Stuck With You (First Kiss Hypothesis)

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Discover more of Entangled Teen Crush’s books… Announcing Trouble

  99% Faking It

  Love in the Friend Zone

  Tied Up in You

  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 © 2019 by Christina Mandelski. 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.

  Entangled Publishing, LLC

  2614 South Timberline Road

  Suite 105, PMB 159

  Fort Collins, CO 80525

  rights@entangledpublishing.com

  Crush is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.

  Edited by Heather Howland

  Cover design by Bree Archer

  Cover photography by Jacob Lund/Shutterstock

  ISBN 978-1-64063-855-6

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Edition September 2019

  Dear Reader,

  Thank you for supporting a small publisher! Entangled prides itself on bringing you the highest quality romance you’ve come to expect, and we couldn’t do it without your continued support. We love romance, and we hope this book leaves you with a smile on your face and joy in your heart.

  xoxo

  Liz Pelletier, Publisher

  To Jeanne, the best sister ever.

  Te Amo!

  Chapter One

  Caleb

  After twelve hours on the road, I’m almost where I need to be.

  I roll down the windows, and the damp air of the Texas coast washes over my face. The salt from the Gulf of Mexico invades my nose, and out there in the dark, I can hear it—waves crashing, welcoming me home.

  I left Florida this morning with a cooler of sandwiches Mom packed for me, a full tank of gas, and Mo, my trusty mutt-slash-wingman, by my side. In just under two weeks, I have to be back to report for practice at Florida Central University, where I got a full scholarship and a spot on the lacrosse team. It’s a pretty big honor.

  My parents are so excited to have four more years of cheering me on from the stands, even though it means I’m not going to their alma mater in Texas, UT Austin.

  The free money was a big part of that, too. This year they started a new branch of our family’s flooring store, which has been tough and expensive, and this will help. Everyone has to do their part. I’m on board with that.

  FCU has decent academics, too. I’m going to major in business. Dad says I can use the degree to take on more responsibility in the family company when my lacrosse career is done.

  Everything is falling into place.

  Things couldn’t be better.

  I shift in the driver’s seat. Thinking of the future makes me tense, and Mo seems to know it. He barks then looks from me to the open window, like he’s telling me to chill, son. We’re at the beach.

  “Okay, okay,” I say to him. “I know. Happy place.”

  I dig my free hand into Mo’s fur, scratching him behind the ear where he likes it best. My life has gotten so twisted up in the last six months that sometimes I don’t even know how I got here. It’s been like an out-of-body experience that I’ve just stood back and watched happen.

  Back in December, I was near the top of my class at Lockhart High School in central Texas. I was playing club hockey. I had friends I’d known since preschool. I’d gotten automatic acceptance into UT Austin based on my class ranking. I was gonna keep playing hockey there and had even gotten offered some scholarship money. Everything was set.

  That’s when my parents made the announcement.

  After last fall’s crazy hurricane season, my parents and the Dixons—the family who co-owns our business—had an opportunity to open a branch in Florida. The timing was right, and they were going to go for it. My parents would move and open the store.

  I would stay and finish out the hockey season and the school year. I could live with the Dixons. But I guess even then I was feeling unsure about the future, because I told Mom and Dad that I didn’t want to stay. I wanted to go to Florida, too.

  My parents argued with me. My friends thought I was nuts. My hockey coach was pissed. It was senior year—who leaves halfway through senior year?

  I played it off as Mr. Easygoing, always game for whatever, but there was no way I was going to let my family do this without me. My father already has high blood pressure from all the time and worry he puts into the store, and my mom is pretty tightly wound, too. They needed me.

  Me quitting hockey was the big stumbling block for my father, but I promised I’d walk on to another team at my new school. Football? Baseball? I’d played them all. He was shocked when I chose lacrosse. Turns out, I am freakishly good at the sport, and my play caught the eye of a bunch of scouts.

  That made it better for everyone. So, when I wasn’t killing it on the field, I helped my parents in the store, kept my grades up, partied a decent amount, and made some good friends.

  But by the time I walked across that stage in cap and gown a few weeks ago, nothing felt right. This plan for my life began to feel like wearing a too-small T-shirt, uncomfortable and tight and choking me. Even Mom and Dad noticed. Apparently, I was so distracted that they suggested I spend a week at the beach house before I had to be at Central. They said I could invite friends and party it up (their words, not mine), but in the end I decided to go alone.

  Dad hugged me as I was leaving. “Go get your head clear. I know this is a tough time of life. Lots of changes, but it’s gonna be just fine.”

  Clear my head. Convince myself that there’s nothing wrong with this plan. Besides, it’s not like I have any better ideas.

  As I drive down Bolivar Peninsula toward Crystal Beach listening to some Chance the Rapper (not country, contrary to the Texas-boy stereotype), I already feel better. By the end of this trip, I’ll be back to normal. Mr. Easygoing. That’s me.

