CRAZY FOR THIS GIRL : A Second Chance Romance Read online

  CRAZY FOR THIS GIRL

  A SECOND CHANCE ROMANCE

  HAZEL GRACE

  Copyright © 2022 by Hazel Grace

  All rights reserved.

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  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to real events, real people, and real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the Author’s imagination and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, organizations or places is entirely coincidental.

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  All rights are reserved. This book is intended for the reader of this ebook ONLY. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the express written permission of the Author. All songs, song titles and lyrics contained in this book are the property of the respective songwriters and copyright holders.

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  Cover design: Black Widow Designs

  Editing: Nice Girl Naughty Edits

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  SCAN THE CODE ABOVE OR FOLLOW THE LINK

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  CRAZY FOR THIS GIRL SPOTIFY PLAYLIST

  The sun has already set, allowing the blanket of stars to twinkle and glimmer across the dark sheet of night. With my headphones in and Avril Lavigne blaring in my ears, probably making me half-deaf, I sit cross-legged on my family’s boat dock and relax.

  Mom and Dad excitedly wanted to play Monopoly tonight, but I’ve been avoiding my mother like the plague after her cucumber demonstration of how to put a condom on.

  I don’t even want to think about her purposely going to the town store to buy it.

  Also, I don’t want to ponder why she even has a condom to begin with, because seriously, no thanks.

  It all started when she saw my new magazine clippings of Justin Timberlake taped to my red notebook and freaked. How she thought doing her little one-man show in front of Dad was going to keep me from bolting out of our summer cabin and still look at her straight is beyond me.

  I’ve been through Sex-Ed. I know about the birds and the bees and where babies come from. Little do my parents know, I’m way too shy to even get kissed by a boy right now, and I find none of them cute at the private school I went to from kindergarten to eighth grade. I grew up with all of them, listened to their voices change, and watched their faces break out with acne. I was far from interested in dating any of them, let alone dance with them at one of our school functions.

  I also don’t need my mom showing me things I’m not going to be experiencing in the next decade.

  The threat of me going to a public high school next year must be wearing on her because she really wanted me to attend the all-girls Catholic school instead. No boys would’ve meant no weird conversations about intimate relations and peer pressure, so maybe I should’ve caved and agreed to go. But the awful forest green uniforms and white blouses that I’ve had to wear for eight years made the decision pretty easy.

  Unless I wanted to be like my best friend, Hannah, and get sent down to the principal’s office for wearing way too much makeup and hiking her skirt up a little too high. It’s such a common occurrence that she makes time in her week to serve it.

  The heavy thuds of something hitting the wooden dock startle me, and I whip my head over my shoulder to see a lean figure walking toward me.

  My fight or flight skills activate, having watched way too many horror flicks to make the mistake of looking over my shoulder every two seconds and trip while running. Except, I have a lake behind me, and drowning isn’t on my to-do list tonight if my alleged attacker is a faster swimmer than me.

  Tugging one of my earbuds out of my ears, I watch as the tiki torches that Dad has attached to the dock start to bring the trespasser into view. I only have the closest one to me lit, but it’s all I need.

  It’s an outline of a boy who looks to be the same age as me, with what looks to be dark brown hair and a friendly smile. His white tee makes it appear like he’s swimming in it, and his gray sweatpants do the same exact thing as he stops within a few feet of me, generating my mind to come up with a way to shove him into the water so I can run back up to my cabin.

  “Hey,” he says, shoving his hands into the pockets of his sweats. “Sorry if I scared you. I saw you out here and wanted to introduce myself.”

  “In the middle of the night, though?” I can’t help the question and how accusatory it sounds. It just blurts through my lips like I have diarrhea of the mouth. Something I’ve been trying to reel in for years now.

  I clearly suck at it.

  However, this is weird and creepy, and too much like the movie Scream to me.

  Stranger Boy doesn’t falter from my comment and shrugs. “Yeah, well, I just unpacked. Looked out the window, and here you were.” He quickly extends a hand. “I’m Cal.”

  Fight or flight.

  Fight or flight.

  “Laynee.” I hesitantly return his gesture because one of his hands is still held hostage in his pocket.

  He jerks his thumb to my family’s cabin. “You rentin’ this place out?”

  “No, we own it.”

  Which means people know us here. I disappear, you’re number one suspect, new boy.

  He turns his head and points to the blue-sided house next to mine. “We’re at that one. We’re not renting either; my father bought it this year.”

  I immediately frown and feel my shoulder slump in disappointment. “What happened with Miss Litwa?”

  He shrugs again. “Dunno.”

  “Oh.” I can’t help the letdown of that fact fill in with my words. Miss Litwa was a really cool lady in her mid-thirties, who would invite me over to bake, hang out with her girlfriends when they came up from Florida, and she’d even do my makeup when I was feeling courageous against another talk with Mom.

  We’d speak about all sorts of things, music and movies, and I felt more comfortable with her than I did my own parental unit that likes to hound me on every little thing I do.

  “Friend of yours?”

