He Kissed Me First (Kiss & Make Up Book 2) Read online

  He Kissed Me First

  Kiss and Make Up Series #2

  Sara H Ney

  Copyright © 2014 Sara Hassinger Ney

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by anyz means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author or publisher. For special requests, write to the author, subject “Attention: Permissions,” at this email address: [email protected]

  Ebook formatting by www.ebooklaunch.com

  This book is dedicated to the family and friends who understand my need to write (Abby S, Kirstin K, Doug, and Kari...) and who encourage me to do so. Many thanks to Joanne Kucinskas for being a fan, and an editor!

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  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

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  Cecelia

  “Do you ever wish you could just un-meet someone?” - Me, wishful thinking

  Have you ever had a story to tell... but just couldn’t figure out a good way to start it? That seems to be my life these days: a veritable daily struggle-fest (as my little sister Veronica would say). Absolutely nothing has gone right for me today.

  Nothing.

  Allow me to tell you about the craptastic morning I first met Matthew Wakefield.

  First, I didn’t just climb out of bed with grace. No. I stumbled. Of course, I still had my eye mask on (that’s right haters, I wear an eye mask; it’s not a crime, so get over it). Instead of peeling it off like a normal person, I blindly reached for the table next to my bed so I could balance myself before standing up - and missed by a mile. Smashed in to that, managed to knock over the lamp on my desk (the light bulb shattered; thanks for caring) which, incidentally, is halfway across the room.

  And really quickly, can I note that at no point during all this loud crashing and banging around did anyone come to check on me (thanks Mom and Dad).

  So yeah.

  After that little induction to my morning, let’s fast forward a bit; backed my car into my parents recycling bins, had no change for a toll at the state line of Wisconsin and Illinois, and to top it all off - didn’t pass a single McDonald’s.

  So it shouldn’t surprise me that:

  1. I am a hot mess. Hair falling out of my top knot, mascara smudges under both my eyes. Bonus! Plus, I just caught a faint whiff of myself, and all I have to say is... Growdy. Mostly sweaty and gross from lugging my damn bags. It really would be tougher to get any grosser than this - unless you count the fact it’s almost a 100% certainty my underwear are on inside out. #ratchet

  2. I hash tagged myself. Deal with it.

  3. I. Am. Starving - and my stomach will not let me forget it. All knotted up and growling, my legs have also decided to start shaking from my plummeting blood sugar level. Wonderful. I’m pretty darn sure if you saw me on the street you’d think I was on crack.

  4. My mom has been text bombing me since I left. Either she thinks I’ve been murdered, or she must have found the lamp... Oops. And the smashed light bulb. Oh well. The lamp was ugly anyway.

  Lugging my tote down the long corridor in my apartment building, I fumble for the keys I’ve foolishly placed in my back pocket, and in the process drop my phone, sunglasses, purse and several books I’d been holding on to by a thread.

  Great.

  Peachy.

  Awesome.

  The bag slung over my shoulder is so heavy it’s weighing me down, thus creating no real way to bend down and pick up all my crap without also dropping the bag - or at least injuring myself in the process.

  This bag is that heavy.

  It is actually dragging down the neckline of my plain white tee shirt, which I’m sure looks just fabulous.

  Cripes, why had I packed so much for the long weekend? It looks like I’ve packed enough to move back home, when really it’s just a few pair of shoes. Some jeans. Shirts. Underwear. A few bras. More books. Makeup. Curling iron. Um... blow-dryer. Robe? A few DVD’s... Oh. And a water bottle. Workout clothes. I think I tossed my laptop in there. Er, hairspray. Brush, comb (but those hardly take up any space).

  Extra tote. Slippers.

  Eye mask...

  Alright, alright! You get the picture.

  I try digging in my back pocket again and wonder what possessed me to wear such tight pants this morning (oh that’s right... they look awesome on me) and end up palming the small wad of twenty dollar bills my mom surreptitiously stuffed into my pocket when I left this morning. Originally, she tried to get my dad to give me the extra cash, but as usual, he had only pulled out one ten dollar bill.

  “Roger, that’s not even enough for some snacks at a gas station!” my mom had shouted at my dad from across the driveway.

  To which my dad (aka Roger) replied, “She’s almost twenty-three years old Margot. I would think at this point we wouldn’t need to be supporting her.”

  My mom just shot him a dirty look, adding “At least give her a hug good-bye.”

  I’ll be honest: Roger always needs a reminder. He’s not much for public displays of affection. I’m his daughter for crying out loud, and he blushes every time he is forced to hug me. Not that I blame him. My grandparents weren’t really affectionate either, and obviously the trait has been passed down to my dad.

  Poor guy.

  I’m the opposite and my favorite thing to do is grab him, lock him in a bear hug and squish him until he shoves me off.

  It can get awkward sometimes, but a little awkward never hurt anybody.

  You can quote me on that.

  As I get closer to my apartment door, I breath a loud sigh of relief because hallelujah! I can hear the voice of my roommate inside. Although... it kind of sounds like she’s arguing with someone. But hey, at least she’s inside because I’ll probably need a hand with my stuff.

