"I didn't expect all that much from this, simply because I hadn't heard anything about it, but I absolutely loved it. I think this might be one of my favourite new adult books I have read. It was fantastic. I loved the characters and their relationship. The plot had a genuine storyline, which was both fun yet had a lovely depth to it." - Kate, Goodreads
Published: July 18th, 2016
In the span of seven days, Annabel Lee will lose her heart.
Kennedy Harrison, as reckless with life as Annabel is obsessed with order, never could commit to anything—not to a person, not to a job, not to a path. But he’s got a history with Annabel, and for once Kennedy doesn’t want to run. Determined to spend time with her before she leaves for college, Kennedy dares her to join him on a road trip to a music festival.
And neither of them could ever say no to a dare.
But Annabel’s got a plan. She’ll complete seven dares in seven days—if Kennedy applies for one writing internship per dare. Because Kennedy needs to be pushed just as much as she does.
What follows is a dizzying week of music, shady hotels, comical dares, and a passion neither one knew existed. But when it ends, Annabel and Kennedy will realize the biggest dare of all might just be falling for each other.
I try to ignore the way my heart skips a beat at being so close to him. How it panics. It’s not the erratic beating of a girl in a romance novel. More like a horror film. My heart senses it before the rest of me does: DANGER—this boy will hurt you. He has hurt you. Worse than any other boy ever will. RUN!
“Good afternoon, Annabel,” he almost sings as he moves next to me at the sink, pulling down bottles from the cabinet above our heads. I have to duck not to bang my forehead into his arm during my decidedly not verbal nod in response to his very verbal greeting. Despite the dimmed red glare of the darkroom, I can’t help but notice the dimple that appears on his left cheek as a smirk crawls across his face. I didn’t even know he was capable of dimpling. It seems like an action reserved for quarterbacks and farmers’ sons. I’m sure that dimple wasn’t there when we were children.
Kennedy chuckles softly, and I realize he’s caught me staring. I can’t be blamed. Not really. That dimple keeps going off like a lighthouse. There should be studies on this phenomenon. I must have looked at this boy a thousand times as a child. Shaggy dirty-blond hair that always screamed for a haircut. Piercing blue eyes that reminded me of the aqua-colored crystal candy you could buy from the Air and Space Museum in DC. Never in all those times staring do I remember seeing those dimples.
Not that it matters. He doesn’t get to walk in and dimple at me just because he decided ten years was long enough to avoid me for no reason.
Maybe it’s the melodic beating of the rain against the tent, or the deceptive quiet of a music festival campsite in the early-morning hours, but I swear I’m creating a song to the inhaling and exhaling breaths of the girl lying next to me. The impossible and stubborn girl lying next to me. Interspersed between the verses of her song slithers in the harsh words from last night, words I know are entirely true.
I am a selfish ass, and lying next to me is the most selfless girl I’ve ever met. She did a heavy as fuck thing when she let me back in her life after what I did, and I couldn’t even do the one little thing she asked me to do. Why? I dig writing, and maybe I’m not entirely crappy at it. I just can’t bear to see her watch me fail.
The rain beats quietly on the tent, and it’s like a whole new song starts playing on the record player. I kiss her under her ear. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. I kiss her on the cheek. “I’m sorry,” I say again. I gently turn her, so she’s lying on her back. Her eyes look up at me, wet with unshed tears. I’m not sure what I’m sorry for. Continuously letting her down? Not being the man she deserves? “I’m sorry,” I repeat, kissing right underneath her eye.
“Me, too,” she says, her voice a bit hoarse from not being used in a while. She reaches up both of her hands and places them on my cheeks.
“You have nothing to be sorry about,” I say, looking down at her.
“Of course I do. Ninety percent of the time, I’m impossible to be with,” she says, her voice choked with emotion.
“That’s crap. One hundred percent of the time, I wouldn’t want to put up with anyone else,” I say before kissing those beautiful lips of hers.
Our kiss is slow. The kind of slow that could burn a man straight through.
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About the author:
Tiffany Truitt was born in Peoria, Illinois. A self-proclaimed Navy brat, Tiffany spent most of her childhood living in Virginia, but don’t call her a Southerner. She also spent a few years living in Cuba. Since her time on the island of one McDonalds and Banana Rats (don't ask), she has been obsessed with traveling. Tiffany recently added China to her list of travels (hello inspiration for a new book).
Besides traveling, Tiffany has always been an avid reader. The earliest books she remembers reading belong to The Little House on the Prairie Series. First book she read in one day? Little Woman (5th grade). First author she fell in love with? Jane Austen in middle school. Tiffany spent most of her high school and college career as a literary snob. She refused to read anything considered "low brow" or outside the "classics."
Tiffany began teaching middle school in 2006. Her students introduced her to the wide, wonderful world of Young Adult literature. Today, Tiffany embraces popular Young Adult literature and uses it in her classroom.
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