Betting on the Breakaway (Boston Howlers #1)

Prologue

Delaney

The bonfire crackles against the August night, sending sparks up toward stars I can actually see out here on Miller's Beach. I've spent the majority of the evening warring with thoughts that shouldn't be here.

For one, this really isn't my crowd—these loud, confident kids who spend their summers cliff jumping and sneaking beer from their parents' fridges.

But as soon as my best friend, Lily, grabbed my hand at the ice cream shop this afternoon, she guilted me into submission.

It's her last night here, after all, and we won't see each other again until next summer.

"Come on, Laney," she'd begged, using the nickname only she calls me. "I'm going home tomorrow."

I melted just as quickly as the ice cream in my hand.

But Lily got pulled away for a midnight swim with a group of other vacationers ten minutes ago and hasn't returned.

So here I am, sitting on a piece of driftwood alone while my only friend is nowhere in sight.

I've listened to my classmates whisper about why the bookworm finally emerged from her cave as if I'm not sitting right beside them.

The other vacationers wonder who I am. I don't speak, though.

Instead, I pull my cardigan tighter and wish I'd brought something to read.

At least then I'd have somewhere to look besides at Lily's brother, Mac, throwing a football with a group of guys, his laugh carrying over the sound of waves.

He's leaving tomorrow, too, right alongside Lily. In fact, they all are. The summer families are packing up their perfect vacation memories and heading back to their real lives in Boston and New York. The school year starts next week, and the entire town is winding down from a busy tourist season.

"Delaney Caldwell at a party?" Trevor Sutton, my high school's star quarterback, plops down next to me, beer breath making me wrinkle my nose. "What's next, pigs flying?"

I force a smile. "Just thought I'd see what all the fuss was about."

"Stick around," he slurs. "Party's just getting started."

It’s an empty promise. The party only dwindled from there.

The bonfire dims as the night stretches on. People pair off or wander toward cars, and I'm debating whether I can slip away unnoticed when Mac appears in front of me. His dark hair is messy from the wind, and there's something different about his usual cocky grin.

"Where'd everyone go?" he asks, swaying slightly.

"Home, mostly." I glance around. The party has emptied except for a few couples scattered in the shadows. Even Lily disappeared again twenty minutes ago with some boy from Westerly. She offered an apologetic smile and a promise to be back soon.

If this is what I've been missing, I'm content to sit the next one out.

"Huh." Mac drops onto the sand beside my driftwood perch. "Guess that means we're alone."

My heart does acrobatics in my chest. In all the summers he's been coming here, Mac Sullivan has never sought me out. Never even seemed to notice I existed beyond polite hellos when I tagged along with Lily.

"You don't have to babysit me," I say. "I can walk myself home."

"Who says I'm babysitting?" He looks over at me, and in the firelight, his eyes are more green than blue. "Maybe I wanted to talk to you."

I laugh before I can stop myself. "Right. Mac Sullivan wants to talk to the weird bookshop girl."

Did I really just refer to him in the third person? Out loud? God, I'm hopeless.

"You're not weird." His voice is serious now, thoughtful in a way I've never heard before. "You're just... different. Like Lily. In a good way."

The compliment catches me off guard. "You're drunk."

"Little bit." He grins, pinching his thumb and forefinger together. "But that doesn't make it less true." He shifts closer, and I catch the scent of bonfire smoke and something that's just him. "I always wanted to talk to you more. Just never knew what to say."

"You could have started with, ‘hello,’" I reply, my tone a little sharper than I intended.

"Hello, Delaney."

The way he says my full name, soft and careful, makes my stomach flutter. I've imagined this moment so many times. Mac actually seeing me, talking to me like I matter. But in my daydreams, I was witty and confident, not tongue-tied and bristling.

"It's getting late," I mumble, starting to stand.

His hand catches my wrist. "Don't go."

I freeze, staring down at his fingers wrapped around my arm. "I have to–"

"I mean it." He tugs gently, and I sink back down, closer this time. Close enough to see the freckles across his nose, to count his eyelashes. "I like talking to you."

My breath catches. "You don't even know me."

"Sure, I do. Probably too much. I know you read three books a week.

I know you put flowers on the memorial bench every Sunday.

I know you make the best coffee in town, and you always give the stray cats extra cream.

" His thumb traces across the pulse point in my wrist. "I know you're leaving for college in two years and you'll probably never come back to this tiny place. "

I frown. "And how do you know all that?"

"I pay attention." His free hand comes up to cup my face. "I should have paid more attention sooner."

Before I can respond, before I can think or breathe or remember all the reasons this is a terrible idea, he kisses me.

It's soft at first, tentative, like he's asking permission. When I don't pull away, he deepens it, and I taste beer and salt air and something sweet. His lips are warm and sure, and when his tongue brushes against mine, heat explodes through my entire body.

This is my first kiss.

My first everything, really. And it's with my ultimate childhood crush—my best friend's brother—under a sky full of stars on his last night in Millbrook Falls. I don't even know if I'm doing it right, but he doesn't seem displeased.

When we break apart, we're both breathing hard. His forehead rests against mine, and for a moment, the only sound is the waves against the shore.

"Wow," he whispers.

"Yeah." My voice comes out scratchy. "Wow."

He kisses me again, slower this time, and I memorize everything—the way his hand tangles in my hair, the soft sound he makes when I kiss him back, the way the firelight flickers across his face when we finally separate.

"I have to go," I say eventually, but I don't move.

"I know," he whispers, then adds, "We're leaving tomorrow."

I nod, not trusting my voice. Tomorrow he'll pack up his perfect family and drive back to Boston, back to his real life with his real friends and probably a real girlfriend who knows how to do more than sit at home and lose herself in books.

"Maybe I could—" he starts, then stops. Shakes his head. "Never mind."

He stands, brushing sand off his jeans, and I know this moment is over. In twelve hours, he'll be gone, and I'll be left with the memory of my first kiss and the taste of what-if on my lips.

"See you around, Delaney Caldwell," he says softly.

But we both know he won't.

I watch him walk back toward the parking lot, his silhouette disappearing into the darkness. The bonfire has burned down to embers, and the beach feels vast and empty around me.

My fingertips brush my raw lips, memorizing the way his felt against them. I'll remember everything about that kiss. The way he tasted, the way he said my name, the way he looked at me like I was someone worth seeing.

Mac Sullivan won't remember any of it.

But sometimes, late at night in Gran's bookshop, I let myself wonder what would have happened if he had.