Little Miss Perfect
Julia Kent
Little Miss Perfect
Julia Kent
Contents
Little Miss Perfect
About the Author
Also by Julia Kent
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Little Miss Perfect
by Julia Kent
* * *
Ten years ago, my high school crush found me during senior finals week in the student parking lot with my car decorated with items you find behind a drugstore counter and a “Most Likely to...” banner that would make a pro blush.
And by “pro,” I don't mean golf.
In under an hour, everything I knew about myself was turned upside down and inside out, just as our high school career was in its final hours.
Then again, he's the high school quarterback. He's used to performing when the clock's running out.
Me? I perform well under pressure, too.
But not when Will Lotham is about to kiss me.
Or is he?
* * *
Little Miss Perfect is a prequel to the events that take place in Fluffy, Julia Kent's new book. It can be read on its own, without having read Fluffy.
About the Author
New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Julia Kent writes romantic comedy with an edge. Since 2013, she has sold more than 2 million books, with 4 New York Times bestsellers and more than 19 appearances on the USA Today bestseller list. Her books have been translated into French and German, with more titles releasing in the future.
* * *
From billionaires to BBWs to new adult rock stars, Julia finds a sensual, goofy joy in every contemporary romance she writes. Unlike Shannon from Shopping for a Billionaire, she did not meet her husband after dropping her phone in a men’s room toilet (and he isn’t a billionaire in a rom com).
* * *
She lives in New England with her husband and children in a household where everyone but Julia lacks the gene to change empty toilet paper rolls.
* * *
Join her newsletter at http://www.jkentauthor.com
Also by Julia Kent
Shopping for a Billionaire: The Collection (Parts 1-5 in one bundle, 500 pages!)
Shopping for a Billionaire 1
Shopping for a Billionaire 2
Shopping for a Billionaire 3
Shopping for a Billionaire 4
Christmas Shopping for a Billionaire
Shopping for a Billionaire’s Fiancée
Shopping for a CEO
Shopping for a Billionaire’s Wife
Shopping for a CEO’s Fiancée
Shopping for an Heir
Shopping for a Billionaire’s Honeymoon
Shopping for a CEO’s Wife
Shopping for a Billionaire’s Baby
Shopping for a CEO’s Honeymoon
Shopping for a Baby’s First Christmas
* * *
Little Miss Perfect
Fluffy
Perky (coming soon)
* * *
Her Billionaires
It’s Complicated
Completely Complicated
It’s Always Complicated
* * *
Random Acts of Crazy
Random Acts of Trust
Random Acts of Fantasy
Random Acts of Hope
Randomly Ever After: Sam and Amy
Random Acts of Love
Random on Tour: Los Angeles
Merry Random Christmas
Random on Tour: Las Vegas
* * *
Maliciously Obedient
Suspiciously Obedient
Deliciously Obedient
* * *
Our Options Have Changed (with Elisa Reed)
Thank You For Holding (with Elisa Reed)
© 2019 by Julia Kent
* * *
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
* * *
Cover designer: Hang Le
Editor: Elisa Reed
1
High school finals week. Senior year. Class of 2009 at Harmony Hills High School.
* * *
“Mallory?”
I whip around as my name echoes in the high school hallway, knowing that voice, unable to believe that voice is calling my name. The voice attached to the lips and face and tongue and body and omigod is Will Lotham actually, trying to get my attention?
Now?
I mean… finally?
It’s high school senior year finals week. The end. We’re done. I have one more final exam left and my government textbook is in my car, an oversight I'm remedying right now. A breeze from a massive air vent in the wall shoves my knit skirt toward Will as he walks up to me, as if my skirt is seeking a hug. A kiss.
Contact of any kind.
It’s been four years of torture, loving Will Lotham.
Or, rather, loving my fantasy version of him.
Four years of torture he knows nothing about, because crushing on someone means never having the guts to say a word. I'm wallpaper as far as he's concerned.
Except for that pesky problem with being his final obstacle on the road to valedictory.
We're tied for that honor.
And I'm determined to beat him.
“I — ”
That’s all I can manage as Will approaches, those deeply jewel-blue and green eyes framed by gorgeous lashes, his hair longer than usual because he doesn’t have to keep it close cropped for football, lacrosse, and track anymore. We’re seniors. He’s off to Dartmouth and I’m going to Brown. We’re the only two in our graduating class who made it to the Ivy League, but aside from that, we have nothing in common.
Not one thing.
Sadly.
“Hey. What are you doing here?” he asks, the question understandable as he looks around the hall. The white speckled linoleum starts to incline, the long hallway to the vocational wing of our high school an echo chamber. Neither Will nor I are in voc ed classes, so we must both be headed for the parking lot. This is a shortcut people use, but I haven't in a long time.
