Bashful Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Forty-Three

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Excerpt of Boomerangers by Heather M. Orgeron

  Excerpt of Coming Up Roses by LK Farlow

  Bashful

  Copyright © 2018 by Lo Brynolf.

  All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Design: Alyssa Garcia, Uplifting Designs

  Editing & Proofreading: Emily A. Lawrence, Lawrence Editing

  Interior Formatting: Juliana Cabrera, Jersey Girl Design

  First Edition: March 2018

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For my three tiny-humans. Never give up on your dreams.

  One

  IT’S OKAY TO BE SINGLE at this point in my life. I’m twenty-one. With Evie as my roommate, I don’t need a man—she gives me all the emotional support I need. Sure, I can’t have sex with my bestie, nor would I want to, but that’s what Bob is for. He’s good people. If by ‘people’ I mean my battery-operated boyfriend. He can be a real dick sometimes. Get it?

  It’s still better than pining away for the guy I fell for two years ago—Sebastian Moore. He gave me a heart-on something fierce. And he’s coming back today. Back to Michigan College. Back into my circle.

  I closed my laptop, finishing the journal entry for my women’s psych class. Taking notice of the red numbers glowing on the microwave, I jumped off the couch and slipped into my boots. Shit. My three-hour break between classes had flown by, and if I didn’t haul ass, I’d be late.

  After double-checking the lock on my apartment, I flew through the convenience store adjacent to campus to pick up an afternoon sugar fix. Without it, I was a basket case. It was common knowledge in my friend circle that if I wasn’t hopped up on caffeine or sugar, there was a high probability I’d walk into something and hurt myself.

  Taking another sip of the icy slushie, I moved with purpose toward my next class. Why is everyone looking at me funny? Sure, it was fifty degrees outside, but in Michigan, that was practically flip-flop weather. Shrugging off their dubious looks, I crossed onto the grass to cut across campus. Catching my reflection in the windows of the science building, I stopped and did a double take.

  Before rushing out of the apartment this morning, I hadn’t stopped for a second to check my appearance or my choice of shirt. “I’m not weird—my mother had me tested” was written in large block letters over my chest.

  Okay, maybe this particular choice of outfit plus the slushie in my hand are a strange combination.

  Whatever. I was lucky I woke up in time to shower and put on real pants. I didn’t get a lot of sleep last night. It’d be easier to blame the insane amounts of caffeine I’d consumed, or the late-night Internet scrolling, but those were mere distractions from the real reason.

  I was about to see Bash for the first time in nearly two years.

  The sunlight warmed my bare arms as I glanced back one last time, smoothing the flyaways off my forehead and back into my messy bun. It sucked that this was quite possibly the last nice day of the year. I shaded my eyes with my hand, bummed to see some of the trees lining the sidewalks had yellowing leaves. Michigan College was gorgeous when the trees transformed into bursts of fiery reds and bright oranges, popping against the contrasting green knolls between buildings. I shook the contents of my cup, collecting the rest of the sugary goodness into the straw. Once I’d successfully made the telltale empty-slurping noise, I chucked it in the garbage and moved toward MacArthur.

  MacArthur Hall was a two-hundred-year-old monster of a structure that held theatre classes, dance studios, and music rooms. Plus, it was home to my favorite place in the world—the Julian Theater. At least a dozen accomplished entertainers had once graced those halls, and some of their energy remained, inspiring future hopefuls like me.

  It was also where I was about to see the guy who’d been giving me panic-induced sweats since I’d heard he was coming back.

  Wiping my hands down the front of my distressed jeans, I pulled the double doors open and was met with the cool breeze of air conditioning and the musty smell that only old buildings can provide.

  I can’t see him. I’ll vomit. No guy wants a girl who can’t keep down her fluids.

  “That’s when I had to pull out my emergency accessory. I’d rather be caught dead than wear a tie with the same pattern as Professor Jenkins—that crotchety old man can’t even handle a proper Windsor knot.”

  “Hey, Tucker,” I sang, rounding the corner. “Playing your version of who-wore-it-better again?”

  He nodded in greeting, ending the call and shoving his phone in the pocket of his chinos. He kissed each of my cheeks before opening his arms in a hug, enveloping me in welcome before he pulled back and sighed.

  Tucker was one of few people I’d stuck to like glue freshman year. With him, I had an endless supply of laughs and a lifetime cheerleader and friend. I gave him a once-over, and as per usual he was perfectly polished at all times. From his pomade-styled blond hair to his boat shoes sans socks, he was the epitome of preppy-chic. He wore his horn-rimmed glasses with pride, and I’d been sworn to secrecy that they were non-prescription. “It’s all about the look,” he’d told me once. “It’s like my mating call to attract the kind of men I want.”

  “I’m not judging, Callie. I’m simply verbalizing my disappointment in elderly men who can’t pull off paisley. Besides, Jenkins wouldn’t notice my insults even if I stood two feet in front of him with cue cards.” He scoffed, placing a fist on his hip and jutting it out. “He literally can’t hear or see that far. He needs to retire.”

