If Only Read online

  Sometimes it takes crossing an ocean to figure out where you belong.

  It’s been two years since twenty-year-old Jordan had a boyfriend—which means it’s been forever since she, well, you know. But now she’s off to spend her junior year in Aberdeen, Scotland, the perfect place to stop waiting for Mr. Right and just enjoy Mr. Right Now.

  Sexy, sweet (and possible player) Griffin may be her perfect, no-strings-attached match. He’s fun, gorgeous, and makes her laugh. So why can’t she stop thinking about Noah who, minutes after being trapped together outside the train’s loo, kisses Jordan like she’s never been kissed before? Never mind his impossible blue eyes, his weathered, annotated copy of The Great Gatsby (total English-major porn)…oh, and his girlfriend.

  Jordan knows everything this year has an expiration date. Aberdeen is supposed to be about fun rather than waiting for life to happen. But E. M. Forster, Shakespeare, and mistletoe on Valentine’s Day make her reconsider what love is and how far she’s willing to go for the right guy.

  IF ONLY

  A.J. PINE

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  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

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Love New Adult fiction and want to try some more? Check out these other great titles from Entangled Embrace…

  Darkside Sun

  Full Measures

  In Bloom

  Sneaking Candy

  Definitely, Maybe in Love

  Forged by Fate

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

  Copyright © 2014 by A.J. Pine. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

  Entangled Publishing, LLC

  2614 South Timberline Road

  Suite 109

  Fort Collins, CO 80525

  Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com.

  Edited by Karen Grove and Nicole Steinhaus

  Cover design by Jessica Cantor

  ISBN 978-1-62266-435-1

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Edition March 2014

  To Sydney, Connor, and Joe—for accepting my laptop as an extra appendage and loving me anyway.

  To U of I for choosing Aberdeen for my year abroad.

  To E. M. Forster and William Shakespeare, for your love stories that still make me swoon.

  Departure

  (Early September)

  “Life is easy to chronicle, but bewildering to practice.”

  E. M. Forster

  A Room with a View

  Chapter One

  There is a little known truth that a two-year dry spell can earn a girl her virginity back. I myself was unaware of this fascinating nugget of wisdom until Sam, my roommate and best friend, so graciously bestowed it upon me. I thought I was doing fine, living vicariously through her relationship, until she dumped the guy she was supposed to marry and slept with Eddie the bartender.

  Now the English countryside hurtles past as I watch through the train’s window. Thousands of miles and an ocean may separate us, but Sam’s words still ring in my ears. I wasn’t living, Brooks. I was just going through the motions.

  I never liked it in high school when someone called me by my last name, but with Sam it works. Also, I don’t argue with Sam. She wins every time. That’s what I love about her.

  If she wasn’t living, with a gorgeous boyfriend who adored her, what does that say about me? I haven’t dated in years, not since Logan, though not for a lack of trying. I blame it more on the abundance of man-whores who all decided to go to Illinois University. I should do a study. It’s probably a phenomenon that would get me published in scholarly journals. Something to think about for my senior year. For now, my writing will have to take a more informal approach.

  I pull Sam’s going-away gift out of my bag: a journal and instructions to not discount the type of boy who prizes sex over commitment. I always wanted what Sam had, but what does it mean that Sam didn’t, that she threw away something I envied for a one-night stand? But I trust her more than anyone else I know. She grabs happiness by the collar and yanks it into her life. I’m still hoping it finds me on its own.

  The train races north, carrying me farther from anything familiar. But I carry Sam with me, her inscription on the journal’s first page.

  “My little Brooks. Look at you, all grown up.” I chuckle to myself and continue reading. “Picture this year like an alternate reality. A parallel universe. Your instinct has always been to wait, to be careful, to be sure. You don’t have time for that in Scotland. You only have time to enjoy, to live. See what it would be like to go against your instinct. Live a little, Brooks. You might enjoy it.”

  One year, a foreign country, no strings attached, and strict orders to leave my reissued V-card in Scotland—Sam’s idea of living, not mine. At least not yet. But I could try. No time like the present. Okay, Sam. Let’s try ignoring instinct. No better place to start than on this train.

  I fidget in my seat with the anticipation of a nine-hour train ride. My hand cups the back of my neck, feeling for what is no longer there: my once wavy, dark brown mane I traded for an almost pixie cut, a not-so-brilliant idea considering Scotland’s damp climate. The hair was my grand gesture, a reset button. So far my one act of spontaneity does nothing but remind me why I prefer research and planning. Short hair in perpetual humidity makes me long for my ponytail. I try to tuck my bangs behind my ear, but they aren’t long enough and are already flipping up at the ends. When people look in my direction, I imagine a flashing sign over my head, like something out of a cheesy eighties game show, saying Foreigner! Foreigner!

  But I look at the journal and remind myself of the possibilities—new do, new me.

