Sweet tooth a second cha.., p.1
Sweet Tooth: A Second Chance Romance, page 1
Sweet Tooth
A Second Chance Romance
Natasha L. Black
Copyright © 2019 by Natasha L. Black
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Created with Vellum
Contents
Introduction
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
Epilogue
Pretend You’re Mine (Sample)
Training the Rookie (Sample)
A Note from the Author
About the Author
Introduction
He’s the only thing sweeter than sin.
Once the love of my life but he couldn't give up his wild ways.
The closest thing to wicked in my life is the irresistible chocolate I sell in my shop.
Until my most delicious mistake comes back to town.
We were 18 when he crushed my heart.
Now, he wants me back, and he’s all grown up.
I have a business to run, and a son to raise.
I don’t have time for the one that got away.
Never mind that he’s a millionaire now.
Never mind that he looks even more attractive with age.
Never mind that I remember the exact way he tastes...
Like heaven.
Like the road straight to hell.
He’s relentless, romantic, everything I remembered and more.
I can’t resist him.
He’s the worst kind of temptation - but I almost believe it can work...
Until my son's father comes back and all hell breaks loose.
1
Jessica - The First Day
The day I met him was just like any other. There was no clue what life had in store for me. Nor did I figure my life was in for much of a change.
I figured I would remain the uninteresting high school junior I saw myself as. The one who was curvier than she’d like, and definitely quieter than she’d like. The girl with evergreen eyes and red-brown hair that went into waves when it wanted to cooperate, and flyaway frazzles when it didn’t. The girl who hated giving oral presentations almost as much as she hated history.
And today, of course, I was two for two: an oral presentation on history.
As I made my way to the front, my freshly painted nails dug into my cardigan pocket to come upon a worrying discovery.
“Uh, just hang on a sec,” I said, beelining back to my backpack. Already my brain was clicking through everything I’d done the past day – got up, got dressed, ate three bowls of Honey Nut Cheerios, and I did pack the cue cards in my bag, hadn’t I?
As I rifled through every big, small, and in between pocket in my backpack, the answer became increasingly clear: they weren’t there.
Miss Weiner cleared her throat.
“Sorry,” I said, straightening up. “I can’t find my cue cards. Is it ok if I just do it tomorrow?”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” she said simply.
“But…” I gaped at her, thunderstruck. With her pop quizzes and headache-inducing assignments and tendency to drone like an old addled-mind conspiracy theorist, I’d never exactly liked Miss Weiner. But this?
“You can do this,” Tamara whispered.
And that was when I realized that the entire class was staring at me. None of the usual half-attention, covert phone checking, and dull staring off into the space reserved for Miss Weiner’s lessons, no. At the prospect of my public humiliation, every last stupid classmate of mine was absolutely riveted.
Miss Weiner’s voice rang tonelessly into the haze that had descended over my mind. “If you do not present today, your assignment will be marked as incomplete.”
Unfortunately, I would probably get worse if I chucked the contents of my pencil case at her stupid sandy bowl-cut, egg-shaped head.
The walk up to the front seemed to take an eternity. Every footfall seemed to echo. Although nothing was louder than the certainty in my chest. The one that repeated itself every time I tried to take a breath of fresh air.
You can’t do this. There’s no way.
And there wasn’t really. I hadn’t bothered memorizing the ten or so cue cards I’d prepared for my presentation. Not by a long shot. It wasn’t like the War of 1812 was top of my Very Interesting List.
Now I was at the front of the room, facing twenty-odd hungry, expectant eyes. They knew what was coming. So did I.
Don’t choke, the voice in my head laughed. You can’t do this. There’s no way.
Tamara smiled tentatively at me, Miss Weiner cleared her throat again, and it was time for me to begin.
I fixed my attention on the wall directly ahead of me, where a crumpled 72 Resolutions reproduction lay impassively.
“The war of 1812…” I began.
Think, c’mon Jess, think.
“It was a battle between Canada and the US. Rather a series of battles…” I trailed off.
God damn it, why had I been drafting the stupid cue cards at the same time I’d been sampling the honey-filled chocolates I’d just made? Would anyone in their right mind have been able to pay attention with that sweet lightness blessing their taste buds?
Gazing around dully, I tried again.
“The war of 1812…”
“Was a conflict fought between the US and the UK as well as their allies from 1812 to 1815,” a voice beside me said.
I turned to see a boy standing there. He continued to talk about the war in a bored, drawling voice, not looking at me.
Miss Weiner stared on for a few seconds, before she cleared her throat pointedly.
The boy continued on, as if he hadn’t heard, “It was instigated partially by Britain’s naval blockade, which the US contested as illegal.”