  As we enter town, I slow to a crawl. The main drag is hopping tonight—it’s the middle of July, high season in this part of the world. I pass by the Big Store, the one real place to shop here, where you can buy anything, from paint to pizza. I need groceries, but even at this time of night the parking lot is jam packed, so I’ll come by tomorrow.

  I take the turn into Sandpiper Landing, the community where our house is located, and think back to a September over a decade ago. I was seven when most of Bolivar Peninsula was destroyed by Hurricane Ike, including our
beach house. It was an old house—just a fishing shack, basically, but we came all the time. We loved that place. When the storm surge came through, all that was left was a pile of sticks and one toilet.

  Lots of people decided to leave after that, but we (“we” being my parents and the Dixons, who co-own not only our business, but the beach house) rebuilt, stronger and better, and way nicer than it had been. So that’s where I’m headed, to CayCay’s Cove (don’t ask), our house at the end of Pelican Lane, right on the beach.

  I drive down the narrow road slowly to avoid the summer renters who are running around in the dark—kids with sparklers left over from the Fourth of July; dogs; adults who, I’m gonna guess, are over their beverage limit. There are probably lots of cute girls here.

  Girls. I snort to myself. Those have been a whole other story this year. One girl really caught my eye in Florida, and she put me in the friend zone faster than a sheep at a mutton busting. In the end it was okay. She’s with my buddy Eli, and I can live without a girlfriend.

  “Who needs the female of the species, anyway, amiright, Mo?”

  He lets out an uncertain yawp as if to say “speak for yourself.”

  I glare at him in all his multicolored-coat glory—brown, red, black, white. Dog’s a mess. “Traitor.”

  Eventually I make it to the concrete slab under the house and park next to a car I don’t recognize. Probably one of the neighbors borrowing the space. When I get out, Mo follows, and I grab my duffel from the bed of the truck. I hear a loud, throbbing bass line that sounds like it’s close. I hope whoever is having the dance party shuts it down soon. I’m tired.

  I climb the stairs—the house is now a good twenty feet above sea level on concrete-reinforced wooden stilts to make sure we’ll beat the next storm surge—and I notice the front porch light is on. Last renters must have forgotten to switch it off.

  The top of the stairs opens onto the wide wooden deck that surrounds three sides of the house and gives a clear view of the water. There’s a half moon shining on the whitecaps at high tide, breaking again and again like they always have, like they always will. I bend down to the big potted palm in the corner that Mom and Mrs. Dixon put there years ago. Stuck into the soil is the flusher from the original house’s surviving toilet. It’s a family tradition to “flush” it whenever we come back, for good luck, to ward off any future storms. In with the good, flush out the bad.

  Yeah, I know it’s a dumb superstition. Maybe because I play sports I still do it. I’d do anything to save this town from getting trashed again. And anyway, it can’t hurt, right?

  Just as I flush, the music gets louder, and I know it’s coming from the inside of the house.

  My jaw tightens. Dammit. So much for good luck. There are renters here, and I guess I’m sleeping in the truck with Mo as a pillow.

  Before I get lost, though, my dog needs some water. I can knock, find out when they’re leaving, and ask if they wouldn’t mind giving Mo something to drink. Maybe it’s one of our longtime renters who got their dates mixed up.

  I ring the doorbell, but the music is so loud now that I know they can’t hear it. I lift my fist to knock, but before I can, the door flies open. Three faces stare at me, and they all scream at the same time in a pitch so high I think they might have busted my eardrums.

  Mo barks, and instinctively I grab his collar.

  “Holy shit,” one of them says. “Caleb?”

  My ears still work, so that’s something, and even though I need another second to focus in the dark, I recognize the voice—an accent thick with attitude.

  Then my eyes adjust.

  I stagger back a little and huff out a breath. No way. “Catie?”

  I haven’t seen Catie Dixon since the Dixon/Gray family Christmas party right before my parents and I left for Florida. My memories are not super clear of that night—my friends spiked Mrs. Dixon’s cranberry 7 Up punch with vodka—but I do remember what Catie was wearing. Shorter than it needed to be and too low cut, and I remember wishing I didn’t think she was so damn pretty. Now she’s wearing a bikini top and cutoff shorts.

  “Caleb Gray, what the hell are you doing here?” she demands in that know-it-all tone that I’ve heard my whole life, and then I realize even if she looks good—and wow, she looks good—she’s still the same Catie I grew up with. Some people never change, and Catie is one of those people.

  Bossy. Nosy. Forever in my business. I was happy to leave her behind when I moved to Florida. Couldn’t get away from her fast enough.

  I have no idea why she’s here, but I know this—the whole taking-a-week-to-relax-and-clear-my-head situation? I can kiss that goodbye.

  There’s no relaxing with her around—never has been, never will be.

  Chapter Two

  Catie

  “You’re not supposed to be here,” he says in that slow, drawn-out, obnoxiously chill manner that is so him.

