Long Shot

By Jennifer Bonds

Wes Kaplan is rich, entitled, and a total pain in my ass.

 

It's been five years since graduation, but one look is all it takes to confirm he hasn't changed a bit. Aside from the sinewy muscles and sexy tattoos, which definitely do not make my heart flutter.

 

Wes may be a hot-shot Olympic climber now, but I see right through the hometown hero façade. He's the same guy who lived to get under my skin when we were kids. And no matter how hard he tries to convince me otherwise, I don't have time for distractions. Not when this whole town is waiting for me to fail—just like my father.

 

But I've got this. All I have to do is make sure Beaumont's inaugural Indie Week event goes off without a hitch. Because in a town where gossip spreads faster than pollen on the wind, the only thing worse than hooking up with your uptight boss's son is falling for him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jennifer Bonds
• Release date: Oct 29, 2020
• ISBN: 9781953794048

Jennifer Bonds

Jennifer Bonds writes sizzling contemporary romance novels with sassy heroines, sexy heroes, and a whole lot of mischief. When not writing or wrangling toddlers, she can be found curled up with a good book and a bottle of wine. She currently resides with her own real-life hero and their two adorable children in Carlisle, Pennsylvania.

Book preview

1

WES

Why the hell did I ever agree to this? I rake a hand through my hair and scan the tiny art studio. There aren’t a lot of guys in the class and I’m clearly the only one without a date. Which makes sense, because, not to be sexist or whatever, but how many twenty-three-year-old dudes sign up for Spritz & Splatter solo?

Just the one, asshole.

Right. At least I was able to get a seat in the back. Just me and my wineglass living la vida loca.

My gaze settles on the canvas propped up at the front of the room and I cringe when I see the sample painting for tonight’s workshop. If my teammates find out about this, I’ll never live it down. Because tonight, instead of scaling Anarchy Wall, I’m staring down a glass mason jar surrounded by tall grass and fireflies.

Fucking fireflies.

Not that it really matters since I don’t have an artistic bone in my body. It could be paint by number and I’d probably screw it up. Climbing is the only thing I’ve ever been good at and if it weren’t for my mother strong-arming me into this class, that’s what I’d be doing right now.

Restless energy barrels through my limbs and I flex my fingers instinctively.

The class hasn’t even started and I’m already jonesing for the adrenaline rush that comes from working through a technical climb or solving an intense boulder problem. I’d bail if I could get away with it, but Beaumont’s a small town. If I duck out now, my mom will hear about it before her head hits the pillow tonight. For all I know, she’s got spies in the class watching me.

So, yeah. I’m stuck. Stuck in this class. Stuck in Beaumont.

For the summer, anyway.

A summer I’d planned to spend halfway around the world, competing for glory in Tokyo and bringing home the gold for Team USA. Instead, I’ve got another twelve months standing between me and my dream. Which is probably why Mom thought this whole Indie Week thing was a good idea.

But it’s not like I’m crying in my Cheerios. I’m fine. Totally chill.

It sucks balls the Summer Games have been postponed, but now I’ve got twelve extra months to sharpen my skills. I’ll be a well-rounded triple threat by the time I touch down in Tokyo.

I rub my chest, a familiar itch taking root. I know my parents are worried about me putting my life on hold for another year, but this is my dream and I’ll go full-send to make it come true. Because when I’m climbing? It’s just me and the rock. It’s all about handholds and angles and pushing myself to be the best.

Besides, I’ve got plenty of time to figure out the rest of my life—after I climb the Olympic podium.

I can already picture the gold medal, feel the weight of it around my neck, hear the opening chords of the national anthem.

Cocky? Maybe. But I learned a long time ago that the key to success—and climbing—is visualization. You’ve got to know where you’re going and how you’re going to get there.

And me? I want to be the best. I won’t settle for anything less.

The bells above the studio door jangle and a blonde sails in, her yellow sundress billowing around her. Everyone in the room turns to stare, myself included, as a crimson flush spreads over her cheeks. She ducks her head and gives the instructor a hurried apology as her gaze sweeps the room. She stares longingly at the front row, which filled up nearly twenty minutes ago, and heaves a resigned sigh.

I smirk. A proper overachiever knows you have to show up early to score a front row seat.

Perfect! Now that we’re all here, we can get started, the instructor says, slipping a paint-splattered apron over her head. She gestures for the newcomer to take a seat, pointing to the only empty stool, which happens to be at the back of the studio, directly to my left.

Maybe this won’t be so bad after all.

The blonde squares her shoulders and plows forward like she’s on a mission. She makes it two steps before she loses her footing and stumbles ass over teakettle. At the last second, her hands shoot out, breaking her fall, and she lands on the hardwood floor with a thud.

The room falls silent.

We all watch as she blinks slowly and runs her hands over the floorboards, realizing too late her flowy skirt is bunched around her waist. I avert my eyes, but apparently the asshole in the front row doesn’t offer the same courtesy and his date savagely elbows him in the ribs. The instructor rushes over to help, but before she can so much as ask if the late arrival is okay, the blonde has climbed to her feet and straightened her skirt. She forces a megawatt smile and starts down the aisle like this sort of thing happens every day.

Shit. For all I know, maybe it does.

Welcome to Spritz & Splatter, the instructor says, projecting her voice over the whispers spreading like wildfire through the small space. Typical Beaumont. I’m Autumn and this is my studio. Before we get started, I want to thank each of you for supporting Indie Week and small business owners like myself.

She goes on to explain the project, but I’m only half listening. I’m more interested in the woman sashaying toward me, eyes fixed straight ahead, hair falling over her shoulders in loose waves. She passes under the bright lights of the studio, her sandstone hair shimmering like the Fountain at sunrise, and God help me, I can’t help but notice the way her tits bounce a little with each step. She’s hot, no doubt about it, and totally my type.

If you ignore the fact that she’s out of my league.

Everything about her—the neatly styled hair, the prim little cardigan, the perfectly manicured nails—suggests she enjoys serious relationships, meeting the parents, and a little thing called stability.

It’s just as well since I need to stay focused on my training. I haven’t had a girlfriend pretty much ever—too distracting—but it’s not like I’m afraid of commitment. I’m totally committed…to climbing.

Is this seat taken? the blonde asks as she reaches the back row. Her eyes rake over me, assessing. They’re blue, like a summer sky, and up close, I can see the light dusting of freckles that spread over the bridge of her pert little nose.

I flash her a cocky grin, because why the hell not? It’s all yours.

She rolls her eyes and slides onto the stool, using the bottom rung to boost herself up. How magnanimous of you.

Magnani-wha?

Who the hell talks like that? No one in the climbing world, that’s for damn sure. I give her another quick once-over. And sure enough, despite the fact that she sounds like a Boomer, we’re about the same age. Further proof she’s out of my league, but that doesn’t mean we can’t have a little fun.

After all, for the next two hours, we’re stuck with each other.

2

SKYLAR

Welcome to Beaumont, a small town with a big heart! (And even bigger gossips.)

I climb onto my stool like a cat scaling a damn tree and silently curse furniture made for giants, the douche in the front row who tried to look at my ass, and the universe for giving me yet another taste of small-town humiliation. Seriously. I must’ve been a bad bitch in a previous life because what the actual fuck just happened?

Aside from flashing half the class your hot pink thong?

I glare down