“Hi,” I say, breathless, looking at him as if expecting him to go poof, like he's an apparition, one I've conjured in the last-minute desperation of the waning hours of ever seeing him again. My hair is long and unmanageable, the auburn curls turning into a frizzy mess when it's rainy, like today. Eyeing the window, I see the rain's stopped. My glasses are smudged, but he's crystal clear when I finally look right at him.
To find he's staring right back.
“Hey. You okay?” Will stops and studies me with concern, a realness to him I've never seen before. He holds his arms with authority, not letting his hands dangle like some guys, or shoving them in his front pockets and looking awkward. Kind eyes take me in, brow tight with a little concern.
A little.
Let's not get carried away here.
“What? No. I'm fine. Yes. Fine.” I laugh at myself, pulse racing, smoothing my baby blue cotton shirt against my hips, resisting the urge to pluck at a tiny thread that begs for attention. My chest feels like an elephant is taking a nap on it, but my hands turn into helium balloons.
And my heart?
It's flopping in my chest like a fish out of water.
“It's just exam stress. You know.” I give him a smirk, eyes raised, because he knows. I know exactly how much Will Lotham knows about academic stress.
He nods.
My shoes click clack on the floor as we resum
e walking, the hard soles making my teeth rattle as I notice everything in triplicate. Who knew Will could trigger electric fields in my skin?
I did. I knew. I soooooo knew.
I knew four years ago, the day we met for the first time, and time hasn't changed anything.
As we reach the doors to outside, Will moves a little faster, pushing the horizontal bar and then standing there like a gentleman, waiting for me to pass. Carefully, I inhale as I move inches from him, closer to him than I've ever been, his scent as delicious in person as I've imagined it for – yep.
Four years.
We’re at the edge of the student parking lot, the cars a mixture of older sedans, nice compacts, and the richie-rich kids with their showpieces from Dad's garage. Will is one of those. He drives a red BMW convertible, about five years old, with a black top, license plate number IG3 —
See? I’ve got it bad.
“I – I don't have an exam for this period. I'm using the time to study,” I blurt out as he waits for me to pass, then walks astride.
“Me neither. Last exam is government.”
“Right. Same here,” I say in that stupid voice that really isn't me. The one that's trying to hide my excitement but can't.
He's eyeing me like he expects me to stumble, or make a mistake, to do something wrong so he can take advantage of that. Every molecule that makes up my body is trying not to do that. Not do any of that. Not fall, not collapse, not go weak in the knees from his proximity.
An infectious grin spreads across his face. “I know. We're in the same class.”
I almost ask, You noticed me? but that would be stupid.
“Government. The only obstacle between us and freedom,” I joke, not really meaning the words, but knowing they're socially acceptable.
“We're down to the wire, huh?” Casual and comfortable, he's using a tone that makes me feel like we've been friends forever. I glance at him, taking in the red pima cotton polo, the form-fitting faded jeans, the cracked white tennis shoes. He walks with a kind of grace I don't see in most guys, athleticism more than enough to explain it, and yet it doesn't tell the whole story.
Will Lotham is the whole package.
I look away, because now I'm thinking about his, uh – package.
“What do you mean? Down to the wire?” I blurt out, mirroring him to cover for my never-ending supply of internal thoughts that sabotage me. A flurry of biological facts ripples through my mind, my amygdala doing its best to recall every moment of terror I've experienced, most of it in the confines of my mind.
I'm a caged animal.
And I'm the cage itself.
“C'mon, Mallory. You know exactly what I mean.” The tone changes. His hard edge comes out.
I hate this. I do know what he means. I hate being face to face with him, the object of his attention, when he only seems to see me as an obstacle. Not a person.
And certainly not a person of interest.
I go mute.
“Valedictorian,” he says with a smile that somehow combines admiration with a wretched vulnerability and a little bit of outrage that the competition is so fierce.
“That?” I squeak, my face reddening. We're tied for number one in our class.
“That is all my parents can talk about. How being valedictorian will help with grad school.”
“You're worried about grad school already? We barely finished undergrad applications!”
“They are. They've planned everything out. Pretty sure they named my first kid already.”
“You got Gemma pregnant?” I ask that last question a little too loudly. Gemma and Will have dated for a few months. Head cheerleader and captain of the football team. The homecoming queen and king.
The Quarterback and the Queen Bee.
He closes the distance between us and covers my mouth with his hand, laughter in his eyes, but quick reflexes shutting me up before anyone hears.
He is touching me.
Will Lotham is touching my mouth with his warm, strong hand.
