Unwritten (The Unspoken Series Book 1) Read online

  Dedication

  Prologue

  PART ONE: Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  PART TWO: Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  UNWRITTEN

  Copyright ©2014 M.C. Decker

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means including electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written consent of the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or publishers.

  Cover Design: Kari Ayasha, Cover to Cover Designs

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  Interior Design and Formatting: Christine Borgford, Perfectly Publishable

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  Cover photos: Mandy Hollis, MHPhotography stock and custom photos

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  To my mom; my role model; and my best friend:

  While writing this book, I often wondered what your words of encouragement would be, but I know you would have told me to push through and that you believe in me, always. Thank you for being the greatest mom a girl could ever have. And, thank you for introducing me to the boxes of Harlequin Romance Novels that would come in the mail each week. That is how I know that you would approve of your daughter writing a “smutty” book without even blushing. I just wish more than anything that you could have had the opportunity to read it. Love you and miss you, always.

  *DPGROUP.ORG*

  October 2011

  There was a limousine waiting for me when I exited the terminal at Dulles International Airport, just a little after daybreak. I’d only ridden in a limo once before and it had been with him. I never imagined a potential employer going to such extremes for an interviewee. First, I received first-class boarding passes and now a stretch Hummer with my very own driver. This was certainly a few hundred steps above my current, small-town, reporting gig.

  Even while riding in the lap of luxury, I couldn’t shake the butterflies fighting in my stomach, or the incredibly sweaty palms that I kept wiping on my navy, pinstriped, pencil skirt. Thankfully, I decided to forgo breakfast before catching the red-eye out of Detroit. That would’ve made the butterfly situation a whole lot worse.

  I could do this. I should have researched the editor, Davis, a bit more. Why didn’t I think of doing it two days earlier? Where was the brown paper bag when you needed it? They were always so readily available to the broken heroines in the kinky romance novels that I enjoyed reading.

  After what seemed to be a short drive, the limo began to slow down in front of a large building with oversized, tinted glass windows. Both an American flag and the flag of Washington D.C. flanked the entrance of my destination, the home of the Washington Post. Before the car came to a stop, I wiped my sweaty palms one final time, pulled my compact from my purse, applied a light pink lip gloss and took a deep breath. Showtime!

  My driver came around and escorted me from the car. For that I was thankful, as I’m not sure my nervous, wobbly legs could have survived my new ankle-strap, cream leather Louboutins that I purchased just for this interview. Sure, they may have cost me half an entire paycheck, but I wanted to look the part of an up-and-coming Washington reporter. My new shoes paired nicely with the vintage Valentino suit jacket that I found on clearance at my favorite consignment store and with my favorite go-to, pencil skirt.

  I made my way up the front stairs, opened the heavy doors and headed toward the receptionist’s desk. There sat a young blonde with what appeared to be a fake rack and an even faker tan.

  “Hi, I’m Brooke … Brooke Anderson. I’m here for an interview with Mr. Davis.”

  The much-too-perky female handed me a visitor’s badge and directed me to the twelfth floor where I was to ask for Mr. Davis’s secretary, Caroline. I waited at the elevators for what seemed like an eternity before the doors opened and a group of people pressed forward.

  A few suits exited the elevator on the sixth floor before the doors, pinging open on the twelfth floor, snapped me out of my nervous trance. I straightened my skirt and began to exit the elevator when I collided with all solid muscle and six feet three inches of him. And, that smell – why did this man smell so familiar? … I hadn’t smelled that perfect scent since … it’s then that I looked up and was greeted by those teal eyes. I’d never forget those eyes – those eyes that I never believed I would gaze into again. It was immediate déjà vu. I’d met him like this once before, only eleven years earlier. I had been a young and naïve student with so much to learn about life, love and heartache. I felt my heart begin to race and I feared that it might actually leap from my chest.

  I thought it was too late for us. I thought our story had already been written. …

  PART ONE:

  September 2000

  I remember the first time I saw him, stepping off the elevator, on my way to journalism class, chatting with my best friend Cassidy and not paying too much attention; that’s when I collided with all six feet three inches of all solid-man muscle. Against my tiny, five feet three inch frame, it felt like I had hit a solid brick wall.

  Standing against his chest, I couldn’t help but breathe in his intoxicating scent – a mix between Giorgio Armani’s Acqua Di Gio and Irish Spring Body Wash. What can I say? I know my fragrances. I worked at a drugstore the previous summer and all my male friends from high school wanted my advice on the cologne that would be sure to “get them laid.” I would always tell them Acqua Di Gio. After all, it was almost a sure thing. In fact, just this man’s heady scent alone was making my lady parts pool with desire.

  I remember peeling myself back and looking up into his striking, tealish blue eyes which reminded me of the deepest depths of the ocean. Those eyes alone stopped me dead in my tracks. And, let’s not forget his perfectly chiseled jaw and Hollywood smile and that shaggy, messed-up, yet perfectly styled, chocolate brown hair. He was my ideal man … until he opened his mouth.

