Taming Georgia (The Flawed Heart Series)

  TAMING GEORGIA

  ELLIE WADE

  Copyright © 2019 by Ellie Wade

  All rights reserved.

  Visit my website at www.elliewade.com

  Interior Designer: Under Cover Designs

  Editor: Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing, www.unforeseenediting.com

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  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 persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-944495-13-8

  CONTENTS

  Also by Ellie Wade

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Epilogue

  Dear Readers,

  Acknowledgments

  Other Titles by Ellie Wade

  About the Author

  Forever Baby

  Fragment

  Chasing Memories

  A Hundred Ways to Love

  The Choices Series:

  A Beautiful Kind of Love

  A Forever Kind of Love

  A Grateful Kind of Love

  The FLAWED HEART SERIES:

  Finding London

  Keeping London

  Loving London

  Eternally London

  PLEASE VISIT ELLIE’S AMAZON AUTHOR PAGE FOR MORE INFORMATION ON HER OTHER BOOKS.

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  Jen Jones, you are such a beautiful person.

  Thank you for making me feel like a superstar. As long as you continue to read my words, I’ll continue to write them. I love you, my friend—always.

  PROLOGUE

  “True love is a concept only valid in storybooks. A boy will never save me. Only I can do that.”

  —Georgia Wright

  I’ve never believed in fairy tales. I’m not waiting for a prince to come sweep me off my feet. Sometimes, I wonder if true love—the kind that lasts a lifetime—is even real. Is it possible to love someone so much that their mere existence is enough to fill one’s soul until their lungs take their last breath? When my heart ceases to beat, will its last fatigued movement be bursting with unyielding adoration for the love of my life? Or will it just stop because it’s tired?

  Happily ever after is a big commitment. Ever after—that’s like always. It’s huge. But is it attainable?

  Most days, I think not.

  And it’s not because I haven’t had a good example. My parents claim to have that kind of love. My mom is always boasting about being one of the lucky ones to have found her soul mate. There’s a part of me that’s not certain if she even knows what true love means. I know that they love each other, sure. Yet, sometimes, I wonder if it’s more accurate to say that they need each other.

  My mom worships my dad. She’s his cheerleader, his stunning partner, always ready to look good on his arm. She’s there to encourage him and tell him how great he really is. He eats it up, too. I’m not saying that my dad isn’t great because he is. He works hard and has made a lot of money in the business world doing so. He deserves someone to love him the way my mom does.

  In turn, he makes my mom feel beautiful, needed, special. As a handsome, wealthy man, he could’ve chosen anyone, but he wanted her. He decided that she was the woman who was worthy to be by his side, to raise his kids, to spend his money.

  If his job, title, and money went away tomorrow, would their love remain as strong? I can’t say for sure, and that’s why I question it all. True love isn’t fostered by circumstance; it’s steadfast—impenetrable through any storm that life throws its way. It’s two people who love each other so deeply that the entire world could fade away, and as long as they had each other, they’d be okay. That’s a tall order to fill.

  Even though it goes against my beliefs, sitting here now on this hard stool, I want to be proven wrong.

  It’s insane that one boy can make me want to throw all of my principles out the window.

  But he does.

  My fingers tap the cool tabletop as my gaze darts toward the door while I wait for him. In my mind, I know that I’m too young to understand what true love feels like. The rational part of my seventeen-year-old brain knows this is just hormones. But the small sliver of my conscience that dares to listen to the tales of Cinderella and Snow White wants him to be my Prince Charming.

  I’ve only been in contact with him in this classroom, and yet he holds a permanent residence in my nightly dreams.

  I want him to be the one who would search the world until he found me to return my shoe. I want his love for me to be so incredibly powerful that with one kiss, he could wake me from the deepest sleep. I wish it so entirely, though I know it could never be.

  Fairy tales aren’t real.

  Our eyes meet, and I take a sharp breath, quickly pulling air into my lungs before holding it in. He shoots me his signature grin. Lips full, smile wide—the joy that radiates from his face causes me to feel sick with happiness.

  Wyatt Gates strolls across the room toward me. His hair is a deep brown and short with a few random chunks styled up, framing his face. The contrast of his dark hair and bright blue eyes is a combination that drives me insane. Though it’s now November, he still holds on to his summer tan, making his eyes shine brighter.

  At this moment, my heart breaks at the sight of him, as it does every day. How can someone so perfect exist if not for me? The thought is selfish, I know. But I don’t care. Wyatt makes me want to believe in true love.

  Surely, attraction has something to do with my obsession with this boy. Would my heart pound such erratic beats if he wasn’t as beautiful as he was?

  Maybe.

  “Hey, Peaches,” he says, taking a seat on the stool beside me.

  I’m going to faint.

  “Are you all right?” he asks when I don’t respond.

