No big teaser today...just, well, THE ENTIRE first chapter of Confessions of an Undercover Girlfriend! Woohoo!
Confessions of a Virgin Sex Columnist! ended at quite an intense moment... I know, I know, some of you wanted to kill me for that! Luckily, you couldn't :) You needed me alive to figure out how that scene (and Skye and Ollie's entire story) ends. So here's a little sneak peek to hopefully get you super excited for the new book and alleviate any lingering author-throttling urges!
Confessions of an Undercover Girlfriend! is available for pre-order now, so feel free to visit one of these links when you get to the end of the first chapter :)
Confessions of an Undercover Girlfriend! -- First Chapter Preview :)
Have you ever been in a car crash? I never have…well, that's a lie. I ran into a mailbox once, but that's not what I'm talking about. I mean, a real, out of nowhere crash? The kind where you're smooth sailing, almost home, and then bam! Headlights, honking horns, and suddenly you're flipped upside down with no idea how you got there? Yeah, I've never experienced that, but I sort of feel like I am right now…
I had sex with Oliver McDonough.
Okay, let me repeat that because I still don't believe it. I, Skylar Quinn, awkward book nerd extraordinaire, had sex with Oliver McDonough!
Oliver Freaking McDonough!
Pretty sure I hear a choir singing somewhere…yup! There it is, the rising vibrato of a victory chorus as fireworks explode behind my eyes, and dolphins leap across a glorious rising sun. Any minute now, angels are going to sink down from the heavens, adding their voices to the hallelujah celebration happening inside my head. I'm about one step away from farting rainbows. I'm not even joking.
Because not only did I have sex with Oliver McDonough—more than once I might add—Oliver McDonough said he loved me.
And even though I'm waking up wrapped in his arms, part of me still can't quite believe it. I mean, through my blurry eyes, I see the soft hazy glow of the morning sun flittering through the windows. I feel the luxuriously smooth caress of his skin touching mine. I can't help but notice how our bodies mold perfectly together, the way I always imagined they would. And I don’t even need to look up to picture Ollie's perfectly chiseled face relaxed with sleep. In fact, I won't look up. I'm too afraid to move. Too afraid that somehow this is all a dream and any slight adjustment will bring reality crashing down around me. I mean, last night couldn't have been real, right? Is it actually possible that Oliver McDonough loves me? Did that really happen? Or am I just in the middle of some elaborate hallucination concocted by my often uncontrollable, always over-imaginative mind?
Come on. We both know that's a highly plausible explanation.
I allow a small smile to pass over my lips as I snuggle just a little closer to the hard, muscular body I'm using as my pillow. Ollie sighs contentedly, tugging me closer and wrapping his arm around my torso. His fingers dig into my hip, scratching just slightly where the calluses on his palm brush against my bare skin, eliciting a flashback to other places those confident hands roamed only hours ago.
No, it wasn't a dream.
All of it.
And even though it was only yesterday, for some reason it feels like an eternity ago that I was leaving this apartment to go to a New Year's Eve party with my boyfriend Patrick and my best friend Bridge. I never knew so much could happen in one twenty-four-hour period. I mean, I left one party fully intending to finally lose my V-card to my amazingly sweet boyfriend but broke up with him instead. Then I walked home in the snow for almost an hour—my feet are still cold, by the way—and thought nothing but my bed would be waiting. Then I opened the door to candles and rose petals and a fully passed out Ollie on the couch. I may or may not have thrown a glass of ice water on his face—not important. We can forget that part, right? Because what happened next was the most unbelievable thing of all. Ollie said he loved me. That he's loved me ever since I walked out of his door on that night four years ago when we shared a secret kiss in his bedroom, that night that changed everything. And you know what? I actually got the nerve (shocking, I know) to tell him I loved him too.
And then, well, you know what happened.
I had sex with Oliver Freaking McDonough.
Have I emphasized that point enough?
"What are you thinking?" a deep voice whispers.
I glance up, finding Ollie's brilliant turquoise eyes watching me curiously, twinkling just slightly with amusement.
That I just had sex with Oliver McDonough.
But well, being Oliver McDonough, I'm pretty sure he's well aware of that fact—and might actually be freaked out that I keep referring to him by his full name. So I go with a timeworn classic, murmuring, "Nothing."
Heat travels to my cheeks, a blush I can’t fight as I continue to stare into his deliciously mesmerizing crystal eyes, still amazed that the twinkle deep in those irises is sparkling for me.
Ollie scrunches his brows, looking at me wryly. "You know, Skye, that might have worked with other guys you've dated, but I've known you long enough to know there's always something going on inside your head. Spill."
I open my mouth but pause. Because really, you'd think that there could be no downside to the events of last night. And really, there aren't. Except…well…now I'm no longer a virgin sex columnist. Yay…not. Because I had thought that being a sex columnist with an actual sex life would be a good thing, but now, I'm not so sure. The usual wave of panic is starting to set in.