  “Aw, but he’s so cute hunched over like that. You know I love little old men.”

  “That’s creepy, girlfriend.”

  “That’s not what I meant and you know it,” I replied, sticking out my lower lip. “All old people are cute, with their wrinkles and suspenders and anti-slip shoes.”

  Okay, maybe it is weird.

  “Well, discounting your love of the elderly, his tie matching mine is enough reason for him to retire. He can spend all that free time sitting on his porch yelling at kids to get off his lawn.”

  Out of nowhere, Tuck let out a h
igh-pitched scream. Heads turned as he jumped up and down, clapping his hands together.

  “Bash, my lovely fellow, how are you, darling? Get over here before I cry!” Tucker yelled down the hall, hands flailing dramatically.

  A spike of nerves creeped from my stomach to my chest.

  He’s here. Right now.

  My body wasn’t ready for the instant reaction, anxiety peaking and shooting sparks down my arms and legs. Sebastian ‘Bash’ Moore had held my heart since I’d met him three years ago when we were both freshman. Inhaling a deep breath to calm my nerves, I lifted a hand to wave as Bash winked at a passing student. Crap, his head was still turned away. Nothing like waving like an idiot at someone who didn’t see you.

  I stared as he walked in my direction, studying the changes in his face. A once smooth jaw was now covered in delicious, dark stubble, highlighting his plump lips. His hair was longer on top, cropped at the sides. The dark, shiny locks were mussed, like he’d just rolled out of bed. He walked with such confidence—that hadn’t changed. He wasn’t the boy I knew our first year of college; he was all man now.

  Holy mother of hotness.

  I suppressed a laugh as he clutched his chest over-dramatically in response to Tucker’s outburst. Bash jogged the last few steps, enveloping his best friend in a bear hug. Those two were a pair, all right, inseparable for as long as I’d known them—until Bash was offered an opportunity to study abroad in England for a year. When he left, it wasn’t on good terms, and he broke my heart by not saying goodbye.

  Tucker hadn’t been aware of my crush, but he knew I’d taken the loss just as hard as he did. I encouraged Tuck by creating a countdown until Bash came back, insisting that everything would go back to normal when he returned.

  When Bash decided to extend his abroad program for another year, I wanted to die. I wanted to curl up into a ball and wallow in my loss; a loss that was one-sided. I wanted to be dramatic and lay my emotions out for all to see. Instead, I succumbed to Tucker’s idea we mourn through fashion. He insisted we wore all black for an entire week. Being a theatre major, it wasn’t difficult to oblige.

  Now he stood in front of me, and all I could do was stare and act like I’d never seen a hot guy before. Good job, Callie.

  “Oh, what a sight for sore eyes. Tucker, my man!” Bash spun himself and Tucker around so they were facing the groups of students in the lobby. “What was I thinking being away from this perfect specimen for two years?” he called out loudly, flinging an arm wide as he garnered stares. He chuckled, flicking Tucker’s bowtie off-center as he turned to greet me.

  “Hey, Calliope, long time no see.” He smirked, the deep dimple on his left cheek emphasized even through his stubble as he took a step toward me. His gaze traveled down the length of my small frame, a slight grin at the worn red Chucks on my feet.

  “Cheerio, old chap,” I said, punching his shoulder. Pulling my hand back, I rocked on the balls of my feet in revulsion as I questioned what in the fresh hell was wrong with me. I was completely horrified. I’d had two years to think of the perfect wow moment for the first time he’d see me again, and I gave him a shitty accent and a messy bun.

  Rubbing his arm, Bash laughed. He must’ve seen the panic in my eyes. “You been working out all this time? I may bruise, Sweets.”

  “Oh yeah, all that heavy lifting of scripts and props gave me some badass guns. Better watch out, mister, I haven’t eaten yet today and I’m feeling a little stabby,” I responded, flexing. My arms were toothpicks.

  He reached forward and wrapped his hand around my bicep, stroking my skin up and down with his thumb. He moved closer, his worn black jacket brushing against my chest.

  “You feel good to me, Callie,” he whispered, millimeters away from my ear. The heat of his breath sent a shudder down my spine. He pulled back, his green irises sparkling with mischief. I’m pretty sure my jaw fell to the ground.

  Tucker cleared his throat, breaking my trance.

  “Hello, still here.” He waved largely, almost smacking a passing student. Shoving his left sleeve up, he lifted his arm vertically and tapped the face of his watch. “Yeah, hi, hello. Tick tock, sweethearts.”

  Bash pulled his phone out and checked the time as well. “Crap, you’re right.”

  “If we’re late to Voice & Dialect, Jenkins will force us to speak in Callie’s weird attempt at Cockney the entire period.”

  I rolled my eyes. Tucker’s snark wasn’t anything new.