  “Hey, can you watch where you’re going? You’re going to make me late for my class.”

  “Ugh, underclassmen, never paying attention,” he continued under his breath.

  I stood just inches away from him, utterly speechless. I wasn’t sure if it was because of my awe over his perfect male beauty, or because he was such a dickface. Probably a combination of both, I would guess.

  “Wow, you don’t have to be a complete jackass,” Cassidy yelled back in my defense.

  I made a mental note to thank her later before finally talking, “Shhh, Cass, it’s not worth it. He’s not worth it.”

  Well, so much for that. Dream over and let the nightmare begin! I went from feeling an instant, butterflies-in-my-tummy attraction to an instant sense of dreaded annoyance. To make matters worse – much worse
– I followed him right into room 208 and straight into my Journalism 101 course.

  “You have got to be freakin’ kidding me,” I muttered under my breath.

  I soon learned that Mr. Gorgeous Asshole’s name was Rich Davis. He was a year my senior and thought he knew everything! Every time he opened his mouth it was to suck up to Professor Markley, or to correct another student. Ugh, he really just made my skin crawl.

  When I found out that I was paired up with him for a writing assignment during the third week of class, I just wanted to vomit right then and there. Maybe then I could get out of it and pass it off as the latest stomach bug making its way around campus. Who cares if it would be a little embarrassing? I was known as Brooke the Klutz during my high school days, so what would a little vomit-and-dash incident really matter? Besides, I was already spoken for and completely in love with Jason James so I really couldn’t have cared less what other male students in the class thought about me. And the girls would just feel bad for me and give thanks that it hadn’t happened to them.

  Oh, it would never work. With my coordination, I’d somehow slip and fall in my own puke.

  “Miss Anderson, please move your seat over to where Mr. Davis is sitting so you can start on your assignment,” Professor Markley said with an annoyed tone.

  Crap, I’d been in my own vomit- induced stupor so I totally zoned out. Way to go, Brooke. Give Davis even more of a reason to be a complete douche monkey.

  I quickly scooted over to sit in the empty chair next to Rich; that’s when I was once again infiltrated with that most delicious scent – one that I can only describe as “man” … I know. Cliché, right? But, oh, so true! It was almost as if he bathed in the Irish Sea and then spritzed himself with fresh pears and melons. Seriously, again, Brooke? Snap the fuck out of it! He’s gonna think you’re an alien sucking in its very last breath. You despise this man, remember?

  “Soooo, you’re Brooke, right? I don’t think we’ve been formally introduced. I’m Rich Davis, third year. I’m an English major, but I decided to add this new journalism minor. So, that’s why I’m here in this intro course. What about you?”

  “Right, I’m Brooke … Brooke Anderson. I’m a sophomore majoring in political science. I worked on my high school newspaper and really liked it, so I thought I would give this new minor a whirl, too. I figure maybe I can mix the two, you know, work for the Washington Post one day.”

  “Cool,” he replied apathetically.

  I swear I saw the jackass roll his sexy eyes at me. You just watch, Mister, I WILL work for the Post someday!

  “So have you read over the assignment? I guess we’re each supposed to write an article of our choosing for the Eagle and then we need to critique each other’s work. Markley is giving us two days to finish, but it seems pretty easy to me. I’m thinking we could get this knocked out by tomorrow,” he added so flippantly.

  “Uh, OK. I have an obligation this evening and have a few other assignments, but I guess I could move this to the top and shoot for tomorrow.”

  And now I had completely forgotten about that most amazing scent and those cerulean eyes. How the eff was I going to get this assignment done by tomorrow? Ugh, this brownnosing jackass is just infuriating. I couldn’t wait for class to end just so I could get on with my day and forget all about Hotty McAsshole.

  I ran back to my dorm, which was only slightly bigger than my bedroom at home, but jammed with double the stuff, to quickly change before heading to my sorority’s recruitment-mixer event co-hosted with Chi Omega. I threw on a black camisole and layered it with an off-white, crocheted sweater. I decided to stick with the flared-leg jeans I was already wearing and slid on a pair of black flip-flops that were hiding out behind my clothes hamper. I ran a brush through my thick, wavy hair, ran some gloss over my lips and checked myself in the mirror. Pleased with my reflection, I headed out the door for a night of mingling and obnoxious sorority cheers. Really, I love my sorority sisters, but the constant clapping, bopping up and down and loud screaming could really get annoying especially after a long day dealing with gorgeous, yet super-irritating, upperclassmen. I heard the familiar chant of one of our famous recruitment cheers as I headed to the Chi house on the west end of campus.

  “Hey Brookie, how was Markley’s class today?” my roomie and bestie, Cassidy, asked as I walked over to grab a slice of pepperoni pizza.

