Into You Series: The Complete Collection

1. Saria

CHAPTER 1

SARIA

T he world enjoys seeing me miserable.

This otherworldly karma can include many things, like my new Jimmy Choo shoes snapping at the heel or that parked car being conveniently in the way so that I body-slammed into it, or—and most of all—that blond-haired beautiful man currently refusing to be my fake boyfriend.

Rude.

You might read this and think Wow, I’m very confused or Girl, all of that sounds like a you problem , which Jessi likes to remind me of all the time, but what does she know? Not my struggle, that’s for sure.

Let me back up a bit.

I was minding my own business last night, browsing social media and swooning over travel videos when my mom called me out of the blue to squeal into the phone, “Noah is engaged!”

Cue sinking stomach, tunnel vision, and squawking from both me and my parrot. That news may as well have been a dull knife jabbing into my heart, so I not-so-politely excused myself from the conversation and drove to my best friend’s house. Jessi didn’t even have to ask why I was showing up on her back patio with tear-streaked mascara streaming down my face and very unattractive snot running out of my nose. She just knew because that’s what best friends do. Also because our moms are best friends.

“Yeah, my mom told me too,” she said with a sigh. “Let’s get you some chips and salsa.”

“Chips and salsa,” Mercury parroted from my shoulder.

“Not for you, Mercury.” If my parrot could have frowned, he would have.

But I digress. Chips and salsa heals a lot of wounds, but not this one.

Jessi’s mom, my mom, and Noah’s mom were sorority sisters in college, and their intent was to have three little girls of their own to force sisterhood onto as well. It worked for me and Jessi, and a little bit too well for me and Noah.

Noah is my other best friend and a gorgeous hunk of a boy who swayed me from the moment my little-kid eyes could register that boys were not icky. Captain of the football team, homecoming king, prom king…the whole bit. We shared everything: first kiss, first date, and eventually our virginities. We shared everything except a true, labeled relationship, though that wasn’t for lack of me trying.

But this isn’t a love story about me and Noah.

“This is it. Final straw. I’m buying a van,” I said to Jessi, grabbing my phone and blinking through my tears. Movies say mascara runs down your face, but I’ve found it just spreads everywhere like you’re infected with sadness, which is what this feels a lot like—an infection.

“Hold up,” Jessi said, hands raised in a familiar way that usually means I’m about to do something stupid. “I know we watch van-life travel videos all the time, but that’s just for fun. You can’t actually renovate a van and live out of it.”

“VannaWhite does it,” I countered, already swiping through the browser on my phone.

“Yeah, she’s a social media influencer . She has money and stuff to make tiny car mansions.”

“Hashtag VanLife,” I said matter-of-factly, as if declaring the popular hashtag proved my point. I knew it didn’t, but I was upset and irrationally rational in my own mind.

“You can’t just say hashtag?—”

“VanLife.”

Go on any social media site and you’ll see the trending #VanLife. These are people who buy some variation of old commercial vehicle, renovate it, and then travel full-time, waking up next to a beach, a mountain, or a river. It’s cheaper than buying a full-blown RV and stealthier for those who don’t want to pay to stay in RV parks but know it’s illegal to live in a car.

But, also, it’s freedom . No more rerouting phone calls at the desk. No failing to get into vet school. No dumb childhood friend going off and getting engaged when he explicitly said he “could never imagine a life settled down.” Just independence dictated by me and me only.

“Pulling up eBay…”

“Saria—”

“Finding a van…”

“Girl.”

“And…”

Then I spent the majority of my life savings purchasing a pre-renovated van online.

I felt great—maybe a little bit sick, but overall pretty satisfied.

“Boom. Getting out of this town and finally doing something with my life,” I told her.

I was feeling on top of the world. I even told everyone we should go celebrate my newfound freedom at a bar. But now, as we walk across the parking lot to the best dive bar in Atlanta and my friends bring up the ‘super cool’ news of ‘wonderful, passionate, Peace Corps’ Noah coming back into town to plan his wedding, I blurt out, “Well, I was gonna keep it a secret, but I didn’t tell you guys about my boyfriend.”

You’re probably thinking What a stupid thing to say, Saria.

Yes. Yes, it is.

Because I definitely, one hundred percent, do not have a boyfriend—but I’ll be damned if Noah has one more thing I don’t.

“No way!” Heather gawks, snapping her head to me faster than an owl spotting a rat. I can tell she’s suspicious, but her love for gossip—no matter how trashy and untrue—overpowers her need to call me out about it.

Heather narrows her eyes. “I can’t believe you kept this from us.”

As much as I’d like to believe there isn’t much going on under those blonde curls of hers, Heather isn’t an idiot. Even though she’s Noah stepsister, she joined our friend group fairly late in high school once her dad married Noah’s mom. Despite this, she still knows I’ve been pining over Noah since I knew Barbie and Ken were perfect and, thusly, we could be perfect. She also knows that, because of Noah, I don’t keep relationships past three weeks if I’m lucky enough to find a decent excuse to break up with them.

“What’s he like? When did you meet? How long have you two been dating?” Heather asks, her heavily plucked eyebrows raised high and her lips pursed tightly. She’s trying to catch me in my lie.

I’ve never been a huge fan of Heather, if I’m being honest. I know Jessi would say the same. Hell, I think even Noah would. I thought she’d stop hanging around after Noah left for the Peace Corps, but our families still have board game nights, and that’s all it takes for her to stay in the loop. Jessi and I eventually conceded and continued including her in our lives.

