Still Beating

J e n n i f e r H a r t m a n n

“What good is the warmth of summer without the cold of winter to give it sweetness.” — John Steinbeck

Chapter One

“You’re incorrigible.”

I narrow my eyes at the man I’ve deemed worthy of my most treasured insult.

Incorrigible. It’s a damn good word.

The man in question is Dean Asher—my sister’s prick of a fiancé.

Dean laughs, seemingly unaffected by the hostility shooting from my eyes like hot lasers. He must be used to it by now. “What the hell does that even mean?”

“Stupid, too,” I say, sipping on my watered-down cocktail with one arched eyebrow.

Fifteen years. Fifteen goddamn years is the amount of time I’ve been subjected to Dean’s teasing, ridicule, and bad attitude. He’s the stereotypical ‘bad boy’—surly, well-muscled, always reeking of cigarettes and leather. Pathetically good-looking.

Asshole.

My sister, Mandy, fell right into his trap. They were high school sweethearts from the start. Mandy was the epitome of popularity with her Prom Queen title, bleached blonde hair, and Abercrombie wardrobe. That was the style back in high school.

I, on the other hand, was none of those things—thank God. Despite the fact that I’m only ten months younger than Mandy, we could not be more different. She’s athletic, bubbly, and vain. I’m a bookworm who would much rather purchase adorable outfits for our family dog than for myself. Mandy is perky, and I’m prickly. I could recite Shakespeare all day, where Mandy likes to quote the gossip headlines off Twitter.

Even though we have our differences, our sisterly bond has strengthened over the years, and now I’m preparing to be the Maid of Honor in her wedding next month. I’d like to say that Mandy outgrew everything about her high school years, but, alas, Dean Asher somehow made the cut as she enters her thirties. He’s clung to Mandy like a disease. She just can’t shake him.

I can’t shake him.

So, now I have the divine privilege of being Dean’s sister-in-law in four short weeks.

Vomit.

“Pretty sure that’s not a word.”

I swirl the miniature straw around my glass, my eyes raising to the man staring me down with his signature smirk. His gaze is all iron and grit. I shake my head, ashamed I have to call this guy family soon. “Don’t make me Google it, Dean. You know I will.”

It’s Mandy’s thirtieth birthday party. We’re at The Broken Oar—a laid back bar in northern Illinois, right on the lake. It’s a fun place to celebrate, despite the questionable company.

Dean takes a swig of his beer, his pale blue eyes twinkling with mischief. And not the fun kind. “You always were the nerdy type, Corabelle.”