Breaking Defenses (B.S.U. #1)

By JB Salsbury

I never should’ve loaned him my lucky pencil.

Like every female in high school I was captivated when he spoke to me. I had no idea that moment would cause irrevocable damage.

Over two years later I’m face to face with Carey Slade again. This time I won’t get caught up in his good looks and oozing charm. I work three jobs and get straight A’s. I can’t afford to get distracted. Not again.

Rowan and I have history. History I plan to take to the grave.

My football career depends on me passing a class and Rowan is assigned as my tutor. I never thought I’d see her again after high school. She’s different from the girl I remember—confident, smokin’ hot, funny as hell.

I’m the man responsible for ruining her life.
If I have my way, she’ll never find out.

• Language: English
• Publisher: JB Salsbury
• Release date: Mar 21, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215069738

JB Salsbury

New York Times and USA Today Bestselling author, J.B. Salsbury, lives in Arizona with her husband and two kids. She spends the majority of her day as a domestic engineer. But while she works through her daily chores, a world of battling alphas, budding romance, and impossible obstacles claws away at her subconscious, begging to be released to the page.Her love of good storytelling led her to earn a degree in Media Communications. With her journalistic background, writing has always been at the forefront, and her love of romance prompted her to sink her free time into novel writing.For more information on the series or just to say hello, visit J.B. on her website, Facebook, or Goodreads page.http://www.jbsalsbury.com/https://www.facebook.com/JBSalsburybookshttp://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6888697.Jamie_Salsbury

Book preview

Prologue

Las Vegas High School - Senior Year

Rowan

I’m not going to puke, I’m not going to puke. I’m not going to puke.

I repeat the phrase in my head as my stomach twists while roaring the opposite. I’m regretting the PB&J I ate for lunch. I should’ve gone without, but food feeds the brain and I need all the fuel I can get.

Friday. The last day of finals week in my very last week of high school and there’s no way in hell I could mess this up.

AP calculus is my sweet spot.

Math has always been my thing.

I pulled an all-nighter just to insure I had this test in the bag, and yet my stomach still gurgles with unease. But I’ve learned the hard way that even the best laid plans can get blown to shit without any help from me. My life has been a constant uphill climb with unimaginable obstacles, but I’ve managed to hold on by my nails to keep climbing.

The past does not predict the future.

I make those words my new mantra and it seems to work a little better than the previous.

Weaving through my boisterous classmates in the courtyard there is a tangible change in the air. Four years of school is almost over. Sure, we have those couple of pointless days next week that we’ll spend signing yearbooks and having end of the year parties, but those don’t really count.

The Las Vegas sun is hot so that when I pull open the door to Mr. Thorn’s classroom the air-conditioning cools my sweat-dampened skin.

Rowan, you’re early, Mr. Thorn says. He’s at his desk with a half-eaten sandwich and an open bag of lunch-sized Doritos.

I drop my bag at the desk in the front, the same desk I’ve had all semester and manage to claim easily every class period because no one likes to sit in the front. I don’t mean to interrupt your lunch. I unzip my backpack that’s barely being held together by safety pins and some creative needle and thread work. I thumb the torn shoulder strap thinking fondly of the bag that has managed to survive four years of high school. I’ll study quietly until the bell rings. I drop into my seat and pull out my AP calculus study guide, the one I’ve practically memorized over the week.

Mr. Thorn grunts and goes back to his lunch.

I skim through the first few pages without having to look at the equations because I’ve been over them a million times. Relationship between infinite limits and asymptotes, intermediate value theorem—

The bell blazes overhead signaling the end of the lunch hour. My hand clutches the front of my lucky shirt for comfort. My Bear State University shirt, the one I picked up when I toured the campus after I was offered the coveted Brower Millstone Academic Scholarship. Since I was eight years old I’ve dreamed of living in Los Angeles, going to school for accounting and becoming the CFO for a Fortune 500 company. Living by the beach is a dream, and getting out of Las Vegas, more specifically, away from my mom and stepdad, is the ultimate goal.

The room fills with sweaty teenagers in various forms of conversation. Kids I went to school with for four years and most of them don’t even know I exist. It’s not that they’re assholes, at least, not all of them. I’ve always been an introvert, never found comfort in friendship because it’s unpredictable. That’s what I love so much about math, I can always count on there being one right answer.

I keep my head down, looking over my notes, as Mr. Thorn cleans up his lunch and by the time the final bell rings the classroom is full except for the two desks on either side of me. I feel a small sense of comfort knowing there won’t be anyone sitting close enough to me to cheat off my paper.

Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to your AP calculus final. The test consists of twenty-eight questions, each one a concept you learned sometime during our time together. The test is worth eighty percent of your grade, so I hope you all took my advice and studied hard.

Most of the room groans, but my lips curl in a secret smile.

As hard as I’ve studied, there can’t possibly be a question on that test that I don’t know the—

The door swings open with a gush of hot air. With the sun glare I can’t tell right away who’s walking in late. When he takes his first steps inside my gaze narrows while my stomach simultaneously flips over on itself.

How does a man of his size manage to move like he’s walking on air?

I’d recognize that swagger anywhere.

Carey Slade, Mr. Thorn says with a shake of his head. Nice of you to join us.

The all-star football player hikes his backpack higher on his shoulder and flashes his most charming grin. Sorry I’m late. I got caught up with…something. He swipes at his lower lip with his thumb and it doesn’t take a math genius to figure out he got caught up with someone. Most likely Serena Yuki, the gorgeous Asian American captain of the cheerleading team. Her and Carey have been on-again off-again since freshman year.

