Woohoo, I've been writing nonstop, and I'm so excited to reveal the FIRST ever teaser and excerpt for vérité! This story took hold of my brain, and I just had to let it out. A steamy new adult book that will make you think and question where the truth can be found when it comes to love. Sometimes it's in the most unexpected places...
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 ever 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.
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My new friend sat next to me, very tall and yet broad. I couldn’t stop my eyes from drifting, taking little side glances at him while I pretended to read. The room was warm, and when he tugged off his hood and lifted his sweatshirt over his head, his T-shirt rode up, revealing the standard-issue six-pack for male athletes.
I shook my head, forcing myself to focus on the book in front of me, but my attention wandered again as he pulled out a textbook for freshman English. God, he’s a freshman. Was that what I was reduced to…ogling jail bait?
The guy was crazy handsome in an exotic way. His skin was a rich brown—neither dark nor light. In stark contrast, his eyes were the palest shade of blue I’d ever seen. They were two translucent aquamarine orbs that complemented a perfectly formed nose, well-defined eyebrows, and luscious lips. His hair was clipped tight, but would probably curl if allowed to grow. And then there were his arms. Every time he moved, his sleeves lifted past his bulging biceps and defined triceps.
There was zero fat on this dude’s body. He was a specimen. For a freshman. Not to mention, he was probably one of those beer-pong-loving jocks about to turn frat boy.
And I wasn’t getting involved with anyone—certainly not with a party boy with looks to kill, and trouble written all over his long, lean frame.
I hadn’t realized I’d spent the whole hour studying this kid until the proctor stood and dismissed us. When I tossed my book back into my bag and stood to leave, the object of my obsession unfolded himself from his tiny chair and said, “Hello, officially this time. I’m Tiberius. Guess I’ll see you tomorrow night?”
“I guess,” I said, and turned to head toward the door.
“You got a name?” he asked from behind me.
Surprised, I turned to face him and hugged my bag closer, like a shield. “I’m sorry, that was rude. Tingly,” I said, waving my fingers in the air as if they were asleep and all tingly. It was my go-to expression when telling someone my name, really more a defense than an explanation. I’d rather make light of something so toxic than reveal the disgust that rolled through my stomach every time I heard someone shout Ting…leee.
“Well, I dunno know what sport you play, Tingleee, but you could definitely win the weirdest-name-I-ever-heard contest,” he said with a chuckle. “This may be the first time I met anyone with a stranger name than me.”
Sadness bled through me. God, even this kid couldn’t just leave my name be; it did nothing more than remind me of my past. The one before Pierre, the real reason I was such a mess. Except there wasn’t enough therapy in the world to get me to relive that shit.
“I know,” I whispered as I turned again to leave.
“Tingly,” he called out. “Hey, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it. Don’t be mad; I thought it was funny. I don’t know. I’m so stupid,” he yelled after me.
As I walked away, I waved my hand in the air and dismissed his apology. “It’s fine,” I yelled back, then ran down the stairs and out of the building. ~ ©Rachel Blaufeld, 2015
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