The Accidental Boyfriend

Lori Freeland Copyright © 2023 by Lori Freeland All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the author. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used factiously. Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or person, living or dead, is coincidental. Edited by: Kathy Ide Cover Image Credit: Oneinchpunch/Bigstock.com for my fellow Teen Wolf fans Contents chapter 1 chapter 2 chapter 3 chapter 4 chapter 5 chapter 6 chapter 7 chapter 8 chapter 9 chapter 10 chapter 11 chapter 12 chapter 13 chapter 14 chapter 15 chapter 16 chapter 17 chapter 18 chapter 19 chapter 20 chapter 21 chapter 22 chapter 23 chapter 24 chapter 25 chapter 26 chapter 27 chapter 28 chapter 29 chapter 30 chapter 31 chapter 32 chapter 33 chapter 34 chapter 35 chapter 36 chapter 37 chapter 38 chapter 39 chapter 40 chapter 41 chapter 42 chapter 43 chapter 44 chapter 45 chapter 46 chapter 47 chapter 48 chapter 49 chapter 50 chapter 51 chapter 52 chapter 53 chapter 54 chapter 55 chapter 56 chapter 57 chapter 58 chapter 59 chapter 60 chapter 61 chapter 62 chapter 63 chapter 64 chapter 65 chapter 66 chapter 67 chapter 68 chapter 69 chapter 70 author note acknowledgments about Lori chapter 1 Jess I’ve been watching T at school for three weeks. The first thing I noticed? His strong hands. Allie thinks he’s just another boy I’m obsessing over and that liking our quarterback is cliché. But there’s something about him that’s different. And I can’t stop wondering if being wrapped in his huge hands would ground me on the days like this when I feel like floating away. ~ from the diary of Elizabeth Sara Thorne (age 16) Telling the truth. Dodging drama. Staying invisible. Painting butterflies on my toes. Things I used to be good at. I glance at my perfect pedicure. I’m down to one out of four. Without knocking, Dad opens the door and strides into my bedroom. I quickly close my laptop before he sees Mom’s profile on my screen and shove her diary under the stack of writing books piled on my desk. But he doesn’t even turn his head on his way to the bursting suitcase on the end of my four-poster bed. Pushing down the top with his huge hand, he zips it on the first try and grabs the handle. Feeling reckless, or maybe just desperate, I resume last night’s argument. “I can drive myself downtown.” Or stay home and spare my self-esteem a few thousand skid marks. “Vi’s already here to pick you up.” He throws the words over his shoulder on his way out the door. The only words he’s said to me all morning. And they’re not words I want to hear. Riding and rooming with my literary agent leaves me no escape when my first writers’ conference spirals south. And it will spiral south. Pushing my feet into my flip-flops—one pink, one purple—I shove my laptop and the diary into my backpack and tuck my earbuds into my pocket. Then hurry to run after him. I don’t even make it to the top of the stairs before my chest starts to sink and hollow. Gripping the railing, I try again. “If you let me drive, I’ll text you the second I get there.” All I get is a short grunt as he tramps down the back staircase looking out of place with my neon purple suitcase. Trained by decades of marine posture, his wide shoulders stay at attention while his wardrobe falls at ease. Retired five years, he’s replaced the starchy uniform with wrinkled tees and faded jeans, clung to his buzz cut, and cried rebel with a single hoop earring—giving him an odd vibe of uptight casual. I take the steps two at a time to catch up. “The hotel’s twenty minutes away. I’ll keep the car in the parking garage the whole week.” “Jess.” He barks my name in his standard stand down private. “You’re not driving in Dallas traffic.” He drops my luggage on the kitchen tile and rounds the corner into the great room. Normally, he wouldn’t notice if I played in traffic. I throw my backpack on the island and hurry after him. “It’s Sunday afternoon. No traffic.” My flip-flops slap to a sudden stop when I see him standing next to Vi, who’s kicked off her heels and gotten cozy with our wing chair and an oversized mug of coffee. Sunlight streams through the wall of windows overlooking our pool, highlighting her lavender bob and brightening her fuchsia suit. Twenty years past her party-queen prime, she still somehow manages to rock both those colors. I’d kill to shop where she buys her confidence. “Vi brought donuts.” Dad gestures to the side table. The smell of powdered sugar swells into a phantom pastry that sticks in my throat. Swallowing hard, I turn from the white box, my gaze landing on the lipstick on Vi’s mug. Mom used to leave the same stain. On wine glasses. Shot glasses. Tumblers. Even the tops of bottles—until she started hiding them. “I have bagels for Jess in the car. The donuts are for you,” Vi says. “She doesn’t eat them.” He looks surprised. “Since when?” She shakes her head, her long silver earrings dancing. “Since I’ve known her?” “Since two years ago,” I mumble too low for him to hear. The day he kicked Mom out, filed that stupid restraining order, and wrecked our family. I breathe through the familiar ache trying to twist-tie my chest and rub the inch-long scar on my