Publication date: August 11th 2013
Genres: Contemporary, New Adult, Romance
Purchase: Amazon | Kobo | Barnes and Noble | iTunes
Synopsis:
Fate brings them togetherFame & lies keep them apart
One truth remains…
She’s become the Paly High girl with the most tragic story…
At 17, Tally Landon just wants to graduate and leave for New York to pursue ballet. Her best friend Marla convinces her to attend one last party—a college party—where she can be among strangers and evade the whisperings about her heartbreaking loss of her twin that follows her everywhere she goes. She meets Lincoln Presley, Stanford’s famous baseball wonder and has a little fun at his expense—when she lies about her age and who she really is—intent on being someone else for the night and escaping her tragic story.
His only focus is baseball, but he can’t forget the girl he saved on Valentine’s Day…
At 22, Lincoln Presley’s star is on the rise—about to finish at Stanford and expected to be taken early in Major League Baseball’s upcoming draft—his cousin’s party serves as a welcome distraction. But then, he sees the girl from Valentine’s Day that he saved from that horrific car accident and can’t quite hide his disappointment when she appears to look right through him and not remember him at all. He vows to learn her name at least before he leaves. What’s the harm in getting to know this girl? What’s the worst that can happen?
They share this incredible connection, but fate soon tests these star-crossed lovers in all kinds of ways…
And yet, despite the lies being told to protect the other, and the trappings of fame that continually separate them, and in lieu of the deception by those they’ve come to trust the most; one truth remains.
This much is true.
Another
interested guy tops off my glass with more of the red bubbling punch.
This one is definitely older with a striking resemblance to the
iconic said host of this party.
In need
of a distraction from Marla’s love situation, I profusely thank
this latest interested guy for the top-off. I’m overzealous. I
check myself and strive for nonchalance with him, strive for the
sophistication bestowed upon me by my dead sister’s designer
clothes, Marla’s application of flawless make-up, and the general
personification of Holly’s lively personality I’ve managed to
perfect over the years. We make idle chatter about the holidays, the
break from school, the lame red punch, and the limited food
offerings—the opened chip bags haphazardly strewn about. I attempt
to keep a keen eye on Marla, who has returned from upstairs, and now
gyrates to some love song with the same more-than-casually-interested
guy from before, while Charlie watches her like a self-appointed
chaperon intent on saving her virtue.
The
effects of spiked punch begin to descend upon me. I again glance over
at covetous actions of Charlie Masterson, who is now having a heated
discussion with my best friend on the other side of the room,
gesturing this way and that towards the more-than-casually-interested
first guy, who gyrates on the dance floor by himself.
I
start
towards
Marla,
but
she
waves
me
off.
Unsure
of
what
I
should
be
doing,
I
find
myself
in
the
middle
of
the
dance
floor.
Alone.
To
hide
my
embarrassment
at
being
caught
up
alone
in
the
middle
of
the
room,
I
pretend
to
take
an
ever-increasing
interest
in
the
sparkling
lights
that
someone
has
meticulously
trailed
along
the
ceiling’s
edge.
A
little
glazed
now,
the
lights
shimmer
at
me;
I
swill
my
drink
in
salutation.
The
interested
guy
from
earlier
stands
in
front
of
me
again.
Tall.
Dark.
Handsome.
He
is
the
cliché
for
sex
on
a
stick,
but
he’s
kept
me
company
during
the
past
half-hour.
I
brazenly
take
in
this
male-model
look
he
has
going
on
with
his
dark-brown
wavy
hair
and
his
devastating,
too-white
smile
and
his
tall
lean
body.
Sure.
Okay.
Bring
it
on.
“I’m
Linc,” he says during a respite from the loud music.
“As in
President Abraham—”
“Not
funny.” He sighs and shakes his head side-to-side and gets this
disconcerted look. “Lincoln Presley.”
“Elvis
is in the building then,” I deadpan.
He looks
taken aback now. “What did you say?”
“I
said…”
I
lose
my
train
of
thought
because
he
is
stunning—so
good-looking,
in
fact—that
these
warning
bells
seem
to
go
off
in
my
head.
I
shake
it
to
try
to
shut
them
off.
“Never
mind.”
His
look
is
weirding
me
out
as
if
I
know
him
from
somewhere.
“You
remember,”
I
say
softly.
“Elvis?”
“I
remember,”
he
says
slowly
and
gets
this
expectant
look.
“Do
you
remember?”
I’m
just staring at him open-mouthed. “No. My mom loved him when she
was a teenager. I like a few of his songs…” My voice trails off
because he looks disappointed by my answer, and I’m not sure why.
“Don’t
you remember?” he asks again.
“Remember
what?” I look at him blankly and then break his gaze and start
toward the punch bowl for a fifth round.
He takes
the glass from my hand and then hands me bottled water. “Drink
this. That stuff has Everclear in it. You shouldn’t have any more
of that unless you’re going for anesthetization.”
“Gallant.
How noble of you,” I say with as much sarcasm as I can. Then I
shake off his concerned hand on my arm, uncap the bottled water, and
drink it down. “Happy now?”
He
nods
slowly
and
eventually
smiles
and
then
proceeds
to
take
me
in
from
head-to-toe
in
one
long,
practiced,
seductive
move.
Smooth.
I
laugh
because
he’s
so
blatant
about
his
interest
in
me
now.
“How
are you?” he asks when the music stops playing for a few welcome
seconds.
Odd.
An odd
thing to ask of a stranger.
“I’m
fine.”
I
give
him
a
bewildered
what-the-hell-are-you-asking-me-that-for?
look.
He
leans
in.
“Who
are
you?”
“Oh.”
I half-smile. “Holly,” I say with an airy wave of my right hand.
The lie comes so easily to my lips that I surprise myself with the
ease in which I tell it.
It is
true, when you want to, you can be someone else. Seuss-like.
“Let’s
dance,
Holly.”
I don’t
know why I say yes to him. I don’t dance at parties. I save that
for my training, usually, but there’s something about him that has
me gyrating out on the dance floor, getting bolder with every song
they play. All kinds of things are being communicated between us, the
least of which is this overriding uninhibited sexual attraction for
one another.
We
both
know
where
this
is
going.
Were we describing me? Or my fiction? Sorry. I drink too much...coffee, not enough water.
I swear too much for God and my mother, and I slip these into my fiction. Sorry.
I'm impatient, a perfectionist, a wordsmith, a dreamer, which ends up being good and bad. I'm a workaholic; ask my fam-dam-ily.
I've written four novels in as many years: Seeing Julia, Not To Us, When I See You, and my latest release This Much Is True.
If you love angsty, unpredictable love stories, I'm yours. ♥
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