  Cassidy Carpenter and I had been best friends almost since birth – literally; we were born just a day apart. I always harassed her for being a day older, too. It usually worked out to my advantage except when she turned sixteen and was able to drive a day before I could, or when she turned eighteen and bought a lotto ticket to wave in my face. I’m sure she would use it to her advantage in a few years when she would be able to legally down a beer a day before me, too. Not that it really mattered anyways, because we were already drinking every weekend.

  Cassidy and I have pretty much been inseparable our entire lives. Since we were both only children, we shared everything with each other – from our secret crushes to our annoying problems with pimples. I remember acting out plays in her living room and making candy out of snow and pancake syrup in my kitchen. We would sit on the phone for hours each night until our moms would literally have to pry the receivers out of our hands. She was my breath of fresh air and I was her stable rock. Of the two of us, I was definitely the more focused one, but she always taught me to have a little fun, too.

  We both attended the same Catholic school before going our separate ways in high school, but still remained close and decided to go to college together at Western Michigan University, just as we had planned as girls in pigtails, swinging on the jungle gym. We always knew we were going to be Broncos, pretty much since birth, because both of our dads played on the football team and were also best friends, or “bros,” as they called each other in “man code.”

  Anyways, that’s how Cassidy and I met – through our dads. The two of them had us wearing Western Michigan Broncos onesies straight out of the womb. So, we were both ecstatic when we were accepted into Western, not only because it would thrill our dads but also because it was close to the Lake Michigan shore and only about a two-hour drive to Chicago. We both loved spending time at the lake in the summer and who doesn’t love a shopping expedition in Chicago? My bestie was also a fashionista of sorts and now that we lived together, I loved to raid her closet.

  “Ugh, don’t even get me started,” I responded to her question, trying not to get pizza sauce all over my sweater. “What the heck happened to you? Did you decide flirting with Sean over Instant Messenger was more important than class, or what?” I asked, giving her the eye roll.

  Cassidy was absolutely gorgeous with her strawberry blonde hair and big brown eyes. I swear the girl could eat anything in sight and not gain an ounce. Unlike me, who hit the gym every morning, she hardly had to lift a finger to keep her petite frame. In fact, I think she had already consumed an entire pizza by herself. She really made me sick most days. Practically every guy on campus wanted Cassidy Carpenter, yet she was obsessed with the already-taken, Sean Thompson.

  “Shut your face, bi-atch,” she responded. “And, how the h-e-double-l do you know me so well? He kept telling me how cute I looked in astronomy this afternoon. I couldn’t ditch him after that. I think we might actually have something going.”

  “Gag me,” I shot back. … “He has a girlfriend at home, ding-a-ling. Or, did you forget that?”

  “Different zip code, doesn’t count,” she explained with a wink.

  “Does, too, count. I would bust a Lorena Bobbitt on Jay’s ass if I ever found out he tried to pull that ‘different zip code’ bullshit,” I hissed back at her, using air quotes.

  “Calm down, Brookie, you know I wouldn’t really do anything with Sean anyways. Just wishing he would dump the blonde Barbie at home, that’s all.”

  “Oh, Cass, I love you. I pray that one day you find a single boy to Internet flirt with,” I said, before bursti
ng into hysterical laughter while, at the same time, dodging her flying fists. “P.S. – you know you are a blonde Barbie, too, right?” I added as I fled to the opposite side of the room.

  I spent the next few hours plastering on my fakest smile and chitchatting with half the freshmen class. I kept thinking about what a long night it would be trying to research and write an article for Markley’s class. Maybe I could write about egotistical juniors and just interview the most conceited one I knew.

  “So, you never did tell me how Markley’s class went today. Did I miss anything?” Cass asked, as we finally made our way home after the mixer.

  “Other than Rich getting under my skin for the billionth time and Markley pairing us together for a writing assignment … um, no, not much,” I answered, as nonchalantly as possible.

  “Whaaaaat? You have to work with the most beautiful jackass to ever grace this campus? Glad it’s you and not me, friend. I would be sent to the dean for either molesting that boy, or kicking him in the nuts – depending on my mood.”

  “Right,” I responded with a chuckle. “Our assignment isn’t due until Wednesday, but Rich wants to finish it by tomorrow. So, I guess I need to get my ass to the library.”

  “All right, I’m gonna put my sweats and bunny slippers on and wait for Sean to get back from his night class. … At least that’s where his Away Message status tells me where he’s at.”

  “Stalking and bunny slippers? Sexy, Cass … real sexy.”

  With that, I felt one of her bunnies hit the back of my head as I walked toward the bathroom that we shared with an adjoining room. I quickly changed into a more comfortable pair of black yoga pants and threw on my favorite Michigan State Spartans’ sweatshirt before heading out the door in pursuit of the quiet stacks of the campus library.

  As I walked through the library’s dimly lit entrance, I noticed Mr. Brownnoser himself. I considered acting as if I didn’t see him, but I must have been thinking too hard because as I began digging in my purse, as if to make a phone call, he started yelling at me across the room.