Reckless to Love You: Friends to Lovers Second Chance Romance

Book 1: Wild Love

by J. Saman, Julie Saman

Synopsis

Second chances don't always come easy, even when you're determined to get them.

I let her slip through my fingers—
No, that's a lie. I was reckless and pushed her away.
I was never supposed to fall for her...my tutor, my best friend.
My fantasy.
I tried to stay away. I failed.
Then we graduated and everything changed. All I needed was a step back, a moment to breathe.
But by the time I came up for air, she was in the arms of another man.
Four years later, everything is different. And when I see her again, I remember why I should have never let her go in the first place.


It started on day one...
New school. New life. And there he was, the boy I grew up with, walking up the steps of my very first class.
Except now, the boy from my memories was gone, and his place was an Adonis of a man.
Even though I knew we were doomed from the start, it didn't take much for me to fall for him. And when you find something that perfect, you don't second guess it.
Until it ends.
Four years later, he's back. Steamrolling through my life like he never broke my heart to begin with. But this time, I'm older, wiser, and know that second chances are only the stuff of fairy tales.

If you're looking for EXPLOSIVE CHEMISTRY, soul-mate deep love, and tons of feels, this is the romance for you!

Note: Reckless to Love You is the exact same book as Reckless Love. It just has a new cover and title.

Release date: June 22, 2018

Print pages: 282

Sample

Prologue

Lyric

I can’t stop staring at it. Reading the two short words over and over again ad nauseum. They’re simple. Essentially unimpressive if you think about it. But those two words mean everything. Those two words dive deep into the darkest depths of my soul, the part I’ve methodically shut off over the years, and awaken the dormant volcano. How can two simple words make this well of emotions erupt so quickly?

Come home.

I don’t recognize the number the text came from. It shows up as Unknown. But I don’t have to recognize it. I know who it’s from. Instinctively, I know. At least, my body does, because my heart rate is through the roof. My stomach is clenched tight with violent, poorly concealed, sickly butterflies. My forehead is clammy with a sheen of sweat and my hands tremble as they clutch my phone. 

It’s early here in California. Not even dawn, but I’m awake. I’m always awake, even when I’m not, and since my phone has, unfortunately, become another appendage, it’s consistently with me. 

It’s a New York area code. 

Goddammit! I suck in a deep, shuddering breath of air that does absolutely nothing to calm me, then I respond in the only way I can. 

Me: Who is this?

The message bubble appears instantly, like he was waiting for me. Like there is no way this is a wrong number. Like his fingers couldn’t respond fast enough. 

Unknown: You know who this is. Come home. 

I don’t respond. I can’t. I’m frozen. It’s been four years. Four fucking years. And this is how he reaches out? This is how he contacts me? I slink back down into my bed, pulling the heavy comforter over my head in a pathetic attempt to protect myself from the onslaught of emotions that consume me. I tuck my phone against my chest, over what’s left of my fractured heart. 

I’m hurting. I’m angry. I’m so screwed up and broken, and yet, I’m still breaking. How is that even possible? How can a person continue to break when they’re already broken? How can a person I haven’t seen in four years still affect me like this?

I want to throw the traitorous device into the wall and smash it. Toss it out my window as hard as I can and hope it reaches the Pacific at the other end of the beach, where it will be swept away, never to return. But I don’t. Because curiosity is a nefarious bitch. Because I have to know why the man who was my everything and now my nothing is contacting me after all this time, asking me to come home.  

Unknown: I’m sitting here in my old room, on my bed, and I can’t focus. I can’t think about what I need to be thinking about. So, I need you to come home.

I shake my head as tears line my eyes, stubbornly refusing to fall but obscuring my vision all the same. Nothing he’s saying makes sense to me. Nothing. It’s completely nonsensical, and yet, it’s not. I still know him well enough to understand both what he’s saying and what he’s not. 

Me: Why?

Unknown: Because I need you to. 

Me: I can’t. Too busy with work. 

That’s sort of a lie. I mean, I am headed to New York for the Rainbow Ball in a few days. But he doesn’t need to know that. And I do not want to see him. I absolutely, positively, do not.

Unknown: My dad had a stroke 

My eyes cinch shut, and I cover them with one hand. I can’t breathe. A gasped sob escapes the back of my throat, burning me with its raw taste. God. Now what the hell am I going to do? I love his father. Jesus Christ. How can I say no to him now? How can I avoid this the way I so desperately need to? Shit.

Me: I’m sorry. I didn’t know. Is he okay? 

Unknown: He’ll live, but he’s not great. He’s in the ICU. Worse than he was after the heart attack. 

I shake my head back and forth. I can’t go. I can’t go home. I was there two months ago to visit my parents and my sister’s family. I have work—so much freaking work that I can barely keep up. I don’t want to see him. I won’t survive it. I’ll see him, and I’ll feel everything I haven’t allowed myself to feel. I’ll be sucked back in. 

Things are different now. 

They are. My situation has changed completely, but I never had the guts to call him and tell him that. Mostly because I was hurt. Mostly because I felt abandoned and brushed off. Mostly because I was terrified that it wouldn’t matter after all this time apart. If I see him now, knowing how much has changed…Shit. I just…Fuck. I can’t. 

I don’t know what to do. 