  Breathe, Georgia.

  I take a breath. “Yeah. I’m fine. How are you?”

  “Good. Did you finish the worksheet?”

  “Yeah. Did you?” I grin, lifting an eyebrow.

  “Not all of it.” His lips purse into a slight pout.

  I let out a quiet chuckle as I pull the homework from last night out of my folder and place it on the table.

  “You’d better hurry. The bell’s about to ring,” I tell Wyatt as I watch the door for Mr. Williamson.

  Fourth-hour biology class is my favorite part of the day.

  Wyatt is my favorite part of the day.

  He finishes scribbling down the last answer as our teacher walks into the room at the sound of the bell.

&n
bsp; “Good afternoon,” Mr. Williamson says. “Please pass your homework up to the front.”

  “Just in time,” I whisper to Wyatt as we hand our papers to the students sitting at the table in front of us.

  “I wasn’t worried. I can always count on you to save me,” he says softly in my ear. His warm breath against my skin causes an epidemic of goose bumps to explode over my body.

  Wyatt turns his attention to the front as Mr. Williamson starts his lecture, and I’m hoping he missed the reaction that his words had caused.

  It’s a miracle that I retain enough from class to even complete my homework so that Wyatt can copy it daily, as I spend the entirety of fourth period stealing subtle glances of him. At least, I hope they aren’t obvious.

  Truthfully, I’ve taken Biology before—in another city, at a different high school. This is one of the times in my life that the fact that we move a lot for my dad’s work has benefited me.

  I doodle small daisies on my folder as Mr. Williamson talks about an upcoming project. I’m barely listening as I pretend each flower is a heart, one for each of Wyatt’s features that drives me crazy.

  His hands. They’re tan and strong. The veins from his hands extend up the muscles of his arms, and that makes them irresistible to me somehow.

  Since when do veins do it for me? I have issues.

  He’s writing something in his notebook, now causing the firm muscles of his arms to flex. He must work out. I can’t imagine that forearm muscles are naturally so defined.

  His voice breaks my stare.

  My eyes meet his, and I blink. “What?” I ask.

  Wyatt grins, and it’s magnificent. “I said, whatcha think? Want to be my partner?”

  “What?” I say again. This time, the question comes out airier, as all the oxygen has left my lungs.

  “For the project.” He eyes the information on the screen at the head of the classroom. “We need to pair up.”

  “Oh.” I quickly glance at the project parameters on the screen. “Right, partners. Yes, sure.”

  “We should plan to get together soon to outline our project. When are you free?” he asks.

  “Anytime,” I answer.

  “Do you have a few minutes today after school? We can meet in the library and just pound out the rough draft really quick.”

  I swallow hard. My spit seems to stick in my throat. “That works.”

  “Great. See ya then.” He taps my hand as he stands to leave.

  The students file out of the classroom as I remain; my stare stays focused on my hand where Wyatt Gates touched me.

  Because…O-M-G…he touched me.

  After a quick stop to the girls’ restroom after last period to spritz on some body spray, check my hair, and touch up my lip gloss, I rush to the library and reserve a study room. Mrs. Jacoby, the librarian, has just unlocked the room when I feel Wyatt behind me.

  “Thank you,” I tell her as she leaves us.

  We sit on opposite sides of the table and pull out the project rubric and our notebooks, placing our backpacks on the empty chairs beside each of us.

  “Are you going to the game tonight?” I ask him. I’ve never seen him attend a Friday night football game, which is odd because everyone else from our high school is there.

  “No, I have to head to work in a bit. So, let’s make this quick, okay?”

  His tone is kind, but the abruptness of his response throws me off.

  I bow my head and focus on the paper from class. “Right. Quick. Sure.”

  “Sorry, I just can’t be late.”

  I lift my gaze to meet his. “It’s fine. I understand.”

  I want to ask him where he works. Our high school is located in a very affluent area, and I don’t know many students my age who have jobs. But I don’t ask. He doesn’t seem like he’s up for small talk.

  We get to work, outlining our presentation and splitting up who is going to research and talk about what.

  “So, we have two weeks before our presentation?” His question is rhetorical because he continues, “We should probably meet up here again before we’re due to present, so we can go over everything and practice at least once. Does that sound good?”

  I nod. “Yeah, that sounds like a plan.”

  Wyatt stands from the table and shoves his work inside his backpack. “Thanks, Peaches. Sorry to study and run, but I gotta go.”

  I quickly place my work in my bag and step out around the table toward the closed study room door. “No problem.”

  Wyatt steps toward the door, and I hastily step back in an attempt to get out of his way. My foot gets caught on my chair leg, and I start to wobble. Wyatt places a hand on either side of my arm, stopping me from falling.

  “Whoa. You okay there?” His beautiful blues peer down toward me.