I couldn’t fathom for the life of me what this weird guy was doing. For one thing, I’d never seen him in our small high school before in my life. For another thing, he was the kind of hot that was a punch to the gut.
Slightly rumpled messy-hair-don’t-care kind of brown locks. His brown eyes were wide-set, permanently squinted. ‘Rugged hot’ was what you’d call him.
Not that that in any way explained what he was doing in our history class, still reciting more War of 1812 facts without any use of cue cards or any visible effort whatsoever.
“In the end, it resulted in a military stalemate, as well as the Treaty of Ghent.”
By now, Miss Weiner had cleared her throat three times and even said, “Excuse me.” When she rose, the boy finally quieted down.
“I can keep going on if you like,” he said, to no one in particular. Then to me he said, “I’m Zane by the way.”
I could only stare at him, vaguely aware that there was a ketchup stain on the lower hem of my shirt I for some reason didn’t want him seeing.
“What makes you think you can disturb this class, young man?” Miss Weiner had now ambled over and was giving him a ferocious look under her bangs.
Zane looked at her, nonplussed. “Sorry I’m late. Admin took forever with the transfer forms.”
When she didn’t say anything, he continued. “I’m Zane Matthews. Today’s my first day.”
Miss Weiner’s sizable nose twitched in comprehension. “Yes, yes.” Then her gaze shot to me again. “That doesn’t mean you have the right to interrupt a classmate in the middle of her presentation.”
Zane considered this, his face finally settling on an expression indicating that he didn’t think much of what she’d said.
“Seemed like she was having some trouble,” he said with a half shrug. “Thought I’d help her out.”
I was suddenly aware that every eye in the room was glued on us. Not that I could blame them. This was the most interesting class we’d had since Bobby’s pen exploded while he was chewing it trying to think an answer to one of Weiner’s unpassable exams.
“That is not for you to say,” Miss Weiner said, clearly disappointed that her chance to ding me had been taken away. As much as I despised History with a fiery passion, I still studied until my eyes were bleeding and my brain was weeping, so that I’d ace all of her stupid tests.
“Nevertheless, we have a class to teach. You two may sit down.” She swivelled her head to fix her bespectacled gaze on Diane. “Diane.”
I beelined back to my seat, my heart leaping up and twirling in my chest. I felt dizzy. What the heck had just happened with that guy, and had he been looking at me how I thought he’d been looking at me?
Thank God for Weiner’s timeliness obsession – now it was someone else’s turn. Although she hadn’t let me off the hook yet.
“You can deliver me your presentation at your lunch hour tomorrow,” Miss Weiner t
old me as I went to sit down.
“Will do, Miss Weiner,” I said.
I’d figured as much. Anyway, right now, my mind was on other things.
Zane was choosing an empty seat at the front and turned to look at me as he sat down.
‘Thanks’ I mouthed at him. He gave a sort of smile back.
I swallowed and ripped my gaze away before my mouth fell open or my eyes bulged out or I did something completely humiliating.
Beside me, Tamara whispered, “Save!”
“I know,” I said.
“And…” she indicated Zane with raised brows.
I shook my head. “He’s just new.”
Once he met the likes of Gillie Howitzer, who had the kind of fine-spun sun kissed beauty you usually only found in California or modelling agencies, or Mara Powers, whose dark hair, extension-worthy lashes and Italian complexion were lusted after by just about every male on the premises, teachers and janitors included, Zane would forget all about me.
--
The rest of the class passed with the usual boredom. Everyone’s presentations were as equally uninspired and yawn-worthy as Miss Weiner’s monthly diatribe on why History is important. Miss Weiner’s history class had the highest amount of repeats out of all in the entire high school. So basically, my good work ethic was spurred on by that and that alone – the single driving need to avoid having to repeat that goddamn course.
Once we were walking outside of class, things got interesting.
Out of the door, Zane was waiting for me. “You never told me your name.”
I was walking with Tamara and paused again.
For a moment, I just gaped at him like an idiot, unable to find my voice.
“It’s Jess,” Tamara said helpfully. “Anyway, gotta run – I have choir.”
And then she left me standing there, thinking only, Oh shit.
“I thought of a way you could pay me back for my help.”
Well wasn’t he a cheeky one? “Oh yeah?” I said, eyeing him.
I might’ve been shy, and this guy might’ve been hot, but if he crossed the line and made some creepy request, I wouldn’t hesitate to tell him off.
“Yeah,” he said. “Give me a tour.”
The relief on my face must’ve been visible, because he chuckled and said, “What? Hoping for something else?”
“No,” I said, forcing my voice into casualness. “You?”
He shrugged. “I got what I wanted. A chance to word-vomit about the War of 1812 and a tour from a pretty girl.”