  I laugh quietly, as if someone catches my lame attempt at vanity, and abandon the window seat. Nine hours from London to Aberdeen requires more trips to the bathroom than I’m willing to admit. It’s a good thing the aisle seat is still open. Wait, was still open.

  At first all I see is a long torso, his head and arms obscured by the overhead bin. But it’s definitely a him.

  “Hey,” the torso says, though he’s no longer just that. He’s a guy, sinking into my aisle seat. A shaggy mess of dirty-blond locks flop against his forehead, and the corners of his mouth quirk up into a broad grin, his deep brown eyes fixing on mine. “I’m Griffin.”

  Based on his accent, he’s American, too.

  “Jordan.”

  His hand extends toward mine, sure and confident. I hesitate, my natural reaction to meeting anyone, let alone a good-looking guy who parks himself next to me for a day-long trip.

  Ignore this instinct, Brooks. See what happens if yo
u do.

  Great. Sam has weaseled her way into my head.

  I grip his hand and shake—too long and too hard, like I’ve just sold him a used car I thought would never leave the lot.

  A throaty laugh escapes his lips, and something in me lets go of the fear, of the need to be sure where anything is going. It’s just a conversation, Jordan. Get a grip, and get out of your head.

  Right here, right now, enjoy myself. See where this takes me, if only a few hundred miles north.

  I laugh along with him, and though I stop my violent shake, he holds on to my hand.

  It’s a handshake, but his touch ignites a feeling the old me, the one who’s been holding out for what’s never going to happen, would ignore: desire.

  It’s easier not to want someone to smile at me like that, to hold tight after the socially acceptable amount of time to do so. To enjoy the touch of someone else without wondering where it will go—I don’t operate like that.

  Everything this year has an expiration date. Scotland is my fairy tale, my pumpkin-turned-coach. In May the magic wears off, and I’ll return to reality. With no time to waste, maybe I need to let my waiting expire, too.

  But my trip to the bathroom, I guess that can wait.

  “Home state?” I ask, making myself comfortable by the window but enjoying the view in the seat next to me a little more than the English countryside.

  “Minnesota. You?”

  “Ah. MinnesOHta, dontcha know?”

  My horror manifests in the heat of my cheeks, overdoing it again with my lame attempt at a Minnesota accent. All I really know about the state is the movie Fargo, but I only saw the trailer because there’s no way I could have watched that wood-chipper scene.

  But he smiles and nods knowingly.

  “I introduce myself, and I’m already reduced to a stereotype, huh? I see how it is. Dontcha know.”

  I bury my face in my palms and try to shrink farther into my seat because he doesn’t talk like that at all. His voice is deep and kind of sexy, in a playful, teasing way.

  He pries my hands from my face, forcing me to look at him.

  “How about you tell me where you’re from so I can butcher your stereotypical accent?”

  I roll my eyes, but his tactic works because I can speak again.

  “Chicago. The suburbs, actually.”

  He gives a dramatic clearing of his throat before speaking.

  “Oh, yeah. Over by der. Da ChiCAgo Bulls.”

  We both crack up.

  “Are we even now?” he asks, and I nod. “Okay, then. Another question. Are you heading to Aberdeen University like the majority of people our age on this train?”

  My smile widens. “You, too?”

  “Yep.”

  And it goes on like this for a while. Conversation with Griffin is easy, but as I start to relax and enjoy myself, I remember the reason I attempted to leave the window seat in the first place.

  “I’m sorry, but would you mind?” I try to gesticulate my need to get out to the aisle so I don’t have to say it, and he understands immediately. Thank you. Finally a guy who understands a girl who talks with her hands. I slide past him, the backs of my knees rubbing against his, and when I turn to walk in the direction of the bathroom, he’s smiling.

  “You’re not going to sneak off to another seat and leave me here all alone, are you?”

  He’s flirting. Maybe I’ll earn my re-admittance to “the club” with an American. Wasn’t I coming to the UK so I could experience the UK? And here I am, feeling the heat rise from my neck to my cheeks as I smile back at Minnesota boy. Sam would be proud either way.

  “I’m going to the bathroom. Or, I guess I’m supposed to call it the loo now. Bottom line—I have to pee, or wee, or whatever we’re supposed to do here.” Smooth. I’m pretty sure I told him four times that I’m going to pee. And now my neck feels hotter than before, my embarrassment no doubt visible by the blotchiness that always accompanies my pale skin’s blush. I try to catch a glimpse of myself in the window’s reflection. Damn London sky, making it impossible to see myself in the reflection of the glass. Don’t you know a girl needs a mirror when she’s sitting next to a cute guy? I’m officially angry at the sky now. And the window.

  Griffin must sense the turmoil of my inner monologue because his smile grows mischievous. Walk away, Jordan. He knows you are coming back now, and he knows you have to pee. Just go. So I do.

  When I return, I pass our seats, not seeing him sitting where he should be. Griffin alerts me to my error.

