports agent career can’t stay in this small town.
I can’t let her get away, not when I want to be the one who helps her on her path to making her dreams come true. My beautiful best friend, my love for all time—I have to show her we can be together, no matter what our families might say.
I’ve found my sweet spot, and it’s by Carrie’s side.
Chapter One
Booker
“Friends, lovers, countrymen, lend me your earholes,” Dean announces to our AP History class. His arms are stretched wide like he’s posing for some campaign poster. Half the class is paying attention and the other half is grumbling about how many weapons Mr. Allen is going to talk about for the next fifty minutes.
“It’s enemies,” corrects Tommy.
Dean drops his arms to his sides. “Really? Enemies doesn’t sound right.”
“It’s enemies.” He gives a firm nod.
“It’s Romans,” I correct, stretching out my long legs until they’re nearly bumping the back of Carrie Montlain’s battered Converse sneakers. How long has she had those? Tenth grade? Ninth? I tilt my head to see if the baseball I drew on the heel in our sophomore Intro to Art class is still there, but it looks like it’s been rubbed off. Too bad.
“Romans? Why would he say Romans? Isn’t that a Bible thing?”
Dean and I exchange looks over Tommy’s head. He’s not the brightest highlighter in the package, but he doesn’t mean any harm.
“Romans is in the Bible, my friend.” I pat Tommy on the back and then push against Carrie’s shoe. She doesn’t turn around right away, so I nudge her again.
“What do you want, Peters?” she asks without moving. Her pretty neck is bent over her notebook where she’s undoubtedly sketching something. I heard she plans on attending the local community college to get an associate degree in bookkeeping and then go on to work at her grandparent’s ice cream shop, which is admirable and all that, but the girl is fucking talented in art. She should be going to some prestigious art school.
“Are these the same Converse you had in Art 101?”
Her arm stops moving for a second before she resumes her sketching. “No.”
“Oh. That’s good.” I slide down into my chair a little farther, which has the result of pushing my feet even farther under hers. She tries to shift, but my legs cage her in. Finally, she gives in and leaves her feet tucked between mine. I don’t know why I care, but I do. It’s like that’s where she belongs, which is weird because we’re friends. That’s all it’s ever been between us no matter how many times I’ve gotten a woody because of her. She made it clear a long time ago that she didn’t think of me in that way and that if I respected her at all, I’d just be friends with her. I do respect her. I like Carrie. She’s funny and smart and a fucking talented artist. Friends is fine. I’m not without self-control that I can’t be friends with a girl. I mean, I’ve had some fantasies—okay, a lot of fantasies—about her but I haven’t acted on them. Not once in the years we’ve known each other. I should get a damned medal for that.
“Don’t you have baseballs to hit?” she says, head still down over her paper. I lean forward for a glimpse of her drawing, but her slight frame and long hair cover it.
“Baseball is over.”
“Is that why you’re all in class bothering us?”
“Yes.” When we don’t have a schedule, the players tend to get wild. We don’t have to get up at five to lift or run. We don’t have batting practice in the afternoons in the ninety-degree sun. We don’t have six-hour road trips to tournaments that last three days, and now that most of us are seniors, we’ve got an endless amount of free time. Pure bliss. Colt’s still training because he’s going pro, but the rest of us are doing nothing but waiting for college. Dad says that idle hands are the devil’s workshop, and the way I’m harassing Carrie’s shoes is probably a good example of it, although I don’t think she cares. “Aren’t you glad we’re in our fun mode?”
“As opposed to what other mode?”
“Moody asshole?”
“If those are my two choices, then yes.”
“What are you drawing?” I scoot up farther, brush her hair to the side, and stick my chin on her shoulder. Immediately her hand covers her work. “Come on, Carrie. Show me.”
“No. It’s not done, and you know I don’t like showing my unfinished work.”
“At least tell me what the subject matter is.”
She puts down her pencil and shoves my face off her shoulder. “No.”
“I’m not a fan of that word. Try ‘yes’ instead.”
“You’ve been trying to get me to say yes since I brought the turkey club sandwich to lunch in middle school, and my answer now is the same as it was then. No.”
I settle back in my chair and ignore the tiny prick of...something at her emphatic denial.
“Crash and burn, my dude,” Dean murmurs next to me.
A tube of pain cream lands on my desk courtesy of Tommy. “For the burn,” he snickers.
Not to be left out, Logan, the reliever on our team, gives me a sympathetic shoulder squeeze. I whip the medication back at Tommy, give Dean the finger, and then say, “Et tu Brutus?” to Logan.
“Can’t I lend a hand to a brother in need?”
