That’s me––Tingly Simmons––athlete, foreign-language major, professor lover, obsessed idiot girl. Definitely not a frat rat or sorority slut. I’ve never even played beer pong.
I ditched the vapid, soulless high-society life of Los Angeles for the promise of something more meaningful in rural Ohio. Accepting a track scholarship for college, I tried running my way to happiness, but instead I ended up sleeping with my French professor and falling head over heels for him.
When that relationship fell apart, so did I.
Barely hanging on by a thread and using the most absurd coping skills, I was determined to hide behind my past indiscretions. That was, until I met Tiberius Jones. Never in my wildest dreams did I think I’d learn the truth about love from a six-foot-five basketball player.
He stood there patiently, grinning as he waited for me to move through the doorway or answer him, and pinned me with his unusual blue eyes, so pale in his handsome face against his deep brown skin. His gaze seared right through me, just like it had earlier, before dinner in the courtyard.Completely unnerved, I didn’t respond. His size was daunting, his large frame loomed over the threshold, and I was struck speechless. Uncertain whether it was his obvious good looks that threw me, or the overtly friendly wide grin on display, I simply stood there for a moment, trying to figure out his angle.
Oh God, was my name being passed around—again?
Self-disgust consumed me, spurring me to action. “Um, yeah. I am,” I answered, averting my gaze as I shifted my backpack up on my shoulder and stomped through the doorway.
I turned ever so slightly to witness him ducking to fit through the doorframe. It was crazy how insanely tall this guy was. Obviously, he was a basketball player, probably with a huge ego to boot.
I managed to mutter, “Thanks,” as I swept past him, and the door clanged shut behind us.
“Bad day?” he called after me.What was with him being all smiling and friendly? Was he for real, or was he trying to bait me? I couldn’t help my self-doubt; skepticism was woven so deeply into my personality, I questioned everyone’s motives.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Turning her focus on her sometimes wild-and-crazy creative side, it only took Rachel two decades to do exactly what she wanted to do—write a fiction novel. Now she spends way too many hours in local coffee shops plotting her ideas. Her tales may all come with a side of angst and naughtiness, but end lusciously.
Rachel lives around the corner from her childhood home in Pennsylvania with her family and two dogs. Her obsessions include running, coffee, icing-filled doughnuts, antiheroes, and mighty fine epilogues.
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