1. Sloane

CHAPTER 1

SLOANE

T he feels-like temp’s already hotter than hellfire and it’s only the beginning of May.

May 12 th , to be exact .

The day I’m supposed to be getting married under the stars at a swanky, tulle-draped courtyard in the French Quarter.

Instead, sweat’s rolling down my back as I swat at flies the size of gumballs from a plastic lawn chair in my dad’s back yard.

All because my fiancé decided to ‘explore other options,’ as he so delicately put it.

And by ‘explore other options,’ he meant bang a busty paralegal doggy-style over the shiny mahogany desk at his law office downtown six months before our wedding. A gruesome sight permanently burned into my retinas.

After we planned—and paid for—the whole damn wedding, complete with two hundred already-invited guests, a five-tiered vanilla buttercream cake from the fanciest bakery in New Orleans, and a sparkling champagne tower.

I really could have used that champagne to drown my sorrows, too.

Cool, cool. Instead, I have the option of embossed invitations as wallpaper in my childhood bedroom here in Thunder Creek, Georgia. I flove rose gold and blush on 120-lb cotton cardstock—it’s a vibe, am I right?

Splashing lukewarm water from a Yeti cup at my face, I tip my head toward the blinding sun and squeeze my eyes shut. This really isn’t how I envisioned spending my summer—living back home with my dad at almost thirty years old—but here we are. Both of us single as the day is long, watching Wheel of Fortune together on the lumpy sofa every night.

I guess I should be grateful I had somewhere to go after moving out of the apartment I shared with the cheating rat for five years.

Even if the current living space is cramped and stuck in a time-warp. I swear my father’s changed nothing since I left for the University of Georgia, not even the worn paper coasters collected from Mustang’s, the local bar.

A hot breeze rustles the leaves of the sprawling oak at the far corner of the yard and I grab my cell to scroll through my email again. On the off-chance that Ratface remembers the date of our wedding-that-isn’t and penned me a Shakespearean sonnet of an apology.

Ha freaking ha.

I tap the glass and my phone blinks to life, a photo of me and my bestie flashing on the screen.

Gracelyn, another bright spot in this whole moving-back-home scenario. She’s been my ride-or-die since grade school and last night was no exception. In honor of my not-happening-wedding eve, we hit up Mustang’s, drained tequila shots, and danced until midnight. Just like the old days, before I moved away.

My stomach roils as I blink down at the black-and-white messages; maybe I took one shot too many last night.

Oh god.

Make that definitely took one shot too many last night. I stare at the Sent messages, my chest tightening.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Hey, you!

Cringe. Hey, you! Seriously? For fuck’s sake, Sloane…

A wave of nausea rolls through me, but I force myself to keep reading the email I vaguely recall writing in a drunken tequila haze last night.

Hi Cam,

I was just thinking about you and wondering how you’ve been and what you’ve been up to these past few years. I don’t know if you heard, but I’m back home in Thunder Creek. In fact, I’m living with my dad. At least for the summer, anyway. Right now I’m lying in bed remembering how you used to throw pebbles at my bedroom window when it was past curfew and you wanted to talk out plays before a big game. Ha! How funny is that, a time before we had cell phones. So weird, right ?

I always loved talking to you. You were so funny and cool. Also, hot, but I’m sure you know that. Every girl fawned all over you, so I’m positive you’re more than aware of how gorgeous you were. Are. I’ve seen pictures…

Did you know I was supposed to be getting married tomorrow? Probably not because why would you? It’s not like I’m famous and end up in the tabloids like you. Anyway, long story short, my ex is a cheating ratface and I called the wedding off. Hence, why I’m back home.

It’s weird being here without you. I never told you this before, but I’ve always liked you. Like really liked you. As in not just friends. You probably don’t think of me like that, but I always wonder what might have been if I told you how I felt back in high school. Would anything have happened between us? I dreamed of kissing you so many times, but never got up the courage to tell you or do anything about it. I know my dad being your coach was an issue and things could have gotten weird, but I still wish I did something back then.

I don’t want to live with regrets now, though, you know? So I’m putting this out into the universe. Just in case.

Anyway, I wanted to let you know you were one of my closest friends and I miss you.

Love,

Sloan e

Ohmygod. I can’t have sent that message to Cam.

Maybe he didn’t read it yet and I can get it back.

Hot panic floods through me as I click around, frantically trying to unsend the message.

Why? Why would I have confessed my true feelings to Cam Crawford now, via email no less?

After all these years, why?

The man is a pro football star, living his wild and best life in Chi-town, playing the sport he adores in front of a national audience. He’s famous, in the tabloids every other day, with beautiful blonde models hanging off his bulging biceps. I’m an unemployed, walking, talking sob story with well-earned trust issues, living with my dad. Why the hell would he be interested in me?

I tap around, desperate for an Unsend feature, my stomach knotting tighter with tension as the seconds tick by. Giving Cam more time to read The World’s Most Embarrassing Email.

“Dammit!” I finally give up, flinging my cell down on the grass. The metal vibrates and I snatch it up so fast I create wind.

No response to my email, but the front door camera’s alerting me to motion on the porch.

My mouth goes desert-dry as I stare at the grainy black-and-white image of the visitor. Squinting at the phone, I shake my head. This cannot be happening right now.

No fucking way.

I scramble out of the lawn chair, kicking the flimsy plastic over in my haste to answer the door. Slinging my T-shirt over my head, I race across the grass, panting from the heat and exertion. Running into the kitchen, the artificially cooled air sends a chill through me, goosebumps rising on my arms.

Slowing to a brisk walk, I move through the house. With a deep breath, I smooth my hair away from my face, readjust my messy bun before flinging the door open.

“Cam?”