  Instead of knocking I bang the door with my hip, heaving with all my might the heavy tote like a wrecking ball so it slams into the door with a thunk.

  I give a meek little “Help” and wait.

  And wait.

  Inside I hear a bang, like someone’s smashed into an end table or desk - then I hear an “oomph” followed immediately by a groan.

  Weird. And totally out-of-the-ordinary.

  Slightly panicked, I begin banging on the door again with my hip, drop my bag and fumble frantically for my keys.

  **Matthew**

  What the shit is that banging?

  I look at my little sis
ter Molly, and she shrugs, trudging towards the door. I put my arm out to stop her. “Don’t you dare get that - it’s obviously some lunatic.”

  Molly rolls her eyes at me (the little brat) like she is always doing - and when I say always... I mean she’s constantly rolling her eyes. I’m surprised they haven’t gotten wedged permanently in to the back of her head.

  “It’s either a lunatic or it’s my roommate, so get out of my way you Neanderthal. This is my apartment.”

  Using all her strength (and trust me, she might appear scrawny but she’s way stronger than she looks), Molly manages to shove me out of her way, even as I attempt unsuccessfully to block her path. In my attempts to stall her, my leg connects with the blue Rubbermaid bin she and her roomie have disguised as a coffee table, and the shit piled on top of it falls to the carpet.

  Correction: the dirty carpet.

  “Don’t you dare open that door without finding out who it is first,” I warn, sounding like our dad, while bending to scoop up a handful of Cosmo magazines from the floor. Kate Upton stares back at me from an August issue, and I stop re-organizing for a brief moment to admire her ample chest.

  Damn she’s good lookin’.

  Distracted momentarily - and without hesitating - I start thumbing through the magazine. Shit, if the rest of these pictures are anything like Kate Upton’s Sports Illustrated cover, I just might consider rolling this baby up and stuffing it in to my back pocket.

  “The door has no peephole, moron. Hey, stop touching my stuff! God you are so annoying,” Molly huffs in outrage, boldly slapping the magazine out of my hand. “I still don’t know why you’re even here.”

  I shrug, not giving a shit about her bad manners. She truly sounds disgusted with me. “Why the hell are you in a building that has no peepholes? That’s not safe. The least your landlord can do given these shoddy doors, which are basically made out of plywood, is put in some damn peepholes.”

  “Oh my gawd, you are such an idiot. Please say peepholes one more freaking time.”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa - one insult at a time please. Can you stop being such a bitch? For two seconds?” I ask, bending over a second time to rescue Kate Upton. Her boobs have gotten wrinkled on the page from being dropped twice, and I pause to smooth her out.

  It’s the least I can do.

  Then, before I can stop her, and with a self-defense move I taught her, Molly swiftly elbows me in the gut with a jab so quick I don’t even see it coming.

  Grunting, I teeter a bit and hold my stomach before I can stand upright. “That was a cheap shot,” I croak out as the banging on the door gets louder - it sounds like someone’s trying to break through the damn door with battering ram.

  “What the fuck?” I march towards the door, palming Molly in the forehead to halt her and steeling myself against a possible assault. “Back down Molly. Christ. Do you really think Weston would want you charging the door when some mental person is on the other side banging it in? Step aside dammit.”

  She moves aside, biting her lip.

  Well shit, that was easy.

  With the simple mention of her pansy ass boyfriend’s name, Molly’s shoulders sag a little and she crosses her arms. I can tell she’s debating about whether or not to give in as she continues chewing on her lower lip with a furrowed brow, deep in concentration.

  I make a mental note to use Weston as my war strategy in the future.

  Stalking to the door, I unlatch the deadbolt and throw it open, fist clenched at my side, ready to sucker punch someone in the face if necessary.

  I open my mouth, but don’t have the chance to speak because I’m shoved aside by the girl standing in the hallway. With a giant mop of brown hair piled on the top of her head (that could honestly be a dead animal for all I know), smeared eye makeup giving her raccoon eyes, and a death glare, she pushes past me and demands shrilly, “Hey buddy, what the hell is going on in here? I could hear noises out in the hall.”

  Aw shit. She’s kind of scary, actually.

  The tall brunette rushes to my sisters’ side, grabbing Molly by the shoulders and giving her a little shake. “Molly, are you okay? Is this guy bothering you,” the interloper demands, only turning for a quick second to shoot me another scowl and dump a pile of crap on to the couch - a pile, I can’t help but noticing, that includes a bag of trail mix and a bag of Sun Chips.

  Which reminds me, I’m crazy hungry.

  “Yup. I was just trying to get him to leave but he refuses.” Molly, the little traitor, shoots me a triumphant look over her friends head and winks.

  Fucking winks.

  Wait. What? “Hey! Now wait just one damn minute -”

  The girl snorts indignantly out of her pert little nose and steps forward to jam her finger into my solid chest, so hard I can feel her nail. “No pal, you wait one damn minute. This is my apartment and Molly wants you gone - so it’s time for you to go before I pepper spray your ass. Get out into the hallway and keep your hands where I can see them.”