  “Hey. Jordan.”

  He sits in the window seat at an awkward angle under the low ceiling. A petite blond sits on the aisle. When I head back, said blond writes something on Griffin’s hand, then stands to leave.

  “Lovely meeting you,” she says in a lilting, British accent.

  She smiles as she brushes past me without introduction, and I assess that if I ever got to know her, I’d confirm my suspicions that she’s a bitch.

  “Hope you don’t mind,” he says. “I figured you might need more easy access to the toilet than me, seeing how we are only about one-eighth through our trip and you’re already breaking the seal.”

  Wow, he’s smooth.

  “Looks like you get easy access as well,” I say, my tone a little too snide to avoid notice.

  He raises a brow. “Isn’t it a little early in our relationship to get jealous?”

  “There is no relationship.” I grab his hand and flip it over to see his palm. “But Katie might be available.”

  He stands up, climbing over me to get to the aisle. After reaching up onto the luggage rack, he sits back down with a water bottle. He pulls open the spout and sprinkles a few drops of water on his hand, wiping away Katie’s name and number. The whole time I watch, my mouth hangs open in the slight shape of an O.

  “Why did you do that?”

  Griffin’s eyes widen with exaggerated incredulity. “Did you see all those numbers? I don’t know how to dial that. My cell phone would probably reject anything more than ten digits. Besides, I sat here because I saw you smile, and I liked it. Kathy’s got nothing on your lips.”

  “Katie.” I correct him, but the corners of my mouth turn up, betraying my annoyance. He liked my smile.

  “Whatever,” he says.

  “Do you say what you want when you want?” I find this both intriguing and terrifying.

  “I say what I mean. You can’t go wrong with that. Most people find it charming.”

  I hold up his hand, which is still marked with faded evidence. “You say charming. I say man-whore. Potato, potahto.”

  Maybe my theory about man-whores in Illinois is wrong. They’re everywhere.

  His hands fly to his heart in melodramatic protest.

  “Even after I washed off her number? That hurts.”

  Hard to ignore instinct when I see what I always see. I blame two years of being single on charming because it usually equals jerk with ulterior motives. It’s one thing to say I’m going to enjoy myself. And Griffin does look enjoyable. Getting involved with a guy who has strangers jotting phone numbers on his hand—not so much.

  “What can I say? I call ’em like I see ’em.”

  “Okay,” he says. “You think you know me? How about this? For the remainder of the ride, you can ask me whatever you want, and I’ll answer honestly. If, by the time we get to Scotland, you still hold your assessment of me, I won’t argue.”

  I contemplate, my teeth scraping my bottom lip. It’s not like I’m looking for anything more than a guy like him could offer. What would be the point? If my judgment fails me and we, for some reason, fall madly in love, we still live several hours away from each other, an entire state in between. If an overpopulation of guys like Griffin is the reason for my dry spell, perhaps they can also be the solution. He can be the solution. I only need one.

  “So you like my smile, huh?”

  As soon as I say this I, of course, try not to smile, turning toward the aisle a
s I suppress the grin brought on by his earlier compliment. I’ve never been one to take compliments well. I enjoy getting them but have a hard time believing them, especially coming from someone as confident and forward as Griffin.

  His shoulders shake with silent laughter. “I was expecting a much tougher question than that. Yes, Jordan. I like your smile. Specifically, I like the lips that make your smile.”

  Trying to keep from smiling is one thing, but hiding my lips is damn near impossible. I bite my lip again.

  “And that,” he adds, “is damn sexy.”

  This snaps me back to reality. “Man-whore.”

  “Hot-lips.”

  We both laugh, and my shoulders relax. Despite what I might assume about him, things seem to be easy with Griffin from Minnesota.

  “Okay,” I say. “Let’s get all the boring questions out of the way. Then we can move on to the fun stuff.”

  He leans in close. Almost under his breath, he asks, “What’s the fun stuff?” His words smell like cinnamon.

  My eyes widen, and he moves back toward the window, a perfect, albeit ridiculous, smoldering look plastered on his face. “You set me up for that, you know.”

  I push him on the shoulder.

  “What’s your last name?”

  “Reed. What’s yours?”

  “Brooks.”

  “Any relation to Mel Brooks? Spaceballs. Classic.”

  “No,” I say. “Or Albert Brooks.” His brows furrow. “Nemo’s dad?” I say, and recognition blooms. “But we’re all Jewish, so maybe?”

  “Do you speak Hebrew?” he asks, and I shake my head.

  “Not since I was thirteen. I’m better at French, but not much. How about you? Foreign languages?”

  “Just a little Spanish, French, and German.”

  I laugh, expecting him to say he’s kidding, but he doesn’t. Impressive.

  “What’s your major?” Ew. So trite, but my curiosity is piqued after his admission that he speaks three languages. Then again, we need to get this out of the way so we can get to the fun stuff, if I can remember what that is.