This is rich coming from a guy who has been pining over the same girl since ninth grade, but that’s a topic that none of us bring up because well, said girl is out of his reach, and we’re not complete dickholes. I bite my tongue.
“I’m still here, guys, and no one is crashing and burning because I won’t share my art. Booker and I are friends. I know that’s a concept your tiny brains have a hard time accepting because you only have space in your heads for girls you bang and sports, but there are other relationships that exist outside of the bedroom between men and women,” Carrie declares with a toss of her hair.
“Sounds fake to me,” Tommy says.
“Agreed,” choruses Dean.
Carrie pins me with her emerald green gaze. “You have something to add, Mr. Peters?”
God, that’s hot. My dick stands at attention, but I put on the blandest expression that I can. “Not a one, Ms. Montlain.”
Chapter Two
Carrie
I rush into my bedroom, tossing my bookbag onto my bed before I start to peel my clothes off. The Sugar Factory always gets super busy when all the schools let out for the day. I always rush to get home so I can change before I need to be over there to help my grandparents and mom out. When your family owns their own business, it’s always all hands on deck.
I open my closet, grabbing my uniform shirt and slipping on jeans before I snag a pair of sneakers that I don’t have to worry about staining. My eyes linger on the top shelf and the pair of sneakers sitting on it
. The old Converse are broken down and need to be tossed out, but I can never seem to bring myself to do it.
I pull them down off the shelf, my finger tracing the spot that Booker’s hand doodled a baseball on. At least I’m pretty sure it’s supposed to be a baseball. He’s never been great at art, but for some reason he keeps on taking all the art classes he can. Maybe he’s trying to get better at it. Looking at this drawing, I’d say he either needs a new passion or to continue taking every single class he can.
I really should throw them out. It’s a stupid doodle he did a few years ago. Still I put the shoes back next to the others before closing my closet door. Booker Peters. The one boy that scares the crap out of me while somehow making me laugh too. I try to tuck him nicely into the friend category. The same place I want all of the opposite sex to fall into. It gets harder and harder each year to keep Booker there.
So many times I’ve almost given in to his advances, but I’ve stopped myself. I know how charming men can be when they want something. But usually as soon as they get it, they don’t stick around for long. I’ve seen it happen to my mom time and time again. She’s a hopeless romantic that believes every man she meets is her happily ever after. Unfortunately, that hasn’t worked out for her.
By the time I make it to my grandparents’ ice cream shop, there is already a line out the door. I grab an apron before sliding up next to my mom to help with orders. The next two hours fly by, and most of the shop clears out. We might get one more rush, but it will be later in the evening, right before we close.
“How was school?” Mom asks as she wipes down the front counter.
“Same old same.” I shrug.
“Nothing new at all? Boys?” She wiggles her eyebrows.
“No boys,” I respond. Her face, so like my own, drops in disappointment.
If anyone should be boy crazy it’s me. Not my mom. I love my mom to death, but any free time she has is focused on men and dating. I get wanting to have a partner in life, but month after month she is always getting her heart broken. Seeing how it messes with her, I’ve stood firm on the whole not dating thing.
“How about girls maybe?” she tries again.
“I’m straight, Mom.” I laugh. She huffs. “Aren't you supposed to be warning me off boys? Telling me they're terrible and only want in your pants?”
My mom is different from a lot of other moms at school. At times I think she can be a bit childlike when it comes to some of her ideas and thoughts.
“Having a man in your pants is a good thing from time to time,” Grams says, coming out from the back of the shop, making me snort a laugh.
How can my mom have such a horrible track record with men when her own parents have such a good relationship? My grandparents are high school sweethearts who are still madly in love with each other.
If anything, we see how a man should treat a woman with how Grandpa is with Grams. Instead, my mom has some beacon on her that is always attracting assholes, and I’ve sworn off the idea of boys altogether, scared I’ll end up boy crazy like her and doomed to have my heart broken over and over again. I’m terrified I’ll end up as one of those cliché artists.
“I better be the only man in your pants,” Grandpa says as he follows my grams out of the office. She rolls her eyes, pretending to be annoyed when we all know she’s not. I’ve never asked, but I’m pretty sure they’ve only ever been in each other's pants.
“I’ll date in college.” I say the same thing I always do to try and get everyone off my case. It usually works for a little while, but my mom is pretty persistent.
“I think you should wait ‘til you're thirty.” Grandpa folds his arms over his chest. He gives me a wink. I can always count on him to come to my rescue. He’s been the main man in my life for as long as I can remember. I’m sure he’s not in a hurry to give up that title.
The bell over the front door dings, drawing all of our attention. My heart does a stupid flutter, and those silly butterflies take flight in my stomach when I see Booker. He smiles at me, making one of his dimples pop. He’s too damn handsome for his own good.