Mr. Thorn mumbles, Take a seat, Mr. Slade.

I watch his big body float to the desk to my left and I am hit with a whiff of fancy smelling cologne when he drops into the seat next to me. He places his backpack on the floor between us and leans back in his chair, making the plastic and metal groan in protest. He’s well over six-foot and I couldn’t begin to guess at his weight, but something tells me he’s probably heavier than he looks. His shoulders are wide, arms thick, and his large chest tapers into a narrow waist and—

Hey, can I borrow a pencil?

My gaze snaps to his and judging by the smug look in his hazel eyes he saw me checking out his body. I feel my lips part to reply, but words fail me.

I’ve been going to school with Carey Slade since Freshman year, but he’s never once spoken to me. Okay, there was that one time Junior year when I was standing in the lunch line, blocking the doorway and he said, ’Scuse me as he pushed by. But this is the first time he’s looked at and spoke to me at the same time.

He tilts his head, his dark messed up hair catches the fluorescent lights making it look more brown than black. Pencil?

Right. Pencil.

I nod dumbly and curse him in my head for making me feel dumb. I don’t have a lot going for me. I’m not popular, don’t play sports, and no one would ever accuse me of being beautiful, but I am smart. My 4.2 GPA proves as much.

I pull my backpack to my lap and unhook the big safety pin to get into the zipper pouch. I feel his eyes on me and move quickly in the hopes that he won’t see my hand shake. I reach for the first pencil I find and hand it to him.

He smirks and takes it. When his big fingers brush against mine, I whip my hand back and curl it into my stomach.

He leans across the aisle, holds up the pencil, and whispers, Thanks.

Feeling lurchy and awkward I nod, only realizing when I go to pull out my own pencil that I’d given Carey my lucky one.

Carey

Unicorns.

Odd. I never would’ve thought Rowan Campbell would be into unicorns. The mythical horned horses seem way too mainstream for the girl who seems to get all her clothes from Goodwill. I’m not implying that she’s poor, she drives an older Volkswagen Jetta and I know those things aren’t cheap. It’s more like she appreciates things with mileage.

She’s always wearing some faded over-sized t-shirt from another state, and every winter she sports a sweatshirt that reads World’s Greatest Grandpa that’s so big it covers her knees.

When I asked for a pencil I expected some stumpy yellow number 2 with teeth marks and no eraser. Not this silver and pink speckled monstrosity.

Mr. Thorn drops my test on my desk. Keep your eyes on your own paper. You’ll have fifty minutes to complete the test. Cheating is an automatic failure in the class.

Yadda-yadda…

I flip open the first page, carefully reading the question, and feel Rowan’s eyes on my test. Which is really fucking weird because the girl is some kind of super genius, and although I get decent grades, I need to if I want to continue playing football, she would never find me worthy of skimming answers from.

She’s not staring at me, she’s staring at the pencil.

I drag the pencil off the desk and into my lap, pretending to rest it on my inner thigh and then turn just in time to catch Rowan eyeing my crotch.

Her cheeks light up, a bright pink that makes her green eyes, that are wide and horrified, glow. I chuckle and she puts her eyes back on her paper, her head sinks deep between her shoulders as she scribbles furiously on her test.

I smile and get back to mine.

I read through the questions, answering the ones I know and skipping the ones I don’t. I’ve got a decent GPA, and I already have my one-way ticket to Bear State University to play football, so I only have to complete this test, I’m not looking for an A, just a passing grade.

Thirty minutes have gone by and there are three questions on the test I haven’t answered yet.

Thank God for planning ahead.

I wrote a little cheat sheet on the backside of a water bottle label.

Mr. Thorn is nose deep in grading papers when I reach into my backpack for my water bottle. I place it on the desk and casually peel the label back while I keep my eyes fixed on the test.

I work out the problem and reach to flip the page when my hand knocks the water bottle off my desk and it rolls under Rowan’s.

Startled, she makes a little squeak that gets Mr. Thorn’s attention. I keep my nose to my test as Rowan swats at the bottle beneath her, finally pushing out her chair to snag it from the floor.

Mr. Thorn looks panicked watching the girl climb under the table. Rowan, please stay in your seat—

Sorry, she says. She holds the bottle up. I got it. Sorry. She climbs back into her seat. It’s just a water bottle.

But the label is hanging open exposing all the black pen marks hidden inside. I continue to work on my test, hoping the cheat sheet goes unnoticed, but when Mr. Thorn comes around his desk, I close my eyes and pray to the god of second chances.

Give me that, Mr. Thorn says.

Rowan, again at a loss for words, makes a weird groan whine sound and hands him the bottle.

Ms. Campbell—

It’s not mine. She finally finds her words and that’s what she chooses to say? Amateur.

Whose is it then?

They have the entire class's attention now, all of us looking to the front of the class to wait and see who Rowan throws under the bus.

I-I don’t know. I was taking my test and I heard it fall… Her gaze slips to the empty seat on her right, and then comes to me. I can see the question in her eyes, she wants me to confess.

No fucking way.

Everyone knows you never confess when accused of cheating.

I shrug. I didn’t see it either.

The entire room is silent as Mr. Thorn’s face swells with anger. If someone doesn’t confess I will fail the entire class.

Rowan gasps.

Mr. Thorn points to the back of the room. Mateo?

I whirl around at the sound of my team’s quarterback’s name, he also happens to be my best friend. What the fuck is he doing?

He removes his baseball hat that