Page 4 of Shattered Hearts

He drops into the chair beside me, notebook slapping against the desk. He leans over, arm hanging on the back of my chair. “Did I miss anything good?”

“Macie and I are coming this weekend,” I answer quickly, not bringing up anything about his older brother, Reid. Macie would definitely twist my neck if I ruined her secret, especially with Grayson. He already has some problems with his brother, so why make things worse?

Grayson’s easy grin forms again, and I feel the racing in my heart pick up.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

My eyes widened. What just happened?

“Great, it’ll make the festival a bit more bearable,” he chimes, leaning back in his seat casually. I can’t help but look over his tight sports tee, loose trackpants and backwards cap that he usually gets told off for wearing in class. But I have to say, it definitely suits him.

“Mum is worried about her new homemade honey, so you’ll have to try it and say that you like it.”

“Whoever doesn’t like honey is insane,” Macie blurts out, and I snort a laugh.

Grayson’s eyes roll. “No, you’re insane for always needing it in your coffee, M.”

Macie shrugs. “It makes it taste better, and sugar is overrated.”

My eyebrow lifts at her.

Mr Smith walks in, silencing the classroom. After assigning us the task of reading another chapter and answering questions, I open my tabbed copy of Pride and Prejudice. I feel Grayson poke at my ribs. Eyes sliding sideways, he smirks before leaning in. I feel a flicker of warmth in my stomach, butterflies erupting, and my cheeks flush pink as his warm, spicy cologne surrounds me. I’ve smelt it so many times, but why is it different now?

“Can I borrow a pen?”

Grunting softly, I reach for one from my pencil case and hand it over. His fingers touch mine, and I almost drop it at the sensation that’s oddly more satisfying than it has ever been before. My heart shudders again, sending a rush of warmth over me.

I force down a swallow as Grayson leans his lips on my ear and whispers, “Thank you, Biscuit,” before smirking and opening his book.

My face feels like it’s on fire as I look at my book open at the current chapter. Cheeks burning, chest tight and fingers tingling, I give my head a small shake to hopefully clear it. Pushing away these stirring feelings that I have definitely not felt before, I reread the same sentence three times, acutely aware of how close Grayson is. His hand taps against the wooden table in a steady beat as he reads silently, and I watch him. He keeps the beat, tapping in rhythm, and I’m wondering what song he has stuck in his head.

There’s dirt under his nails, and my eyes track the rough skin of his hands, knowing how much they work in the mornings before coming to school.

Suddenly, I’m envisioning what those rough hands might feel like on me, and I catch myself, forcing my eyes back onto my book as my face erupts into flames.

What just happened?

Chapter One

Laynie

TWENTY-FIVE-YEARS-OLD

Crap, crap, crap, crap, crap!

My heavy breathing comes out ragged as I stare down at the plastic stick in my hand, unblinking. It’s taunting me, like this is some sort of sick joke. I wish it was just a joke. A Magic 8 ball that didn't tell me my future, because we all know they are completely random and not at all correct.

I wish this wasn’t real, and that the stick said, ‘better luck next time’. But no. This time, luck is not in my favour. Luck has left the building, and all I feel is how completely luckless I am.

Lungs stinging as if I’ve inhaled splinters, I force down the massive lump of saliva wedged in the middle of my throat like it’s clogged with cotton balls. Leaning over the porcelain sink, I rub at my sweaty forehead, perspiration clinging to my armpits and hands.

How am I pregnant?

Of course, I know how it happened—I even know when it happened—but it doesn’t erase the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. The feeling of guilt, hopelessness, and in all honestly, disgust. Disgust with myself for giving in and sleeping with someone who I shouldn’t have slept with. There was no gun pointed at my head, nobody threatening me to give everything to him.

I did it of my own volition, and that makes my stomach roil.

I might puke again, and this time it won’t be because of the morning sickness I’ve dealt with the past few weeks, but because of how I can’t stop staring at the two stupid, menacing lines. Who decided to make them a soft pink? Did they really think that would soften the blow if the lines were a dainty shade rather than bold red reminding you of how much you screwed up?