  What. The. Fu...ck.

  Out of the corner of my eye my little sister continues smirking, her laughing eyes betraying her attempts to get me to leave. Clearly she’s incredibly entertained and therefore, in no hurry to set this chick (who is obviously bat-shit crazy) straight.

  I’m seriously going to murder Molly. Then when I’m done, I’m going to dig up her dead, lifeless body and kill her all over again. Ah shit. Do I sound bitter?

  “Who the hell are you, anyways?” I ask.

  “Who the hell am I? Hey - I’ll be asking the questions, thank you very much. Hallway please. Seriously, I might be thin but I have a black belt.”

  “Black belt?” Crossing my arms, I chuckle snidely. “Somehow, I seriously doubt that so please don’t make me laugh.” I walk over to the couch and flop down on it. “Although, what are you? One hundred thirty pounds soaking wet?” I dismissively palm through the girl’s discarded pile of stuff and snatch up the bag of trail mix sandwiched between a text book and a curling iron. Without hesitating, I take custody of it and rip the plastic bag open savagely with my teeth - I mean, since it was just lying there in the pile.

  “Sweet. Trail mix, my favorite.”

  “What are you doing, you jackass!” Molly’s irrational roommate-slash-bodyguard screeches (loudly I might add), trying to grab the bag out of my hands.

  I hold it above my head out of her reach, and flash her my pearly whites, looking her up and down. “You really ought to stop throwing yourself at me - it’s embarrassing. Sorry, but you’re not my type. Maybe if you cleaned yourself up a bit...”

  I crunch down on a handful of nuts and pretzels, chewing noisily.

  “Get the hell out of here!” the roommate fumes, white knuckles clenched at her sides. I can practically see the steam rising from her ears.

  “Hey now - don’t get defensive, I’m just the messenger,” I soothe.

  “Are you hearing me, asshole? I said get the hell out.”

  “You should listen to her, Matthew.” Molly agrees with a shit-eating-grin. She’s leaning against the kitchen counter now, poking idly through a candy dish.

  Ignoring them both, and enjoying this scenario immensely, I spread my legs wide on the couch, tip my head back and shake a mouthful of trail mix into my mouth from the bag - which basically mean’s it’s mine now.

  Fact: possession is nine-tenths of the law.

  “Thanks for the snack,” I say as I eat the last crumb and emitting a satisfied groan. “I’ll pay you back.”

  Or not.

  I crumble the empty bag and toss it onto the coffee table-slash-tote, stretch my arms out behind my head and groan again. “Mmm, that hit the spot. I was starving.”

  The roommate’s smart mouth falls open, and for a brief moment she’s actually silent. Thank God. I take advantage adding, “Next time can you stock up on the Costco brand of trail mix? I like it much better than this gas station crap you bought.”

  “Oh my god, you are so rude! So rude! What the h
ell is your problem? Get out!” Again from the roommate in a high pitched shriek.

  All this squawking is giving me a headache. “Can you please chill the fuck out? Christ, you sound like a freaking shrew. In fact, you can make yourself useful by grabbing me an Ibuprofen. Wait, make it three,” I say, rubbing my temples before snapping my fingers. “Oh, and a bottle of water. My trail mix made me thirsty. And maybe some different chips? These Sun Chips hold no appeal to me right now.”

  I scratch my chin in thought while she stares, wide eyed.

  “Actually, now that I mention it, never mind, I will just eat these. A bird in the hand and all that...” She stares at me, her feet rooted to the ground. To twist the proverbial knife deeper into her back I add, “Be a good girl and run along now.”

  “Security!”

  Chapter One

  Cecelia

  “I meant to behave myself, but... there were so many options that were more fun.” - Matthew Wakefield

  “CeCe, I need you to do me a huge favor...” Molly’s voice, thick with reluctance, trails off. I hear one of her IKEA dresser drawers open (the one that took two of us three hours to assemble even though the instructions said assembly time was only forty-five minutes), some light rustling, then the dresser being slammed shut. Papers shuffle on her desk, followed by a lot of muttering.

  “Terrific. Isn’t this just terrific.” Oh great. Now she’s talking to herself.

  Even though I can hear her just fine, I take the TV remote and point it at the forty inch flat screen hanging on our small living room wall, turning the volume down a tad so I can hear her better. Although actually, I would have heard Molly if she was whispering to me from inside her closet... buried under a blanket, with the door closed; that’s how thin the walls in this apartment are.

  I also put down the bag of Cheetos I’m stuffing my face with because, let’s be honest - they’re wicked crunchy - and who can have a decent conversation when they’re snacking on these tiny nuggets of scrumptiousness?

  Plus, I want to enjoy every delicious, fatty, orange morsel, and probably won’t be able to once Molly starts making requests and I lose my appetite.

  “Do I even want to know what this favor is?” I call out with a nervous laugh.