  “Yeah.” I point toward my feet. “I just tripped.”

  He doesn’t loosen his grip on my arms. I tilt my chin down to stare at his hands on my arms and then lift my eyes back to his.

  He still doesn’t let go.

  The hue of his irises seems darker now, like the blue of the ocean before a storm. He leans in closer, his expression almost somber. The corners of his eyes pinch together as he takes me in. His focus lingers on my eyes before dropping to my mouth and then back up again.

  I notice him swallow, the skin of his throat flexing with the motion. Suddenly, I’m very conscious of the heat in his stare. My mouth feels dry, and my tongue peeks out to moisten my lips as I pull my bottom lip between my teeth.

  Everything is happening in slow motion, yet I feel each small movement with such an intensity that my entire body aches. It’s a delicious ache. It’s new—this sensation—and I like it.

  His hands continue to hold my arms. Our breaths are deep. When he exhales, tingles race down my spine, and I shiver. He slowly leans in, his eyes never leaving mine—until they close.

  I mirror his action by shutting mine as well. Then, I feel it—his lips on mine.

  They’re soft, warm, and utterly intoxicating. A quiet moan escapes my throat without warning, but I’m too turned on to care.

  Wyatt Gates is kissing me, and it’s everything I hoped it would be.

  His tongue gently requests entry as it runs along my lips, and I open my mouth, inviting it in.

  God, yes.

  Wyatt deepens the kiss. His fingers are gripping the nape of my neck, threading into my hair, pulling my mouth into his. I wrap my arms around his neck and hold him close to me.

  We kiss until my head is light and dizzy. I sigh when he pulls away, immediately missing the contact.

  Wyatt leans his forehead against mine as we both catch our breaths.

  “I have to go,” he says, this time with quiet remorse.

  I know he wants to kiss me again just as much as I want him to.

  “Okay,” I whisper.

  He steps back, tucking a piece of my hair behind my ear. “Can I see you this weekend?”

  My heart beats wildly within my chest. “I’d love that. Yes.”

  “Do you know where Gallop Park is?”

  I nod.

  “I can meet you there at six. At the bench beneath the overpass by the river, at the far entrance. Do you know where that is?”

  I know exactly where it is. My sister and I have ridden our bikes past that bench many times.

  “I do,” I answer him.

  “Okay then, I’ll see you tomorrow.” He smiles, and it sets my soul on fire.

  “Six o’clock,” I say.

  “Six o’clock.” He squeezes my hand before opening the study room door and walking out.

  I let the door close behind him and lean against it.

  I just kissed Wyatt Gates, and I want to do it again and again.

  That was the best first kiss in the history of first kisses. I’m sure that I’m one of the last juniors in high school to experience a first kiss—another downfall of always moving around. I suppose I’ve never gotten close enough to someone to want the
m to kiss me. But now, I know it’s because I was waiting for Wyatt.

  His lips were meant to be the first ones to kiss mine, and he was worth the wait.

  A warm breeze rustles the multihued leaves of the trees. Some of them drop from the branches, swaying to the ground like yellow, red, and orange snowflakes. The sun sits low in the sky, its rays giving the leaves that remain in the trees a golden glow.

  I’ve lived in a lot of places, and I can honestly say that autumn in Michigan is absolutely incredible. When I grow up, I want to live somewhere that has a fall season.

  My toes tap anxiously against the ground as I pull out my cell phone to recheck the time.

  Six thirty.

  He’s late, and it’s making me nervous. He should be here.

  He’ll be here.

  Taking deep breaths, I attempt to bring myself to center, to calm my nerves. I take note of the beauty that surrounds me—the running river that splashes against the gray rocks, the color of the leaves of the grand oak trees, and the refreshing warmth of the wind that’s dancing halfway between summer and winter as it tickles my skin.

  It’s a picturesque day, and it’s only going to get better when Wyatt gets here, which he will.

  But he doesn’t.

  I meant to ask him for his cell phone number at the library yesterday, but somewhere between the deafening echo of my heartbeats and the way in which his stare captured me so intensely, stealing my breath after our lips parted, I forgot. Surely, if I had it, I could text him, and all would be explained. He would tell me that he was on his way.

  Of course he’s on his way.

  I simply need to be patient and just stay right where I am, where he told me to be, until he comes.

  I wait until the sun sets to the west, and darkness takes over. I remain until the wind turns cold without the sun’s warmth. I wait until I’m too chilly to wait any longer. And he still doesn’t come.

  He’s not coming.

  I can’t believe it.

  After a Sunday that would never end, Monday has finally arrived. I’ve scanned the halls between each period, hoping to catch a glimpse of him, but I don’t. I’m both relieved and nervous when I finally walk into Biology. I take a seat at our table and wait. The bell rings, and there’s still no sign of Wyatt.