  I bob my head and mutter, “Yeah.”

  “Sorry to hear that.” He doesn’t sound it. In fact, a smirk lines his sharp-edged face. “But I promise I’ll try to live up to her standards.”

  Doubtful.

  “Do you bake?” I stare him dead in the eyes when I ask because it’s important. It’s actually life or death.

  Mom can’t bake cupcakes, brownies, cakes, pies, or anything requiring an oven to save her life, and I need my daily intake of snacks. She always gets tablespoons mixed up with teaspoons and ends up ruining every dessert she makes (don’t get me started on dinner). Plus, it doesn’t take much for her to get distracted on the phone with one of her friends and forget an ingredient or burn whatever’s cooking to a crisp.

  With Miss Litwa, I was set all summer long with baked goods that were edible. Creamy and soft delights of sugary goodness without the charred aftertaste of cruel abandonment.

  “Probably,” he replies with a slight wrinkle to his nose. “Don’t you just follow the directions on the back of the box?”

  I blink at him.

  “I guess I’m learning how to bake this summer.” He doesn’t sound too thrilled about it, but, hey, I didn’t ask him to move next door.

  I cross my arms over my chest and sigh.

  This is gonna suck.

  “Looks like I’m buying some recipe magazines when we go into town.” I see him quirk a semi-unamused brow. “Anything else?”

  “No,”—I shake my head—“no offense, but I don’t trust you to do my makeup.”
/>
  Cal chuckles. “Yeah, well, I wouldn’t trust me either. I’m sure there’s something else I can contribute to make up for that.”

  “Can’t wait to see what that could possibly be.”

  “I’m feeling a little judged here,” he quips blatantly, but doesn’t hold any animosity in his words. “You not used to making friends?”

  “Not in the dark, no.”

  “I’d say I’m sorry for crashin’ your night, but,”—he smiles at me, not looking a bit bothered by how put off I am of him right now—“I’ll see you around?”

  “Only if you look out your window again.”

  His mouth curves wider, and goosebumps line my forearms in warning. “Oh, I plan on it.”

  This morning is nothing but epic because Dad made blueberry pancakes, and I’m a sucker for anything breakfast food related.

  Key-in favorite kind of pancakes equals blueberry.

  After stuffing my face and helping Dad clean up with the dishes, I head outside on our wrap-around porch, taking the perfect opportunity to allow my stomach to settle and dive right into my next Nancy Drew book for the rest of the morning.

  I don’t get even three rocks into my rocking chair before I hear my name being bellowed out through the peaceful surroundings like a wild banshee.

  “Laynee, hey! Hey, Laynee!”

  Flicking my gaze up, I locate that voice and Cal jogging my way across the green grass between our cabins. The sunlight gives me an even better picture of the boy from last night.

  An eminently straight nose, crocodile green eyes, and dark hickory-colored hair, Cal is... he’s gorgeous. His jawline is sharp, molding underneath rosy lips that spoke too much last night, but I guess he’s able to get away with it because he’s someone I would take a double-look at if I saw him at school.

  The smile he’s currently transmitting my way has me believing that there’s another girl on this porch for God’s sake, and I’m almost tempted to turn around just to make sure. I’ve never had a boy grin at me so excitedly, like he really wanted to see me, before.

  I watch as his hair bounces with every stride he takes in his red gym shorts that go past his knees, and the black shirt that outlines his slightly muscular frame now.

  He’s not floating in clothes anymore.

  No, he brought his A-game out with the ideal outfit for his body type, and I bet the guy didn’t even try. I’m just hoping he’s not one of those demeanor guys who thinks he’s better than everyone else because he’s cute and charming.

  Cal doesn’t stop until he’s underneath my deck, which means I have to stand and peer over the railing to look down at him because I can only see his forehead.

  “Hey,” I greet back without the same excitement. “What’s up?”

  “Wanna show me the best fishing spot around here?” He covers his eyes with his hand, blocking the brightness of the sun, and I notice he isn’t equipped for what he wants to do.

  “Where’s your fishing pole?”

  Cal rubs at his forehead. “Wanted to see the spot first.”

  I lift a brow because he’s disturbing me and my morning routine. No matter how attractive he is to look at in the daylight, I don’t feel like giving a grand tour of his new digs and the area surrounding it.

  “There’s not really a supreme spot,” I retort. “It’s just luck and skill.”

  “Where do you go?”

  I shrug dismissively. “Here and there.”

  He smiles at me again, like I’m slow and not understanding what he wants. I quickly pry my eyes away because those green eyes are vivid and soul-sucking. He looks like one of the teenage heartthrobs in my BOP magazines, but I don’t trust him as far as I can throw him.

  Josh Goodman was nice to me once. He was the new kid in school, needed some friends, and I welcomed him with open arms because that’s just who I am. Tell me why a few weeks later, he realized I wasn’t one of the popular girls and began using me as target practice in gym class for dodgeball? Let’s not forget the time he looked under my skirt on the monkey bars and told everyone what color my underwear was.

