I’d always thought she was beautiful, but this morning I got to take her all in and I memorized her.
Her skin was a perfect, glowing bronze in the morning light that had flooded the kitchen. She had a twisted, mixed color of blue and green in her round eyes that were so goddamned enchanting when they were lit up by the sun. Maybelle didn’t smile much, but I learned that, when she did, she smiled with her entire face. She had this nose that was paint-splattered with freckles that folded against each other when she scrunched her face.
I wanted her—needed her tone-deaf singing, her dancing, her shy smiles, her pouty, full lips, and oh god—that hair.
Maybelle didn’t wear her hair down, but one day, I would see it. It was a personal goal of mine to get her in a position where she would have it down and I could tangle my fingers through the curls.
Our successful encounter was why I’d given into temptation and snuck into her room. I’d never been inside and after this morning, I was curious.
Everything about Maybelle intrigued me.
I pulled one book from the shelving. I flipped through the well-kept pages. A smile pulled from me as I learned that Maybelle liked books of other worlds, magic and romance. I mentally filed away the mental image of the cover, title and author for later use as I slid the book back into its place.
Turning from the bookcase, I swept one last look around the room, ready to leave before Liam orStephanie could catch me. But something grabbed my eye.
On Maybelle’s left side nightstand, sat another book. I didn’t think as I strolled around the bed, eager to know what fantastical world she was currently living in. Except, there wasn’t a title on the cover.
It was a black, leather-bound book. Old and worn by the looks of it. Cautiously, I plucked it up, opening the cover trying to find a titlepage, but there wasn’t one.
Instead, written in swooping cursive handwriting, I read:
Hi,
My name is Maybelle Mason.
Frantically, I slapped the book shut and dropped it back onto the table’s surface. Obviously, this was a journal. I was already traipsing through her room like a creep. The least I could do was leave her journal, of all things, alone.
Except, I didn’t turn around. I didn’t leave the way I’d come in. No, I was still staring at that leather-bound book. Flexing my fingers, I tried to move, to look away, but again, I was curious. Too curious for my own good. I meant it when I told Maybelle I planned to learn about her. Everything about her. Fascination forced me forward and I reached for the book.
“Trey?”
“Shit.” I flinched, shying behind Maybelle’s bed.
Dead still, I crouched as I listened to Liam’s footfalls down the hall and past Maybelle’s closed bedroom door.
Rubbing a hand over my face, I sat baffled that those few written words were enough to distract me from the obvious silence that now swallowed the house.
Shaking my head, I spun for the door, creeping it open.
I could hear Liam bustling through the kitchen. I let myself out of the room, snicking the door closed behindme. I hoped to snake my way around the opposite side of the house, creating the illusion that I came from the bathroom. Turning, I took one long step, only to find myself face to face with Stephanie Mason.
Just my luck.
Stephanie’s wide, sea foam green eyes bounced from Maybelle’s bedroom door to me, then back to the door. I could see understanding leak into her features when Liam called my name again, and I still didn’t answer.
I wasn’t sure if I should run or beg for forgiveness as a knowing smile pulled up Stephanie’s face. My knees buckled when she didn’t speak and pressed her forefinger to her closed, upturned lips. Leaving me with a wink, she walked past me into the kitchen.
“Hey, mom,” Liam said through a yawn. “Have you seen Trey? He stayed over last night, but I can’t find him. And his Jeep is still out front.”
I waited as an apprehensive sweat heated the back of my neck. But Stephanie continued to surprise me as she said, “I think I heard him in the bathroom. Just give him a minute. I bet he’ll be out soon.”
Swallowing, I sighed out the breath I was holding. Then I continued down the hall through the planned path around the house, unable to get my mind off that journal.
Dear Future Husband,
I wanted to tell you a little about why I wrote this book.
I’m not just a lovesick fourteen-year-old dreaming of my happily ever after. I won’t lie and say that dreaming of a big wedding, finding true love and having lots of babies doesn’t play a big part—but it isn’t the main piece of it.
