Breaking Girl Code

By Brooke Moss

Aubrey Snow loathes guys like Preston Wallingford. Cocky, pretentious rich boys who invade her tiny Idaho lake town for the summer, reeking havoc on all the local girl's hearts. She doesn't have time or energy for frat boys, when she's got bills to pay and inebriated best friends to protect.

 

Little does she know that Preston is different. His roots at Lake Coeur d'Alene run deeper than most realize, and he—like Aubrey—has a complicated family history.

 

All it takes is one night out together to realize that he may be everything she's ever wanted, wrapped up in an expensive and undeniably hot package. There's only one problem…

 

He's on a date with Aubrey's best friend.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Inkspell Publishing
• Release date: Jul 22, 2021
• ISBN: 9781953335654

Brooke Moss

Author Brooke Moss writes contemporary romance, contemporary women's fiction, new adult, and fantasy young adult novels. She prefers her books filled with romance, whimsy, and just enough humor to put a smile on her reader's face. Escapism is her bag, baby, and she loves providing her readers with plenty of it. Brooke lives in beautiful eastern Washington state with her handsome, nerdy husband, and their five adorable/silly/wicked children. She is an avid ASD advocate, who loves to share her experiences with anyone who will listen. (To learn more about Autism related disorders, check out http://www.autismspeaks.org) Some of Brooke's hobbies...other than writing delicious stories...are reading (is anyone surprised?), cartooning, watching movies with her adorable hubby, chasing playing with my children, & traveling with her family. She lives to change the color of her hair, collects eyeglasses, has a constant struggle with her weight happening at all times, and consider herself a connoisseur of cheese. (Hence, the aforementioned weight problem.) Brooke's books are written to make you laugh, make you cry (sometimes), make you think, and maybe even touch your heart. It is her pleasure to share her stories with each of you. To contact Brooke.....try [e-mail] or [e-mail]. She looks forward to hearing from you. To quote Brooke: "Getting reader mail is like cupcakes sprinkled with unicorn fairy dust. True story."

Book preview

Breaking Girl Code

Lipstick_06

Brooke Moss

THE CHARACTERS AND events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, places, or events is coincidental and not intended by the author.

IF YOU PURCHASE THIS book without a cover you should be aware that this book may have been stolen property and reported as unsold and destroyed to the publisher. In such case the author has not received any payment for this stripped book.

BREAKING GIRL CODE

Copyright © 2021 Brooke Moss

All rights reserved.

ISBN: (EBOOK) 978-1-953335-65-4

(print) 978-1-953335-66-1

INKSPELL PUBLISHING

207 Moonglow Circle #101

Murrells Inlet, SC 29576

COVER ART BY FANTASIA Frog Designs

THIS BOOK, OR PARTS thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission. The copying, scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic or print editions, and do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials.  Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

OTHER BOOKS BY BROOKE MOSS

The What If Guy

The Carny

Keeping Secrets in Seattle

Underwater

Baby & Bump

Apples & Oranges

Then & Now

Bittersweet

The Art of Being Indifferent

Here’s to Campfires and S’mores

Dedication

For Alice.

Be you, unapologetically, because you’re freaking amazing.

CHAPTER ONE

He stood bouncing his keys in his pocket. Do you think you could, I don’t know, spruce them up?

My fingers shook so much as I tied the satin bow around the tissue wrapped stems that my fingernails made a faint shh sound against the paper. His feet shuffled while he waited on the other side of the counter. The aroma of his overpriced cologne drifted under my nose, temporarily masking the scent of the picture perfect white roses I’d just painstakingly arranged.

He smiled down at his phone, making my stomach twist. I felt weak and girlish, and silently scolded myself for it. The fact this guy’s presence put me on edge was incredibly aggravating, but it happened every time he stepped into the shop.

Every. Single. Time.

It wasn’t like it was my first time arranging flowers for the platinum card carrying, trust fund baby. He’d been coming into Petal Pushers every other day since the warm weather hit in late May, and not once had he ever done anything except wink at me over the top of his hundred-and-fifty-dollar Ray Bans and take calls flirting over the phone while I worked feverishly.

It was all I could do to give the guy his constant array of flowers—all for different women and never for anyone more than twice—without kneeing him in the balls. If it were my shop, I would have thrown him out on principle. I’d have told him to take his credit card and shove it right up his backside. But it wasn’t my shop. It was my job to smile, arrange the flowers, and take Rich Boy’s money.

Fluffing the petals of an open rose, I shifted the bouquet so he could examine it. How’s that?

He pulled the sunglasses off of his face and narrowed his eyes. They were brown. But not just brown-brown, but a sharp, sugary shade that looked like the warm inside of a cinnamon roll. Spectacular. They’re sort of big.

Blinking, I turned my focus back to the roses. They’re Ecuadorian hybrids. That’s why the head is so big. When one of his eyebrows ticked upward I quickly added, "The roses. The heads on the roses."

A flash of amusement painted his face, and he nearly smiled. Cool. He plucked bouquet up, then dropped his credit card on the counter. It’ll do.

It’ll do? Ugh. Scowling at the well-used card, I spoke through gritted teeth. Want to know the total?