I’m drenched in sweat. The blanket I sought refuge in is now smothering me. I’m relieved his father is alive. I still speak to him once a month. Wait, let me amend that—he still calls me once a month. And we talk. Not about Jameson. Never about him. Only about me and my life. I’m a wreck that Jameson is contacting me. I can’t play this game. I never could. It was all or nothing with him.

Unknown: I miss you.

I stare at the words, read them over again, then respond too quickly, Liar.

Unknown: Never. I miss you so goddamn much.

I think I just died. Everything inside me has stopped. My heart is not beating. My breath has stalled inside my chest, unable to be expelled. My mind is completely blank. And when everything comes back to life, I’m consumed with an angry, caustic fury I never knew I was capable of.

Unknown: Are you still there?

Me: What do you want me to say?

Unknown: I don’t know. I’m torn on that. Please come home.

Me: Why?

Unknown: Because I need you. Because he needs you. Because I was always too busy obsessing over you to fall for someone else. Because I need to know if I’m making a mistake by hoping.

I shake my head vigorously, letting out the loudest, shrillest shriek I can muster. It’s not fucking helping, and I need something to help. Clamoring out of bed, I hurry over to the balcony doors, unlocking them and tossing them open wide. 

Fresh air. I need fresh air. Even Southern California fresh air. A burst of salty, ocean mist hits me square in the face, clinging to the sweat I’m covered in. It’s still dark out. Dawn is not yet playing with the midnight-blue sky.

I stare out into the black expanse of the ocean, listen to the crashing of the waves and sigh. I knew about him. I would be lying if I said I hadn’t Facebook-stalked him a time or twenty over the years. Forced myself to hate him with the sort of passion reserved for political figures and pop stars. But this? Saying he misses me?

Me: Seeing me won’t change that. But if you’re asking, you are. 

He responds immediately, and I can’t help but grin a little at that. You still care about me, Jameson Woods. When I catch the traitorous thought, I shut it down instantly. Because if he cared, if his texted words meant anything, then I wouldn’t be here, and he wouldn’t be there, and this bullshit four a.m. text conversation wouldn’t be happening.

Unknown: I’m not asking. Seeing you might change everything. But more than that, I need you here with me. My father would want to see you. Come home. 

I hate him. I hate him. I hate him! 

Me: I can’t come home. Stop using your father to manipulate me. 

Unknown: It’s the only play I have. You can come home. I know you can. Are you seeing someone? Before you respond, any answer other than no might kill me right now. 

I growl, not caring if anyone walking by hears. How can he do this to me? How can he be so goddamn selfish? Doesn’t he know what he put me through? That I still haven’t found my way back after four years? I shouldn’t reply. I should just throw my phone away and never look back. 

Me: No. And you’re a bastard.

Unknown: YES. I Am! Please. I am officially begging. Really, Lee. I’m not even bullshitting. I’m a mess. Please. Please. Please!!!!

Me: …

Unknown: What does that mean?

Me: It means I’m thinking. Stop! 

My eyes lock on nothing, my mind swirling a mile a minute. 

Lee. He called me Lee. That nickname might actually hurt the most. And now he’s asking me to come home. Jameson Woods, the man I thought was my forever, is asking me to come home to see him. And for what? To scratch a long-forgotten itch? To assuage some long-abandoned guilt over what he did? Why would I fall for that? 

I sigh again because I know why. It’s the same reason I never bring men home. It’s the same reason I haven’t given up this house even though I don’t fully live in it anymore and it’s far from convenient. It’s the same reason I continued this conversation instead of smashing my phone. 

Jameson Woods. 

The indelible ink on my body. The scar on my soul. The fissure in my heart.

Unknown: …

I can’t help the small laugh that squeaks out as I lean forward and prop my elbows on the edge of the railing. The cool wind whips through my hair, and I hate that I feel this way. That I’m entertaining him the way I am. 

Me: What does that mean?

Unknown: It means I’m getting impatient. Please. I need you to come home.  I know I’m a bastard. I know I shouldn’t be asking you this. But I am. 

Unknown: Aren’t you at least a little curious?

YES! 

Me: NO!!!!!!! And bastard doesn’t cover you.

Unknown: Please. It’s spinning out of control, and I need to see you. I need to know. 

Me: You already know. 

Unknown: About you? 

Me: Yes, or you wouldn’t be texting me at four in the morning.

Unknown: It’s seven here. Does that mean you’ll come?

Me: …

Unknown: …

Me: Yes. 

My phone slips from my fingers, clanging to the hard surface of my balcony floor. My phone buzzes again, a little louder now since the sound is reverberating off the ground. I don’t pick it up. I don’t look down. I don’t care if he’s thanking me or anything else he comes up with. I don’t care. I don’t want to know.

Because I’m busy getting my head on straight. 

Locking myself down. 

I’m worried about his father and I want to see him, want to make sure he’s okay with my own two eyes.

I’ll go home and I’ll see him. I’ll see him, and I’ll do the one thing I was never able to do before. I’ll say goodbye. My eyes close and I allow myself to slip back. To remember every single moment we had together. To indulge in the sweet torture that, if I let it, will rip me apart piece by piece. Because I know what I’m in for, and I know that once I step foot off that airplane, nothing will ever be right again.