Undecided
Authors: Julianna Keyes
undecided
by Julianna Keyes
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places,
and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used
fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or
dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2016 by Julianna Keyes. All rights reserved,
including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any
means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the
Publisher at
[email protected]
.
Visit our website at
www.juliannakeyes.com
.
Cover design by Khoi Le
ISBN
978-0-9950507-0-9
First Edition April 2016
Nora
Kincaid has one goal for her second year of college: be invisible. Last year’s
all-party-no-study strategy resulted in three failed classes and two criminal
charges, and if she messes up again she’ll lose her scholarship. But there’s
one problem with her plan for invisibility, and his name is Crosbie Lucas:
infamous party king, general hellraiser…and her new roommate’s best friend.
Crosbie’s
reckless reputation and well-known sexcapades aren’t part of Nora’s studious
new strategy, but as she’s quickly learning, her new plan is also really
boring. When Crosbie’s unexpected gestures of friendship pull her head out of
her books long enough to see past his cocky veneer, she’s surprised to find a
flawed and funny guy beneath it all. The muscles don’t hurt, either.
But as Nora starts to fall for Crosbie,
the weight of one of last year’s bad decisions grows even heavier. Because
three failing grades and two misdemeanors are nothing compared to the one big
secret she’s hiding…
To be fair,
it’s really not my fault this time.
The
ad I answered looking for a “studious, responsible roommate” promised one in
return. And the location was perfect: a quiet, older building on one of the
many tree-lined streets that edge the perimeter of the prestigious Burnham
College, preferred living quarters of retired folks. No temptation here.
It’s the
words “studious” and “responsible” that have me dressed in a pair of creased
gray slacks, a white button-up shirt, and a prim black cardigan when I knock on
the door of 203 Fir Street. I’ve even tied my unruly dark hair into some
semblance of a respectable bun. And it is precisely this outfit that makes me cringe
when the door is opened not by my socks-and-sandals, starch-collared future
roommate, but Crosbie Lucas, uber-jock and renowned campus party boy.
I step
back. “I think I have the wrong address.”
His brown
eyes rake me over. “Definitely.”
Oh God. Only
I could knock on the door of the wrong house and find Crosbie Lucas on the
other side. He’s got a stocky build, just a few inches taller than me, but
broad enough you can picture him having to turn sideways to fit through the
door. With dark auburn hair and a smattering of freckles he’s not textbook hot,
but everyone on campus knows he’s never had trouble finding a date.
Having
gone to more than my share of frat parties last year, I’ve seen him in action.
Hell, if you’ve been anywhere in the vicinity of Burnham College in the past
twelve months, you’ve seen Crosbie Lucas. He’s the life of every party: loud
and obnoxious, making out in corners, carting in keg after keg, pouring drink
after drink. He’s the consummate party boy, and though I’d done my very best to
be his female equivalent last year, it hadn’t exactly worked out for me. Hence
the cardigan.
I’d
printed out the email supplying the address, and now I tug it out of my purse
and unfold it, looking up at Crosbie suspiciously when the address in the email
matches the address beside the door. “This is the right place.”
He
scratches his chin. “Is it? Hmm.”
My eyes
narrow. “Do you actually live here?” Now that I think about it, I’m pretty sure
Crosbie lives in a frat house and always will.
“Technically?
I—”
A voice
from inside interrupts. “Cros, what are you—? Oh, shit. Ignore him. Ignore him.
Please don’t leave!” Then things get a million times worse, because even as I
hear the thud of socked feet running down hardwood stairs, I recognize the voice
of Kellan McVey, Crosbie’s best friend, campus stud, and my one-time drunken
closet hookup.
Oh
fuckity fuck.
“Hey, hi,
hey!” Kellan skids across the floor before coming to a halt in front of me. His
wool socks are bunched around his calves beneath a pair of shiny black soccer
shorts and a matching T-shirt. His dark hair curls around his ears and sticks
out adorably, his blue eyes sincere and pleading as they meet mine, willing me
not to run away.
“I—” I
begin, feeling my face heat.
“Ignore
him, please, I’m so sorry. You’re Nora, right? Nora Kincaid? I’m Kellan. We’ve
been emailing.”
He
extends a hand and I shake it automatically, even as his expression remains
wholly pleasant, not a trace of recognition dawning on his handsome features.