Quickly, he moves away, leaving me branded and so close to licking him, but it's too late. “I was speaking about hypothetical children. No, Gem's not pregnant. We don't need any nasty rumors.” He looks around. “Then again, who cares? I'm out of here after this.” A shrug punctuates his apathy, the thick, ribbed collar of his polo shirt brushing against the ends of his hair.
“We all are.”
“No. I mean out of town. I go to Oxford for summer school, then straight to Dartmouth.”
“You're really leaving.” A muscle in my chest feels like two woolly mammoths are using it for tug of war.
“Yep. Anyone with half a brain is.”
“I love our town,” I protest, instantly defensive.
He jolts. “You do?” Eyebrows up, a cocky skepticism rolls over him, the same emotional suit he always wears when he's in a group here at school. Without it echoed in the faces and bodies of his posse, though, it's softer. Less threatening.
Less powerful.
“Yes.” Defiant, I jut my chin up. “I do.”
“You need to see more of the world.”
“I know what I need,” I whisper, looking him straight in the eye and not breaking away.
He doesn't either.
“Besides,” he says, looking away finally, “I broke up with Gem.” Broad shoulders go wider, as if he's proud.
“Why?”
“Because it's time. We did prom.” One shoulder goes up in another shrug. “Time to move on.” He cracks a knuckle on his left hand.
My heart seizes. The mammoths stampede, bringing along a hundred of their friends, all using my breastbone as their path.
“Yeah,” I say. “It is, isn't it? Time to move on.”
Some subterranean part of me knows this. It really is time for me to move on. Not from Anderhill, the town. I love living here. Brown is a little over an hour away, so I can come home whenever I want, but it's not about the physical place.
Being known is important. We all need to feel known.
Every part of this town is in my DNA, from the Dance and Dairy festival every August to Taco Taco Taco, the new Mexican restaurant that opened up four months ago and makes all the national chains taste like sawdust.
But Will is right. It's time to move on.
Here's the problem: It's time for me to move on from my crush, too. Time to move on and leave all these hopes in the past. All the wonderings. All the day dreams. All the repressed wishes that never got a chance to see if they could be real because fear ties hope down like a really skilled kidnapper with an unlimited supply of rope.
That's why Will's words feel like an anvil being lowered over my left ventricle. The weight of truth is measured in blood, isn't it? In tears and ache.
“It's all over.” He stops, just short of his little red car. Not a scratch on it, the rain from this morning pools in perfect drops, like someone dotted it with dragon tears.
It's all over.
This is my last chance.
My last chance, ever, with Will Lotham.
Four years of having lockers next to each other, of being in the same honors classes, suddenly feels like nothing, like a short elevator ride, like a waterslide drop, like a hundred meter dash.
Over before you know it.
Panic grips my stomach, my skin turning hot at the truth of what I'm facing. I waited all this time, hoping against hope that maybe – just maybe – he would notice me. Say something. Give me an opening to get to know him and to be known.
And now it's too late.
“It's all over,” I whisper to myself, not realizing I'm echoing him, one hand nervously tugging on a long strand of my hair, the ends scrubby like a dish sponge. I swallow, hard, trying to control my heart.
“Except for government, yeah.”
“Government. Right.”
His brows drop as he looks at me, seconds deepening our gaze, my body turning to one big hum without tethering, without grounding, the vibrations betwee
n us their own form of matter.
Then his point of sight goes over my head. An astonished look comes over him, the careful mask Will normally wears torn off as real emotion, all of it connected directly to laughter, takes over.
“Holy shit,” he says, gently grasping my elbow and pointing. He's touching me again. I struggle to hear his words, every sense focused on the point where our bodies connect. “Whose car is that?” he asks with a low whistle following.
I squint.
I pause.
I die.
Because it's mine.
Someone – and I have my suspicions who the culprit(s) might be – has taken the liberty of covering my car, the one Mom and Dad gave me when I was sixteen, my older sister's old car from when she was sixteen – with white fluffy cream, streamers, magenta glitter paint and balloons.
“Oh, no,” I groan, squinting to see what the writing on the windshield says. It's not legible from this angle. The only way to get clarity is to walk closer.
God help me.
“That's your car?” He laughs through his nose, a pure, uncontrolled and unrestrained smile of amusement turning his eyes to triangles that take me in without pretense. A glimpse of who Will is without all the trappings of popularity and achievement gives me more of a thrill than four years of watching him act a part.
I like this Will. This feels more real. I like him more than the fantasy man I've created for the last four years.
How did it take this long to meet him?
I pat the hood of his car, my palm wet from the rain. I wipe it on my skirt as I mutter, “We can't all drive Beemers.”