Try to contain your surprise.
But let me explain. I mean, having Ollie in the next room for a nice round of research whenever I'm so inclined? Hell yes, sign me up. But when I think about the actual writing of the columns and reading of the columns, my mouth starts getting dry. My palms grow a little clammy. My throat constricts. Because before it was sort of like a fun exercise in fiction, but now I won't be playing pretend anymore—all the graphic details will be my graphic details. All the comments I get from readers won't be about this made-up person in my mind, they'll be about me—the good, the bad, and the ugly. And, oh yeah, Ollie reads my column. And, crap, so does Bridge. And possibly Patrick. And definitely Blythe. And—oh good lord, what have I gotten myself into?
One breath in. One breath out.
Enjoy this moment.
And I do, snuggling a little closer to Ollie, pushing the panic off to just revel in this magnificent morning a little bit longer. Here in Ollie's bedroom with the sun barely skimming the tops of the apartment buildings outside the window, the real world doesn’t exist. Not yet. At least, not for a little while.
Ollie squeezes his arm around me tighter, regaining my attention. "I could always guess…" he murmurs playfully.
"True," I say, letting the word drag for just a moment. And then I grin. "But what if you guess something that's not on my mind, and then you put it there, and it's all your fault when I fall into hysterics?"
And let's be real, hysterics are nothing new for me, as Ollie is well aware.
He frowns. "Good point."
I curve further into his chest, snuggling greedily, closing my eyes again, giving into the laziness still lingering in my body. "Let's just lie here in peace while we still can, okay?"
But before Ollie can answer, a knock shatters the silence of the morning. Someone's at the door. Someone—
Anxiety washes over me. Panic pushes through the wall I'd put up, flooding my system. I can't hold it back any longer. The switch has flipped. And to be honest, I'm sort of surprised I've made it this long.
"Oh my god." I sit up, hugging the sheet to my chest, searching for something to throw over my shoulders.
Ollie watches me with a grin. "Here we go…"
But I'm ignoring him. I've already moved on to the rambling portion of the morning. "Oh my god, what if that's Bridge? What if she forgot her keys and needs me to open the door? What will she think about the roses, and oh crap, the candles everywhere? What are we going to tell her? Oh my god, she's going to freak-out."
"She's going to freak-out?" he mutters. And then he opens the drawer next to his bed, handing me a T-shirt. I shrug it on and stand. But then—
"I can't wear this," I shriek, ripping it off. "She'll know it's yours and then she'll ask why I'm wearing it and then she'll see the flowers and the candles. You, you have to go out and clean them up now. You put them there."
"I'm glad to see we're going to handle this like adults," he teases, pulling the shirt he gave me over his torso instead.
"You're right… you're right," I mutter. Breathe, just breathe. "If I'm not calm, she'll know something's up."
"Would that be the worst thing in the world? We can't exactly hide from my sister, your best friend, forever."
He's right. I know he's right. But at the same time, I want to scream. Because it's too much, too fast, and I'm just not ready. I mean, I can barely even wrap my head around the fact that Oliver McDonough is even asking me this question. That Oliver McDonough and I are even having this conversation. That this is real! And the idea of having to tell Bridget McDonough that I slept with Oliver McDonough is making me feel faint, light-headed, just totally and completely overwhelmed.
"Of course not," I say quickly, words tumbling out before my brain even has time to process. "It's just, we don’t even know what we are yet. And as soon as we tell Bridge, she'll either want us to break up or get married, no in-betweens. We're not ready for that."
He clicks his tongue, thinking, and then gives in. "You're right," he says with a sigh. And then the knock sounds again, harder this time. He grabs me by the shoulders, staring at me, forcing me to calm down. "You go put on some of your own clothes. I'll go clean the living room. And then I'll open the door. You stay in your room until you hear us talking and pretend to just be waking up. Deal?"
He holds out his hand, and I shake it, already feeling better now that we have a plan. "Deal."
And then we split. I race to my room, trying to slow down the heart palpitations while I pull on sweatpants and a baggy T-shirt—nothing sexy or romantic in the slightest. And then I wait by my door, listening as the knock comes again. Ollie's feet shuffle over the wood floor, racing back and forth until finally, I hear the door open.
I wait for Bridget's voice.
Only it never comes.
"Who the hell are you?" Ollie snaps.
My heart stops.
I rip open my bedroom door and jump into the living room, racing for the door. Only halfway there, I see who's waiting on the other side of the threshold. I halt dead in my tracks.
This is the part where I feel hit by an eighteen-wheeler, totally caught by surprise, still reeling from the whiplash. Because I know who the hell it is. And really, it's the last person I ever expected to see.
"Hey, Skye," he says, shrugging with an awkward smile.
My mouth falls open, releasing one shocked word on its way down. "John?"