He has no idea who I am. Sure, I was wearing a shiny red corset and a leather
mini-skirt during our…interlude at the Alpha Sigma Phi frat party last spring,
but I’m wearing a cardigan now, not a
mask
.
He just
doesn’t remember me.
I
retrieve my hand, even as my fingers attempt to linger in his for as long as
they can. “You said your name was Matthew in the email.” I try not to sound
accusatory, even though it’s most definitely an accusation. If I’d known I’d
exchanged half a dozen “I do laundry on Tuesdays—what’s your policy on
recycling?” emails with Kellan McVey, I never would have shown up today. I’d
never have responded to “Studious Homebody Looking for Same” in the first
place.
“It’s my
middle name,” he says, managing to look genuinely apologetic. Although anyone
would look sweet standing next to Crosbie, who folds his beefy arms across his
even beefier chest and smirks gleefully as he watches the awkward exchange. But
Kellan doesn’t need to put on a puppy dog stare to look guilty and forgivable,
because he’s just…so…handsome.
Gah. No.
Forget about handsome. I’m looking for serious. Responsible.
Didn’t-have-sex-with-and-then-forget-me. Hell, he said
he
was looking
for most of those things. But even as I resent him for lying, I understand why
he did it. If he’d put out an ad saying “Kellan McVey looking for a roommate”
he’d have gotten a million replies. An ad that includes the line “strict
curfew, very few guests, loves homework!” probably only enticed…me.
“Crosbie
doesn’t live here,” he says, elbowing his friend in the ribs. “He was helping
me move some furniture, and now he’s leaving. He probably won’t even ever come
back.”
“Actually,
I thought I’d stay and help with the interview,” Crosbie says.
“Er, no.” This year is about making good
decisions, and faced with my first challenge, I am not about to participate in
an “interview” with Burnham College’s two resident manwhores. Despite my last
academic transcript and recent police record, I
do
have a brain and it
does recognize a bad idea when one is presented. Last year I’d done my best to
squash my Nora Bora high school persona, but this year she is back and here to
stay. Or at least graduate and not get arrested again.
“Get
lost,” Kellan orders, shoving Crosbie toward the door. I shuffle to the side as
Crosbie tumbles out, laughing. He smells like sweat and lemon-scented laundry
detergent, and when he bangs into my shoulder he grabs my hip to steady me, his
big fingers digging in just a little too hard before letting go.
“Sorry,”
he says, making a face at his friend. “His fault. You should probably
reconsider living here. He’s an asshole.”
I don’t
know what to say so I say nothing. Then Crosbie’s gone and it’s just Kellan and
I.
“Sorry about that,” he says. “Do you want to
come in? Please come in.”
I should
leave. He lied to me, he has a stupid friend, and he doesn’t remember that we
had sex. If I’d been having any doubts about the wisdom of that hookup, they
were cemented forty-five minutes later when I spotted him getting a very public
blowjob from a very willing blonde.
The
mortification of that moment should be enough to send me running. And I swear I
would, if only I hadn’t met with four other potential roommates yesterday and
failed to click with any of them. And if only I didn’t need to move out of my
cramped room in summer residence by the end of the week.
“Sure,” I
say.
It’s a
nice, predictable apartment, arranged in the same style as all the others in
the neighborhood. The front door opens to a tiny foyer and set of stairs
leading up to the living area. The main space features an open kitchen with a
small breakfast bar, and one wall is taken up with three doors—two bedrooms and
one bathroom, according to Kellan’s ad.
It’s
bright and airy, with the original hardwood floors and large windows. There are
no special upgrades, just standard-issue appliances and white paint on the
walls, and it’s in the process of being furnished as Matthew—Kellan—had
explained in his emails. In an effort to keep him away from the party crowd,
his parents agreed to pay for this place on the condition he keeps his grades
up, but they’re not paying for anything else, so he’s getting a roommate to
cover his living expenses. Before today I’d assumed that “Matthew’s” biggest
expense would be cat food and brand new board games. Now…not so much.
“Have a
seat,” Kellan says, gesturing to the tiny wooden table that, for the moment, is
sitting in no-man’s land in the space between the front door, living room, and
kitchen. More of a hallway, really. Or, in Kellan and Crosbie’s book, a dining
room.
I sit
stiffly, crossing my legs then uncrossing them and crossing at the ankles. I
tug at my collar, certain my shirt is trying to strangle me. The last time I
wore it was during my party girl phase when I’d paired it with a lacy magenta
bra and four undone buttons. Today, however, I had to wear a sports bra just to
get it to button up over my boobs. A petite frame and a D-cup does not make
getting dressed easy.
