Victoria Falls (Natural Wonders #2)

Prologue

TORI

“You look so hot!” my roommate, Lexi, says as she walks into our dorm room, her voice breaking through the soft hum of pop music playing from my phone. I’m blotting the excess fire engine red lipstick from my lips when I wink at her through the mirror.

“Thanks, sugarlips. Zip me up?” I fluff my long, brunette waves one last time as Lexi steps behind me, tugging the zipper of my little black dress until it hugs my body perfectly.

“Hot date tonight? It’s about time you got out there. Lord knows where that twatwaffle Chase has been,” she says, exasperated.

I should tell her I’m actually going to see Chase, but I don’t want to hear the long list of protests that will follow.

So instead, I turn, smile at her, and say, “Heading to a frat party. Don’t know that I’m looking for anyone in particular, but figured I’d show up looking like a tall glass of water for whoever is thirsty and worthy. ”

Frat party. Baseball house party. Same thing.

The glow of my desk lamp casts a soft halo over the room as I grab my purse and do a quick once-over in the mirror. The dress clings to every curve, my lipstick pops just enough without being over the top, and my heels add the perfect amount of height to my petite frame.

I know I look incredible. I know when I walk into that party, eyes will be on me, and I know those eyes are connected to mouths that will immediately tell Chase I’m there.

Because even when he’s not mine, I’m still his.

I hate it, but I also love it, because no matter who he’s currently hooking up with, they know it won’t last. He’ll come back to me.

He always comes back to me. And tonight, I’m done waiting.

He’s had enough time to sow his wild oats, played the fuckboy baseball player for two months, and now it’s time to come home. Not physically, as in Moraine, but back to me. I am his home.

I am his home. He will come back to me. We are endgame. We are fated. We are forever.

The cool night air brushes against my skin as I walk the few blocks to the baseball house.

The faint sound of music and laughter grows louder with every step, and the distant glow of string lights comes into view.

I keep these thoughts on repeat the entire walk to the party, not wavering once in my determination to get what I want.

I know to some I seem pathetic, but they don’t know our history. I’m not some insecure girl clinging to her high school sweetheart with a vice grip. I know my worth, and I know his. The problem is that he doesn’t know his own worth. He needs me to remind him. That’s all.

Every time we break up, it’s the same conversation: “You’re too good for me. I don’t deserve you. You’d be better off without me. I’m a fuck up. You should find someone better…” blah blah blah.

Skye says he does it for attention, and she’s not wrong.

I know he does it for attention, but is it any wonder he needs more affirmation than most people would?

His parents didn’t give two shits about him or his little brother when they were growing up—always too high to care.

I’m surprised Chase ever started playing baseball considering his dad’s deep dive into drugs began with a painkillers addiction following a baseball injury.

They may have overdosed and left Chase and Trent as wards of the state, but the truth is both Dylan and Charity Martin abandoned those boys before they ever died.

I’m not his parents. I won’t leave him. Even when he gives into his insecurities and leaves me, he’ll come back. Granted, it’s never taken him two months to come back to me—hence the reason I’m taking action.

I arrive at the baseball house, and as expected, the music is loud, the lights are dim, and the people are already sloshed.

The smell of stale beer and cheap cologne wafts through the air as I approach the front door.

I pause, closing my eyes and inhaling deeply before standing up straight and donning my game face.

“Tits up, Tori. You’ve got this,” I whisper to myself, giving a final pep talk before pushing open the door and stepping inside.

The party is in full swing, bodies pressed together in tight clusters, the bass from the speakers vibrating through the floor. I scan the room, my eyes adjusting to the low lighting. Chase isn’t here—yet. But I see the one person I know will get his attention: Aaron Taylor.

Target acquired.

Aaron is leaning against the bar, a red Solo cup in hand, his easy smirk practically oozing arrogance. I walk directly to him, ignoring the eyes that follow me, and slide my hand up his back before leaning in close. “Hey, Aaron.”

He turns, his eyebrows lifting as his gaze sweeps over me. His smile widens, and I know I’ve got him hooked.

“Damn, Victoria. You look incredible.” He places a hand on my waist, and I let him.

Bait cast. Now we wait.

“You noticed,” I say, my voice dripping with honey as I place a hand on his chest.

Just as Aaron is about to respond, a growl cuts through the air behind me.

“Get your motherfucking hands off her, Taylor, before I break them.”

Hooked. That worked faster than I thought. Thank God. I didn’t want to actually kiss anyone else—just flip Chase’s territorial switch so he’d get his head out of his ass.

I turn slowly, locking eyes with Chase Martin. My Chase Martin.