Yes, that's right.
My ex-boyfriend John.
The guy I dated for almost four years in college John.
The jerk who cheated on me even though we were saving ourselves for marriage John.
I want to strangle him. Of all the people to show up and ruin what's been the best morning of my life—I mean, can this really be happening?
"What are you doing here?" I say. Well, at least that’s what I try to say, but it comes out sounding more like a puff of air mixed with a grunt, totally incoherent.
"I think what Skye means," Ollie growls, "is what the hell are you doing here?"
Just by the tone of his voice, I know those gorgeous sapphire eyes of his are gleaming with a murderously icy glow. And yet, I can’t bring myself to do anything to ease the tension of the situation. I'm stuck. Struck dumb. Totally and completely frozen.
"Umm," John shrugs, glancing from me to Ollie and back to me. "I'm not really sure who you are or what you're doing here, but this is sort of between me and Skye."
"Well, I sort of live here, and this is sort of my front door, so I'm not going anywhere. And whatever you have to say to Skye, you can say to me too."
John turns to me with pleading eyes. And for the first time, glancing between the two of them, I realize what a little weasel he is. Bridge always told me I was too good for him, but I'm not sure I ever really believed it until right now, glancing between the guy from my past and the man I hope will be my future. I mean really, there's no comparison. Ollie is the tall high school quarterback. John is the short trumpet player on the sidelines. Ollie is all muscle and strength. John is all sniveling and scrawny. Ollie has rich brown hair and entrancing baby blues. John's a dirty blond with forgettable muddled brown irises. I left for college and decided to get over Ollie by dating a guy who was his exact opposite—someone I now realize was barely good enough to pass the time. But after last night, I know what real passion is. I know what real love is—at least, I think I do. And I know with 100 percent certainty that I never felt either of those things with John.
So why am I standing here like a mute fool making him believe he still has any sort of power over me?
Easy answer—I'm not.
Not anymore and not ever again.
Because Oliver McDonough loves me (cue the hallelujah chorus).
"Yeah," I spit, standing my ground. "Whatever you want to say, you can say it in front of Ollie. Or better yet, don't say anything at all. Because I don't want to hear it."
"Ollie?" John murmurs, face relaxing as the realization hits. "Bridget's brother."
And then he sighs, standing a little straighter, suddenly more confident. The unspoken words at the end of his sentence couldn't be more obvious—Bridget's brother, not a threat, not Skye's boyfriend, not anyone I need to be concerned with.
"Yeah," Ollie responds, and then he grabs my hand, entwines our fingers and pulls me closer into his side. "Bridget's brother and—"
But I'll never know the end of that sentence, because at the exact moment that Ollie grabs my hand, a tornado of red hair and black sequins storms into the apartment.
A furious Bridge.
"I'm sorry, have I traveled back in time to a year ago? What the hell are you doing here?"
Good lord, she and her brother are the same person.
Yet, a smile still spreads across my lips. Bridge in action is a glorious thing to behold. And I just know I'm about to get a show.
"Bridget," John mumbles, voice strained.
"Jonathan," she retorts.
"Umm, it’s actually just John."
Bridge shrugs, totally unconcerned. "Jonathan, John, they all mean the same thing—asshole."
He puts his hands in his pockets, squirming uncomfortably. "I really just came here to talk to Skye. If I could just come in for a minute."
Bridge doesn’t even need to speak. All she does is cross her arms and he shuts up, swallowing. "You know what, Jonathan? I'd love to let you in, really I would, but our apartment has this little thing called a no cheating douchebags policy, so..."
And then she literally slams the door in his face.
Just total badassery.
"Have a nice life!" Bridge shouts.
I sort of want to yell something too. I mean, she kind of stole my thunder a little there. But really, how do I follow that?
Ollie looks at his sister in awe. "I don't think I've ever loved you more."
And then the three of us sort of stand by the door, waiting. John's feet shuffle on the carpet outside, and I can just envision him lifting his hand to the door, wondering if he should knock. But he doesn’t have the guts. And I'm not at all surprised when we all hear him walk away.
"Well, now that that's taken care of…" Bridge trails off, turning around, grinning. I can't help but notice she's still in her New Year's outfit, makeup smudged just enough to let me know that the smile on her face isn't for nothing. There's a story just dying to roll off those lips, and I can't wait to hear it.
But just as I'm about to ask, her eyes drop to the spot where Ollie's hand is still holding mine.
Her brows scrunch.
Her lips purse.
Before I know what I'm doing, I snap my hand away, wrenching my fingers from his grip. Panic seizes me, lighting my every nerve on fire yet freezing me at the same time. Deep in my chest, my heart races, pounding so loudly I'd be amazed if she couldn't hear it. My eyes, I know, are as wide as saucers when her bright green gaze slowly lands on mine.
In that instant, I know she knows.
She has to.