“Want a
drink or anything?” Kellan asks. He waits for me to shake my head before
sitting down and resting his arms on the table. He smiles shyly, his teeth
white and even, mouth quirking up slightly more on one side than the other to
reveal the dimple in his left cheek. Yes, I know Kellan McVey has a dimple in
his left cheek. Everyone does. Just like they know he benches 280 and runs a
five-minute mile and came in third in last year’s national track meet and is in
the second year of a four-year sociology degree. He’s basically Burnham’s
resident celebrity, and here I am, in his living room. Dining room.
Our
dining room.
No. I
can’t even consider this. It’s an exercise in failure, and I have had enough
failure in this past year to last me a lifetime. In fact, I won’t even have a
life or a future if I repeat last year’s poor performance, hence the commitment
to my new prim and proper lifestyle. Nora Bora 2.0. Emphasis on the bore.
I force
myself to return the smile, then study my plain fingernails, trying to figure
out what, exactly, to say in this situation. “You said—” I begin, at the same
moment Kellan says, “I know I—”
We both
break off, then laugh awkwardly. “You first,” he says.
“Your ad
said you were studious and responsible,” I say, hating how lame I sound. “I
didn’t really picture, you know…you.”
He
winces. “I know. I’m sorry. But it’s one hundred percent true. At least, it’s
going to be. Last year things got a little carried away, I had too much fun,
and it cost me. Not just my grades, but nationals. I should have won and—” He
interrupts himself with the shake of his head. “That’s not important. The point
is, this year is going to be a fresh start. I moved out of the frat house and I
want to live with someone who wants the same things. Feel free to party your
ass off wherever you want—just so long as it’s not here.” He laughs a little
then, and I realize it’s the idea of me partying that he finds amusing.
Ha ha, Kellan, it’s a freaking cardigan, not a
chastity belt.
“Sorry,”
he says, reading the irritation on my face. “I, uh… I just thought it would
make things easier for me and my roommate if there was no…temptation. Like, you
know. To complicate things.”
I try not
to let my jaw drop. Did he just call me ugly? Or at the very least,
un-tempting?
“I mean—”
He cringes and runs a hand through his hair. “Shit. I’m so bad at this. Just
listen to me. I mean, I asked for someone studious and responsible so we could
keep each other on the straight and narrow, you know? If you’re not bringing
people here to party, and I’m not bringing people over, then we’ll just…study,
right? And, I don’t know, watch the news and…read. Ugh.” His head falls back.
“I’m such an idiot. I’m sorry, Nora, this must sound as appealing as prison.
Basically I emailed with like, half a dozen people, and you were the only one
who sounded any good at all. Like, normal and smart, with a sense of humor. And
a strong stance on recycling.”
I smile
reluctantly and he looks relieved.
“Come
on,” he says, standing. “Let me give you the grand tour so I can try to keep my
foot out of my mouth.”
I stand
too, then neither one of us moves.
“Well,”
he says, clearing his throat. “This is the dining room.”
I nod and
try not to laugh. This whole thing is so stupid and weird. I’m not going to be
roommates with Kellan McVey. Not only is he the antithesis of everything my
ideal new roommate is supposed to be, we’ve had sex.
And he
doesn’t
remember
it.
“This is
the living room,” he continues, gesturing behind him. Because we’re pretty much
already standing in it, neither of us moves, I just peer over his shoulder.
There’s a wooden entertainment unit set up on one wall with an enormous flat
screen TV positioned in the middle.
“Full
cable,” Kellan adds when I don’t react. “Including HBO.”
I nod.
“Um…” He
scratches his shoulder and points behind me. “That’s the kitchen. I know how to
cook and I clean up, too. My mother was a housekeeper, and the last thing she
wanted to do when she got home was clean up after four boys, so I know how to
wash a dish and take out the trash. That whole bit was true in the email. I
wasn’t just trying to lure you here.”
“That was
a big part of your appeal.”
He
smiles, and there’s the dimple again.
“Hand to God, I’m tidy. Let me show you
the rooms.” He heads for the door closest to the kitchen. “They’re the same
size, same layout. I already put my stuff in this one, but if you’d rather be
in here, just say so and I’ll move over. Honestly, I think Crosbie just didn’t
want to carry the mattress another three feet.”