“That wouldn’t be very kind, Chase. Breaking your teammate’s hands and all. How ever will he pitch without hands?”

Chase ignores my words—he’s too busy devouring my body with his eyes.

That’s right, Chasey boy. I know what you like, and I dressed to impress.

“Fucking hell, Tor,” he grumbles, his voice low and rough. “That dress.”

Reel him in, slowly.

“You like?” I say, trailing my hand from my neck, down my front. My fingertips skim along the hem of my dress, drawing his eyes lower.

Chase’s jaw clenches as his gaze lingers, dark and heated. His tongue darts out to wet his lips before he bites the knuckle of his right index finger—a move I know all too well. It’s his tell. He’s hooked.

Caught.

In one stride, he closes the distance between us, his arm snaking around my waist and pulling me flush against him. The heat of his body seeps through the fabric of my dress, sending a shiver up my spine. He leans down, his lips brushing against my ear as he whispers, “Tor, baby, I made a mistake.”

My heart skips a beat. Eight weeks of heartbreak, doubt, and determination culminate in this moment. Finally. I knew he’d come back.

“I know,” I murmur, my voice soft but sure as I slide my hand up his chest, letting my fingers trace the familiar line of his jaw.

My fingertips find their way to the back of his neck, tangling in the hair at the nape as I tilt my head to meet his eyes.

“How are you going to fix it?”

His lips quirk into a small smile, but I see the hesitation flicker in his eyes—the insecurity he tries so hard to hide.

“I’ll do whatever it takes,” he says, his voice rough with emotion. “I swear, Tor. Just… give me a chance to prove it to you.”

Nevermind that last week he didn’t want me. Nevermind that my roommate confessed he came onto her earlier in the year.

Nevermind the fact that I saw, with my own eyes, him leaning into another coed and fingering her hair when I left Accounting on Tuesday.

In short: I’ve made an art of ignoring all the red flags. When you’re in love, those red flags look like a weird shade of green.

The familiar scent of his cologne—woodsy, with a hint of spice—fills my senses as I inhale deeply. His hand tightens on my waist, and I know I should press him for answers, demand accountability, but the pull of him is too strong.

“Have you been with anyone else?” I ask, already knowing the answer but needing to hear him say it.

His mouth twitches, the smallest flicker of guilt crossing his face. There it is.

“Chase. Answer me, and don’t you dare lie to me.”

His hand slides up to cup the side of my neck, his thumb brushing gently over my jaw. I hate how much I’ve missed his touch.

“I didn’t sleep with anyone else, I promise,” he says, his voice low and earnest.

He leans in to kiss me, but I press a hand against his chest, holding him back. If he kisses me, I’m done for, and he knows it.

No matter how many times he fucks up, he knows that if he puts his hands on me and kisses my lips, I’ll cave in an instant and forgive him anything.

Victoria Anne Foster, you do not give in, I tell myself, the words echoing like a mantra in my mind. Yes, you came to get your man. But you will stand your ground and demand answers. You love him, but you do not take shit from anyone.

“I want to know exactly what you’ve done, who you’ve done it with, and then I want you to promise me that you will not speak to any of those girls ever again. I mean it, Chase. I’m not doing this shit again. You are either with me or you’re not. You either want me or you don’t.”

He looks at me, his expression softening as his thumb continues to trace lazy circles against my skin.

“Tor,” he murmurs, leaning closer. “It’s you, baby. Only you. I love you.”

And then he’s kissing me.

His lips are soft but firm, assertive in a way that leaves no doubt about his feelings. He kisses me like he’s claiming me, promising me fidelity and forever. His tongue parts my lips, and I open for him, relishing in the feel of his hard body pressed against mine.

I melt into him, my chest pressing against his, my hands tangling in his hair.

I am home. He is home.

My God, I’ve missed him.

We’ve broken up and gotten back together four times since freshman year. I ask him the same question every time, and he never gives me a clear answer.

I have no idea how many other women Chase has hooked up with while we’ve been apart, and I probably never will.

Is that going to stop me from taking him back? No.

Because I love him. And we are inevitable. And these are just bumps along the road to our happily ever after.

Since the day we met in the tutoring lab in tenth grade, I’ve wanted him.

The math nerd and the baseball player.

I dreamed of us paralleling Nathan and Haley from One Tree Hill.

The unlikely couple, falling in love, staying in love through all the bumps and pivots, ultimately living happily ever after.

No matter the obstacle, nothing could separate us.

No one could stop us. We’d defy the odds and have a love so fierce they’d write stories and songs about us.

“Let’s go back to my place,” he whispers against my lips, his voice rough with need.

“Say less.”