  So, I stopped setting myself up for disappointment from boys and plainly stay away.

  “Describe here and show me there,” Cal muses, then nods at me. “You wanna show me when you’re done reading?”

  “Yeah.” I bob my head, hoping he forgets, but I appreciate that he noticed the book in my hand.

  “Alright.” He pivots and starts back toward his two-story cabin without looking back.

  I go to sit again, opening up my book, when shoes hit the wooden deck of my porch seconds later. Looking up, I see Cal is back with a magazine in his hand.

  What the heck?

  “I could catch up on some reading too.” Without my offering to make himself at home, he plops down onto the rocking chair beside mine and cracks open an issue of Cosmopolitan.

  I lift a brow at his choice of reading material, because how many guys have you ever seen picking that one up? “What are you doing? Where did you get that?”

  He glances over at me unfazed, then back at his magazine. “I’m reading, and from my mom.”

  “You do know how to read, right? That’s a chick magazine.”

  “Says who?” He cocks his head to the side, interested in his page, and pushes his cheek out with his tongue. Clearly, he’s comfortable educating himself on beauty and style, so I return to my novel.

  It only takes two more minutes for my new neighbor to crash into my sentence again and open his mouth.

  “Let’s see if you have a type,” he chimes in, making me tighten my fingers around the edge of my hardcover. “They have a quiz in here.”

  I shake my head; maybe if I show him no attention, he’ll shut up. “Those are stupid.”

  “Yeah, but this one is super quick.” He holds up the publication higher and kicks one of his legs over the top of the other one like my dad, completely ignoring me when he says, “Do you prefer your partner to be different or similar to you?”

  I wrinkle my nose and glimpse over at him. “What kind of test is this?”

  “It’s called Finding Your Perfect Boyfriend Match. Interesting stuff.”

  Not really.

  “How about”—I turn my waist in my chair and face him, keeping the calmest expression placed on my face— “we play the quiz where we continue reading and see how long it’ll take for you to open your mouth again?”

  Cal smirks, but unfortunately is not put off by my snide remark. “So, different or similar?”

  “How about silent?”

  “So different because you’re loud.” He nods once as if mentally marking the answer in his head and I’m the crazy one here. “How important is height when searching for potential dating material?”

  I shrug off a defeated sigh because he’s obviously not going to stop. “I dunno.”

  “Well, do you prefer to bend over when you’re kissing them? Like making out with a guy the size of a child, or gazing up into their eyes?”

  “What am I, a Disney princess?”

  “You’d be Belle, so yeah, I guess.”

  I scoff. “Yeah, then you’d be the Beast.”

  “I would be because he’s bomb.”

  “And obnoxious, apparently, with following directions.”

  He lifts his shoulders. “Hey, I’m an alpha prince who’s misunderstood.”

  “He was a jerk.”

  “See, it’s like we’ve known each other for years.” He smiles at me, straight pearly whites and all. “Do you have a list of deal-breakers or a must-have list?”

  “This is shallow,” I complain off a semi-whine, then wave my book in the air. “And my stuff is much more mind-blowing.”

  “And so much more 1950’s,” he counters back, studying my worn yellow cover. “Do they speak normal modern-day in there or old fashion English?” My lips crack into a weak grin because he says it so seriously that he has to be kidding.

  I hope.

  I think.

&n
bsp; “So, height?” He perks a brow. “Important or nah?”

  I exhale heavily with my whole body, officially accepting of the fact that he’s not going to stop this stupid game. “Important.”

  “Do you end your relationships for close to the same reason each time or different?”

  My face twists. “How many do you think I’ve had? I’m fourteen.”

  “I had a girlfriend at five,” he informs me, flipping the page matter-of-factly.

  “With who, Paddington Bear?” Cal snorts off a chuckle, and I wish he’d choke on it.

  “Don’t tell nobody,” he confides quietly, then flips another page. “We’ll skip that one. Do you have a type?” This time when he asks me the question, his heavy gaze falls on me as if it’s crucial to know my answer.

  My voice lodges in my throat, and I find myself swallowing a lump that’s forming at the slight intensity of it when I reply, “Not really.”

  “What was your last boyfriend like?”

  Yeah, again, this is not fun.

  Especially when I’ve never had a boyfriend before.

  “Uh…” My eyes fall onto my Nancy Drew book with the name Carolyn Keene as the author at the bottom. “It was a girl.”

  I don’t miss the way Cal’s eyes widen before he quickly corrects himself. The only serious relationship I’ve ever been in is with Hannah.

  And I don’t mean romantically.

  Her neediness and necessity for my attention make it seem like we’re dating. I hold her bags when she shops and mostly spot her lunch when we’re out. I’m on the phone with her every night, and the only reason she doesn’t call up to the cabin, like she does at home on a daily basis, is because my mom would throw a fit.

  “Awesome.” He clears his throat and, for the first time in the less than twenty-four hours that I’ve known him, it appears like he doesn’t quite know what to say. “What was she like?”

  “Mysterious and…” Demanding. “Cool.”