Damn our mothers for being so close.

“We’ve been dating a few weeks,” I lie. “Ask Jessi what he’s like. She’s met him.”

I squint the second it comes out of my mouth. It’s bad enough I’m lying, but dragging Jessi into it was not part of the plan. Then again, this is a plan I’m hatching as the seconds go on.

“You’ve met him?” Heather asks, her tone deadpan and her smile fading fast. God forbid she not get a one-up on me.

“He, uh…” Jessi looks to me and shrugs. “Yeah. Yep. Cool guy.”

“When are we meeting him?” Heather asks.

And that’s when I make another huge mistake. I’m full of them, ladies and gentlemen.

“Geez, you know what?” I say, smacking the heel of my palm against my forehead. “I forgot to tell him you’ll even be here!”

“Oh, he’s coming tonight?” Jessi says, her eyes widening as we both realize my very dumb mistake. “Wow, such short notice.”

“Yeah. It’s…well, not so planned,” I say, cringing. “We’re impulsive like that.” Me and my fake boyfriend. “In fact, I’ll go tell him. I think he’s already here!”

Heather narrows her eyes, and that’s the last thing I see before sprinting toward the bar.

My shoe breaks when I run.

I slam into the parked car by not paying attention.

I think we’re almost caught up with the exception of the rude handsome man.

I walk in, out of breath, my left hand clutching one of my three-inch, now-wrecked stilettos and my right holding my stomach where there will no doubt be a bruise adorning it in an hour or so.

I have maybe one minute to get this show on the road, and then my stomach tumbles because it hits me just how really, really dumb this is. Oh God, I’m never going to hear the end of this.

No. I will find someone.

I scan the bar for prospects. They range from pot-bellied chic all the way to tight-pants-hipster extraordinaire. I almost take a step toward the man with the ten-gallon hat but, no, Saria, you know better than to date a man whose belt buckle is the size of your purse.

Then, my eyes stop at the back of a man sitting on a bar stool at the end. It’s weird how a back is kind of hot, but damn that’s one good back. Even through his flannel shirt, I can see the hills and valleys of shoulder muscles, the curve of his arms sloping down to where his elbows rest on the bar top. Those are some wonderful triceps, biceps—hell, all the ’ceps.

And he’s alone.

Looks like I’ve found my guy.

I limp over, trying not to take on a hunched stance while attempting to balance myself with only one shoe on. I look like a mess. I run a hand through my hair, pat out the wrinkles in my crop top, then tap on his shoulder.

Please be a hot guy and not an old, soon-to-be retiree. Please be a hot guy and not an old, soon-to-be retiree.

When he turns around, I realize—holy macaroni, I just won the lottery.

Because I see a man. Like, a man man.

I’m accustomed to boys with their smooth jaws and soft eyes, but not this guy. He has one of those strong jawlines contrasted with darker hazel eyes, like he’d mean business in the bedroom but then cuddle a baby afterward or something.

A real man .

My eyes shamelessly continue to scour every bit of him.

His hair is a nice blond, different shades of honey and cream, with flecks of gray peppering the sides in a way that feels both taboo and like maybe he would want to be called ‘Daddy’. It’s cut short, but the texture seems thick, like I could run my fingers through it.

His black and blue checkered flannel looks like it was meant to be loose, but his broad chest and arms are having none of that conformity crap. There are a couple dark stains on the sleeves, and it’s clear from his stubbled, hard jaw and the cut above his lip that he must do a lot of manual labor. Then there’s his scent—Jesus, when did the male species find out that campfires are irresistible to women?—and his smile… It is a slay-your-vagina smile.

I think I might orgasm right here on the spot.

“Hi, I’m Saria,” I say, blinking back to reality and trying to maintain decorum. He does his own once-over, eyeing my broken shoe and frazzled hair. I run my fingers through it once more.

He doesn’t smile. He looks skeptical, drawing his eyebrows in to form a deep V between them.

“Hi, I’m Harry.”

Harry. Like the prince. Or, I guess, the wizard, depending on your level of nerd. I personally swooned over Daniel Radcliffe through most of my formative years—thank you holiday reruns—but even so, this new Harry could give Mr. Potter a run for his galleons.

Harry’s voice is low, but still light. Definitely a boy-next-door (man-next-door?) kind of tone. Similar to Noah’s, but deeper.

Noah. Right. Back to business, Saria.

I glance at the unopened front door of the bar then back to him. “Be my boyfriend.”

He chuckles, and oh, the laugh. It’s rumbling from his throat, and you can see the amusement of this conversation radiating through his smile. His concerned look has disappeared only to be replaced with mirth. I much prefer this look on him.

“What was that, again?” he asks.

“Be my boyfriend,” I say breathlessly. “Tell me you love me. Anything. Preferably when my friends arrive.”

He laughs again, shaking his head. You can tell by his laugh lines that he does this often, which makes me like it even more.

The door opens behind us, and even though it’s not my friends entering, the anxiety pushes past all the attraction and sends me reeling.

“I’m not kidding,” I continue.

This is my lot in life: begging strangers at bars to date me. I’m that girl. Not the girl wearing Noah’s engagement ring, but the desperate one.

Noah has it all: Peace Corps. A future in medicine. Engaged. He won at life, and I lost.

I dug my grave, and I should climb in and shove the dirt over my face like a good loser. But when it comes to Noah, I am a very, very sore loser.

Then, like the tomb being closed over my head, Harry chuckles and says simply, “No, I’m not going to be your fake boyfriend.”

Well screw you too, buddy.