  Two

  AFTER SAYING GOODBYE, I LEFT MacArthur and headed toward the Union to meet Evie for food. I didn’t dare text her on the way here, because if she knew about my interaction with Bash, her infamous Brit-Brat persona would rear its ugly head. She named her sassy but polite alter ego that since it only surfaced when she was pissed or offended. It was an unrecognizable change in demeanor to most people, except for me.

  What people assumed was a cordial statement? Evie was basically telling them to fuck off. With her accent, the insults weren’t always obvious. Like a good Southern drawl with a ‘bless her heart’ dig, Evie’s British accent mesmerized people enough that the underlying snark was forgiven or missed entirely.

  It was hilarious for me to watch her do it to other people, but I hated when she went Brit-Brat on me. It wasn’t her fault—I deserved it. Since freshman year, she’d tolerated almost-daily whining regarding my unrequited love. I’d keep her up late at night, begging her to break down each interaction we’d have, endlessly worried he didn’t notice my flirting or how he only looked at me as a friend. I couldn’t fault her for being sick of hearing about him.

  I reached the top of the steps and politely grinned at the guy who held the door to the Union open for me. My smile faded as he openly checked out my curves and raised his eyebrows suggestively.

  “Hey, girl, how you doin’? I’ve got something you can eat,” he yelled as I crossed the threshold of the building.

  I halted and rolled my neck, debating if walking away from this jackhole would be satisfactory enough. He probably grabbed his junk while he said it, which made me extra-ragey.

  I wanted to ignore him, so I took a few steps before he whistled loudly to get my attention. Oh, we have a real winner here, ladies.

  “Hey, I opened the door. You going to say thank you?”

  I reeled around, my fists clenching.

  “Thanks, but I’m not a fan of cocktail weenies,” I retorted with a saccharine smile. Yeah, it was a lame comeback, but a wittier response would’ve left his pea-sized brain confused for hours. Plus, there wasn’t any time to put him in his place when my stomach was making angry ‘feed me’ noises.

  Annoyed, I picked up a tray from the pile and stood in line, thinking about the douchelord at the door. I’d never had a problem attracting guys. I wasn’t a supermodel by any means, but I’d gotten compliments here and there on my long blond hair, green eyes, and curves. It wasn’t like I didn’t accept dates, and I’d amped-up my flirting game in the hopes I’d click with someone like I had with Bash. Unfortunately, my heart found fault in every guy I went out with.

  The truth of the matter was, I’d been lovesick for three years over a guy who’d never return my feelings. I’d never be able to find out what his lips tasted like, or how his muscles felt under my hands. It would always be an unrequited lust for an old friend who’d never come to fruition.

  Because Bash—you know, the guy I couldn’t get over? He was gay.

  Three

  SWIPING MY MEAL CARD AT the register, I searched the room and spotted Evie waving me over from a small table near the window. Precariously balancing my tray with one hand while I held my water bottle in the other, I waved back. Weaving around busy tables, I made it to Evie as I witnessed the Douchelord and his friends chasing after a group of girls. The girls laughed nervously, trying their best to escape their idiotic clutches. I plopped into the empty seat across from her and blew the hair out of my face.

  “I swear some men were conceived through anal,�
�� I griped. “There’s no way being that much of an asshole is natural.” Pointing toward the entrance, I quickly filled her in on the idiot at the door. She cracked up, her bubbly laughs contagious enough that I soon joined in.

  Glancing around the cafeteria, my brow lifted at the sheer number of men who were staring at her in a daze. It was ridiculously unfair for someone who had guys’ attention at every turn to not care about it. Evie was convinced that the only reason guys here found her attractive was because of her British accent.

  Yeah, okay.

  My best friend was gorgeous, and it had nothing to do with the way she spoke. She was a dance major and had the bullet body to prove it. She had glossy chestnut hair down to her waist, and her large hazel eyes were accentuated by thick, dark lashes. Combine that with flawless olive skin and a megawatt smile and she was the perfect package, all wrapped up in a Union Jack bow.

  “They’re staring again, Evie.”

  “Rubbish.”

  She chewed obliviously as we both glanced out the window at two birds fighting over a food wrapper. I huffed, shoving my hand into my bag of chips. “You’re right, they aren’t staring at you; they’re staring at your knife and fork—because seriously, who cuts their French fries? That’s how sociopaths turn into serial killers.”

  She plucked the fry from her fork and threw it at me, only to miss and hit the poor kid behind me.

  “I eat like a lady, thank you very much,” she murmured, ducking slightly to avoid the fry victim’s gaze. “I’m sure sociopaths would use way more ketchup than this, too.”

  I lost my appetite as she stabbed another fry into the pile of ketchup still left on her plate.

  After a few more minutes of listening to her various explanations about what was socially acceptable for sociopaths to do with their food—including a horrible pun about ‘cereal killers’—she finally had enough and changed the subject to her next class.

  “I cannot believe you encouraged me to take hip hop. I’m a bloody mess in there. I was trained in ballet, for God’s sake!” Evie’s face was wrought with panic, her voice gaining octaves as she spoke.