  I’m instantly annoyed, and yet I can’t help but notice two things. First, Caleb’s only gotten hotter since I last saw him six months ago, which is frustrating. Second, he looks tired, worn out, and I know instinctively that something is wrong. I want to ask what’s going on, but I resist the urge because then he might think I care, and I do not.

  I square my jaw and force my breathing to slow. I lift my chin, try to look taller—he’s so tall—and clear my throat. “Don’t tell me where I’m supposed to be, Caleb Gray,” I protest loudly. “I asked you a question.”

  I’m working hard to keep my voice solid and strong so that I don’t give away how completely freaked out I am at this moment. Not just because he’s Caleb, but because he does have a point.

  I am not supposed to be here.

  Mo is straining at his collar to get to me, and finally I can’t stop myself. I bend down on one knee. “Mo! I’ve missed you, boy!” Caleb lets him go, and all of a sudden, I’m covered in slobbery kisses. This dog always did prefer me to him.

  “I have the place for the week,” Caleb says flatly. “Alone.”

  I lift my eyes to him. Would it kill you to be nice to me? I mean, he’s nice to everyone else on the entire planet, almost to a fault. Why is it so hard with me? I’m not gonna fuss with him, though. I need to play it cool. My parents can’t know that their reliable daughter is a delinquent. I don’t do wrong things, and I know that coming here was wrong. They find out about this detour to the beach house and I am dead.

  My girls come back to life on either side of me. Ainsley St. Clair and Sunny Mathews, who both very much remember Caleb. He’s a hard person to forget.

  “How’s Florida, Caleb?” Ainsley asks on my right. Unlike me, she’s done lots of wrong things and doesn’t care as much about getting caught. Also, she’d throw herself in front of a semi truck for me. Sunny is silent on my left. She’s my oldest friend and the only person on earth who knows about the raging crush I had on Caleb for way too long, though she has promised to take that particular information to the grave.

  These are my Ride-or-Die girls.

  Caleb doesn’t answer Ainsley. He pulls his phone out of his back pocket without a word and moves his thumb as if to dial.

  Oh no. No, no, no.

  “Wait, wait, Caleb!” I sputter in my panicked state. “What are you doing?” I reach out and grab the bottom of his T-shirt and drag him inside. He’s still got the phone in his hand until I see my chance and snatch it away.

  He puts his hands on his remarkably trim waist.

  “Cate…give me my phone.”

  He hasn’t lost that smooth drawl, but his words ignite a slow burn of anger inside of me. He’s the only one who ever calls me “Cate,” and he does not have my permission to do so—not anymore. I’m not stupid, though—I have to try to be nice to him right now, and I cannot let him have this phone.

  “Caleb.” I swallow hard and make my voice calm while I’m racking my brain for an excuse—any valid reason for me to be here. “Wait. Let me explain.”

  Aha. A lightbulb flicks on in my b
rain. Well, that’s brilliant.

  “You’re right,” I say, keeping my voice level, feeling much better already. “We are not supposed to be here. Mom thinks that we’re at Sunny’s lake house with her family.” I hold up a hand and purse my lips. “But they had a sewage backup problem and couldn’t go at the last minute, so we came here instead, and I didn’t know you were gonna be here, so you gotta help me out, Caleb…” My voice is going higher and higher, and I’m talking faster and faster as he tries to reach around my back to get his phone.

  “Gimme the phone, Cate.”

  I keep angling myself so he can’t quite reach it, but he’s still trying, and his long arms are circling me, and I hate myself for noticing how his muscles have exploded. Is this what lacrosse does to a body? I manage to cut away from him, running to the other side of the dining table. I squeeze my eyes closed and refocus.

  “Sewage, Caleb, sewage!” I shout.

  He frowns and walks toward me. “Give me the phone.” He’s still not acting angry. Cool as cucumber. Just slightly annoyed. I hate that.

  “Caleb!” I’m desperate. “Do you hear me? There was poop in their living room!” This is a lie, and I’m bad at lying, but I can’t see how else to get out of this.

  Finally, he backs off, hands low on that waist again. Swagger. He’s got it. Also, he’s good at smolder, and that’s the reason most of the girls at our high school practically had a memorial service for him when he moved away.

  Not me, of course. I glare at him across the table. Yes, I’ve always had an unfortunate and totally involuntary response to him, but that doesn’t matter. He doesn’t care about me, and he’s spent a long time proving it. Like when he asked Ginny MacIntosh to the Homecoming Dance two years ago and she said yes—and I had heard from my sources that she was also dating a first baseman from Round Rock High. Even though our friendship had definitely soured by then, I felt it was my duty as a lifelong friend to let Caleb know. So I told him, in between class periods while he was at his locker, and he snapped at me. At me!

  “Mind your own business, Cate,” were the actual words he used, and then he walked away.