He watched me as I moved to the register. Nope. It’s fine.

If I weren’t so desperate to keep this job, I’d have allowed all of the obscenity-laced insults on the tip of my tongue to come out. But with being responsible for half the rent, maintaining employment was key.

I took a deep breath. Alright. I punched the price into the computer, mentally high-fiving myself for putting our most expensive filler flowers into the arrangement. Seventy-six fifty on your Visa.

Don’t forget this. He tossed a message card onto the counter. Stick it in there somewhere.

I glanced at his credit card before swiping it. Preston Wallingford, Jr. A predictably pretentious name. I’ll bet there was a crest hanging above the family fireplace. Pretty boy had a sweet car and a limitless credit account to purchase dozens of arrangements for random girls around our lake town of Coeur d’Alene, Idaho.

I’d been working to support my mom and me since I was thirteen and could babysit the neighbor’s kids. Forced to forgo going to college this fall with my friends, so that I could help pay for grown up things like rent and electricity. My life was a far cry from filet mignon dinners with Mumsie and Pop at the country club all summer long.

Handing the card back to him, I bit the inside of my cheek. Have a nice day.

Preston Wallingford Junior slid the sunglasses back on, then stood facing me. Once the silence grew uncomfortable, I raised my eyebrows at him. Geez, what?

You forgot the pick thing. He sounded amused.

Oh, right. I went to grab one of the clear plastic fork-like things we used to put the messages into the arrangements, but knocked the jar over. Picks skidded across the counter and onto the floor at Preston’s feet, creating a lovely clattering sound that filled the shop.

He looked at the shiny watch on his wrist. I’m late already.

I seriously hated this guy. His kind was the bad thing about the summer crowds which flooded our northern Idaho lake town every year. Pompous cabin snowbirds crowded up our lake with jet skis and speedboats, and our streets with their BMW’s from June to September. Rich tourists who came to Idaho for its rustic charm and small town ambiance clogged the dance floors of every bar, and screwed around behind the boathouses of their rented luxury cabins with the locals. All so they could go back to their big cities bragging how they’d slummed it all summer.

I’d been born and raised in Coeur d’Alene, and after eighteen summers watching the economy-boosting crowds filter in, insuring my mom and I made enough money to survive another cold Idahoan winter, I could spot guys like Preston Wallingford from a mile away. He was here for some fun, before he had to focus on his classes at <insert-name-of-ostentatious-university-here> so mommy and daddy didn’t cut off his allowance. I’d been taught from the time I’d sprouted boobs to avoid the summer boys. Nothing but trouble, my mom had told me over a frozen potpie one day when I was fourteen. They’ll use you and leave you high and dry.

I snatched the message card up and jammed it onto a pick. You could have done it yourself, I mumbled, sweat piquing underneath my bangs. It was pushing ninety-five degrees outside, and our air-conditioning unit had seen better days. Summer around these parts liked to remind us how fierce it could be, suffocating us in the process. Wait, there’s nothing on it.

Preston rested his palms on the counter, and his voice dropped an octave. I was thinking you could write down your number. Then you can keep the flowers, and I’ll come back and pick you up after your shift is over.

My mouth dropped. I’d been helping this guy every other day or so for two months, watching him address card after card to at least a dozen different girls. Never once had I considered myself a prospective date. I wasn’t his type. The girls he’d dated—the names I’d recognized—were tall, blonde, and predictably hot. I was pale, and had my dark hair styled in an asymmetrical bob, and lived for dark eyeliner and red lipstick. Too edgy for someone like Preston Wallingford, Jr.

I rolled my eyes. Are you joking?

Something flashed in his Cinnabon brown eyes...surprise, maybe? But it was quickly quashed by the familiar cockiness. Come on, write it down. I’ve got some friends having a party at a cabin in Bennet Bay. I’ll take you.

Pass. I shoved the card back at him. Why don’t you ask one of your other girlfriends?

Girlfriends? he chuckled, taking the card back and tapping it on the counter. Not likely.

I narrowed my eyes at him when he finally scribbled something down. You know I’ve been arranging flowers for you all summer, right?

Yup. He raised an eyebrow at me. You sure?

About tonight? Folding my arms across my chest, I prayed there weren’t pit marks on my Petal Pushers polo shirt. Just because I was rejecting the guy, didn’t mean I didn’t want to look good while I did it. Yeah. I’m sure.

You’re missing out. Preston turned the card upside down on the counter and pushed it toward me. You’re missing out on a killer party. Becker’s cabin has a slide on the dock, and a kegerator.

I had no idea who Becker was, and his kegerator didn’t sweeten the deal. Guess you’ll have to go without me.

I’ll figure it out. His confidence didn’t falter. Want to put my card in the flowers for me?

I smashed the card onto a pick, then slid it into the arrangement with more force than I intended. "The only thing I want is for you to get your cocky butt out of this shop before I jam one of these card picks up your—"

Aubrey! My manager gave me the death stare from across the shop. Be nice.

Preston smirked, pushing himself away from the counter victoriously.

Refusing to look him in the eyes, I scanned the words scrawled on the small paper square. My heart lurched into my throat.

Liza,

To the prettiest girl