I chose to ignore the last part. “How’d you know so much about it anyway? You a history buff?”
He made a face, and I realized he had the slightest sprinkling of freckles on his nose that weirdo me was drawn to touch. I kept my hands dug into my sweatshirt pocket, clasping each other to avoid the temptation.
“Not by choice,” he was saying. “My dad used to be a history teacher. After my mom died, we weren’t so good at talking to each other, so that’s what he’d do. Spit history facts at me, then quiz me on them later.”
“Oh, I’m…”
“Sorry,” he said. “I know. It’s fine. It’s been years now.”
“You must have a good memory,” I said to change the subject, feeling bad. You didn’t meet many kids our age who had lost a parent. Most were just split up like mine.
“I guess.” Another one of his half-shrugs. “Makes no difference though if you don’t study.”
I said nothing to that although I did take another sidelong look at what he was wearing. The black snug-fitting shirt and faded grey jeans gave away nothing. Usually hot guys were popular jocks, but he wasn’t wearing any polos. He didn’t have the shoes, hat,s or oversize clothes to be a gangster, nor did he have the slightly-off apparel or the awkward self-consciousness of the nerds.
Listen to yourself, I scolded myself. Why can’t he just be some cool new guy – why do you have to throw him into a category within the first five minutes of talking to him?
I knew the answer. Because, if I figured out who he was, then I could figure out if this whole presentation and tour thing was just a blip, just a new guy getting his bearings. Going for easy pickings for a first friend.
Tamara and I weren’t universally scorned, but we were pretty close to the bottom of the social pole. We didn’t get cute, popular guys talking to us, unless it was some douchebag thinking he was doing us a favor with one of his creepy suggestions.
As the tour went on – from the library, to the gym, and finally to the café.
“Sorry for keeping you from lunch,” he said as we stopped at my locker.
I opened it, rifling through its messy paper and random crap stuffed depths for my lunchbox.
“You really like frogs, eh?” he asked. He indicated the floor, where a frog pen, a frog eraser, and a picture of two crying frogs Tamara and I had drawn in History one time when we were bored lay.
“Yeah,” I said. “I have a bit of a problem.”
As we walked away, he turned around. “603,” he said to himself, as if committing my locker number to memory.
At my questioning look, he shrugged. “Now I know where to find you.”
As if realizing how weird what he’d said was, he frowned. “If I need to, I mean.”
“Cool,” I finally said.
“So about lunch,” he said as I closed my locker. “Let me get you something as a thank you.”
“It’s fine,” I said. “I was about to die there in class, couldn’t remember anything about the War of 1812, so we’re even now.”
“You like cookies?” he said.
“Yeah, but I have to meet someone,” I lied.
“Ok.” He shrugged. “Suit yourself. See ya.”
Only once I was safely inside the bathroom stall did I allow myself to breathe. Just being in his presence like that, with him so close, so sure of himself had me all disoriented.
He hardly knew me and yet he seemed kind of into me. I frowned at my frog pen, which I’d been unknowingly clutching all this time, tucking it into my hoodie pocket.
The guy had to be screwing with me.
After lunch, when I got back to my locker, it was official. There, on my locker door, was the note – cut into the shape of a frog: WHAT ARE YOU DOING TONIGHT? it said, and I didn’t have to ask who it was from.
I stared at it for a few minutes, my heartbeat all the way up into my throat.
BUSY, I scrawled, hurrying away.
Whatever this Zane guy was playing at, I wasn’t interested.
Next day, a new frog-shaped note was there. AND TONIGHT? its message read.
STILL BUSY, I scrawled back.
“You really should give him a chance,” Tamara chastised me in class, after I’d avoided meeting Zane’s eye. “He seems legit. Mandy told me he told off Gillie for being a bitch in gym.”
“What?” I asked, my eyes nearly popping out of my head.
People didn’t tell off Gillie the same way you didn’t point a machine gun at the President. It just didn’t happen.
“Apparently she was making fun of Bertha for not being good at volleyball, when he stepped in. Served a ball right at her head.”
“Oh my God,” I said, quietly cracking up.
“I know, right?” Tamara fixed me with a look. “So, don’t be an idiot, please. Just give him a chance.”
“I’ll see,” I said, still sure his interest in me was some kind of a set up for a cruel joke. I mean, I wasn’t hideous or anything like that, but I didn’t see myself anywhere near the level of someone as hot as Zane Matthews.
The next day, the note was up again. I ripped it down.
The day after that, I was late to class, so I only saw the note once half the day was through. By then, people were starting to talk.
“Got a new boyyyyfriend, Jessy?” Mindy McAllister, who had a fake tan, fake teeth, fake lashes, fake hair and one real horrible personality, crooned as she passed.