“Booker’s back,” Mom says under her breath. She always teases me about him and how often he comes in here.
“He’s got a sweet tooth,” I say under my breath.
“Yeah, and you're the sweet he’s looking for,” Grams chimes in. I elbow her in the side.
Even if I was open to dating Booker, I’m not sure he’d be down for dating me. I’ve heard some of the talk around school about strippers and other things when it comes to the baseball team.
The first time I’d heard one of the rumors I was sure it was a bunch of made-up crap. Booker is always sweet and respectful with me. I was wrong. I overheard some of the players talking in the cafeteria one day. It was actually Booker’s own father that hired the strippers for them. I hate the jealousy that hits me every time I think about that.
Not only because he’s getting lap dances from beautiful women that I could never compete with but that I’m clearly not on his radar when it comes to the possibility of something more. I’m more of a little sister to him.
When Booker's eyes meet mine, his smile grows. His other dimple comes out. Strippers, I chant over and over inside of my head. I will not be my mom. God love her. I’ll see the red flags and avoid them.
Booker and his almost irresistible dimples are not helping my cause. And even though he’s one big walking red flag, I can’t seem to stop myself from secretly wanting him.
Chapter Three
Booker
Say hello to the grandparents. Compliment the grandmother.
Grandfather says something back. Carrie looks cute in her Sugar Factory apron with its red and white stripes. She’d look even cuter wearing nothing but the apron bent over the counter with me taking her from behind. Don’t think that’s on the menu though.
“Afternoon, Mr. Montlain.” Despite knowing this man for all these years, he still won’t let me call him anything but mister.
“Peters,” he grumbles.
“Afternoon, Sunshine.” I grab Carrie’s grandma, Mrs. Montlain by the waist and give her a little twirl. “You look pretty today.”
She pinks up and bats my arm. “Don’t you be flirting with me or Mr. Montlain might take you out back.”
Carrie’s grandmother looks excited by the idea. I try not to think about the two of them knocking boots, but I once caught them making out by the back door around closing one time when I was picking Carrie up to take her to a party. Gramps had the missus up against the brick wall. I couldn’t sleep for three days after that because every time I closed my eyes, I’d see the two mauling each other.
“Yeah, hands off, kid.” Mr. Montlain acts like he’s not fond of me, but he gives me an extra cherry without even asking, so I can’t be that bad in his books.
“I’m just admiring the scenery.” I lean in and give Mrs. Montlain—or Sunshine, as I like to call her to annoy Mr. Montlain—a swift peck on the plump cheek. “You’re as pretty as the flowers.” I pull out a bouquet from behind my back. “Mom says enjoy.”
“Ohhh, Booker, you know just the way to a girl’s heart,” Sunshine coos. She plucks the flowers from my hands and rushes to the back to find a vase.
“None for me, huh?” Carrie says from behind the counter.
I stroll over and lean an elbow against the red tile. “You said flowers were a waste.”
She flushes. “I didn’t mean it like that.” A furrow creases her forehead. “You’ve never told your mom I said that, right?”
“My mother thinks you walk on water, so if I told her—which I have not—that you thought they were a waste, she’d probably close the doors to her florist shop forever.” This close to her, I can smell the sweetness of her skin. I’m afraid to take another whiff because I’ll probably attack her and then her grandpa will come over with his grandpa strength and kick my ass, but my own protective instincts will rise up and I’ll end up punching the old man out, thus earning C
arrie’s eternal enmity. I push away from the counter. “Look I gotta go, but make me a three-level delight. Oh, and a fudge brownie sundae for Trish. She says she’s in mourning and needs ice cream therapy.”
Carrie starts scooping the ice cream but stops and says, “Trish?”
“Yeah. She’s moping because she caught Slider and GG playing tonsil hockey next to her car. She said she had to take her Beemer through the car wash three times, but she swore she could still see GG’s ass outline on the passenger window. Hopefully the fudge brownie sundae will bring her down from the Olivia Rodrigo cliff she’s currently on.”
“I didn’t know you two were hanging out.” I’ll take any excuse to come get ice cream and see Carrie.
“Her dad’s got some deal that my dad’s handling so they’ve been over quite a bit. Mom always wanted a girl, you know, so she’s coddling Trish. You should come over after work and watch a movie with us. They’re going to binge watch Pride & Prejudice—the series, not the movie.” It’s my mom’s favorite. She’s watched it so many times I think she could write the book herself.
“Pass.” Carrie returns to making the ice cream treats.
I tell myself not to be disappointed. It’s not like I was expecting her to jump at this invitation. It’s boring. Trish gives me a headache, and after she leaves, my mom will spend the next seven days talking about how I should date that nice Long girl.