[Currently being rewritten and updated chapter by chapter]
Book One in the "Hard Love" series.
It's hard being knocked down. And it's even harder getting back up.
Thalia Carter grew up on the south side of Chicago with a dead-beat dad and never real...
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I had one hundred percent expected to receive an endless amount of teasing for my alcohol-spurred actions.
Kissing his cheek? Rubbing his hand against his face? Saying I like how my name sounds on his mouth?
I am an idiot.
But maybe I was right to call him a gentleman. When Monday rolls around, he doesn't bring any of that night up. I don't expect him to smile at me and ask how the rest of my weekend went, but he does. I tell him the truth, that I stayed in bed watching TV while I nursed a mild hangover.
I don't tell him that my Netflix queue was full of rom-coms. If he knew, he would tease me endlessly. But romantic comedies are my guilty pleasure, always have been. They're lighthearted and fun, and always have a happy ending.
It's because of my desire for happy endings that I avoid any and all Nicholas Sparks movies. I don't care about the poetry or the hidden meanings. I just want want to see a couple that gets to live happily ever after.
Is that too much to ask for?
For me, apparently so. Just look at my track record.
Tuesday is here and I'm only dreading one thing about my day. That's a new record for me.
I begrudgingly make my way to calculus, unprepared for the quiz we were informed of only yesterday. Mr. Barron says there's no need to study because it's simply an aptitude test to gauge where we're all at after a few weeks of reviewing the basics of everything taught in pre-calc the year before. But I know what he's really trying to do. Tell the smart from the dumb. Weak from the strong.
Newsflash! Being good at math does not determine your wits. Especially not calculus. I mean, does anybody actually retain anything they learn in high school math? Not that I'm great at many other subjects, but still. Test me in street smarts or something, or how hard I can throw a punch (douchebag from the club can confirm that I hit very hard). I can't learn like everyone else does and do the whole sitting at a desk all day thing. It's never been something I've been good at, and being judged by how well I can memorize facts or theorems just makes me feel...stupid, for lack of better words.
It makes me feel stupid, and I don't like it one bit.
I walk into class and take a seat next to Fallon, noticing not one but two coffees on her desk. One hot paper cup and an iced drink that looks like it's drowning in whipped cream. Looking around, I notice Isaac hasn't shown up yet.
I raise an eyebrow, hoping she'll understand so I don't sound greedy by asking for it. She laughs and nods, "Yes, it's for you. Plain latte. Here you go. Thought we could use pick-me-ups since we have to start the day with a calc quiz."
"Thank you," I gush, grabbing the coffee off her desk. I pop the lid off and blow on the energy juice before taking a sip. Heat instantly floods my body and I nearly let out a moan on the spot.
