๐‚๐จ๐ฐ๐›๐จ๐ฒ ๐•๐ข๐ฅ๐ฅ๐š๐ข๐ง ๐ƒ๐š๐ฆ๐ฌ๐ž๐ฅ ๐ƒ๐ฎ๐ž๐ฅ is on SALE!!!

๐‚๐จ๐ฐ๐›๐จ๐ฒ ๐•๐ข๐ฅ๐ฅ๐š๐ข๐ง ๐ƒ๐š๐ฆ๐ฌ๐ž๐ฅ ๐ƒ๐ฎ๐ž๐ฅ has a fresh new look! Have you read it? You can buy it on SALE for $1.99 for a limited time only!

Universal Link: https://books2read.com/CVDD

๐˜™๐˜๐˜๐˜Œ๐˜™๐˜‹๐˜ˆ๐˜“๐˜Œ ๐˜ฎ๐˜ฆ๐˜ฆ๐˜ต๐˜ด ๐˜๐˜•๐˜Š๐˜Œ๐˜—๐˜›๐˜๐˜–๐˜• ๐˜ช๐˜ฏ ๐˜ต๐˜ฉ๐˜ช๐˜ด ๐˜ต๐˜ธ๐˜ช๐˜ด๐˜ต๐˜บ ๐˜ข๐˜ฏ๐˜ฅ ๐˜ถ๐˜ฏ๐˜ช๐˜ฒ๐˜ถ๐˜ฆ ๐˜ ๐˜ˆ ๐˜ค๐˜ฐ๐˜ฎ๐˜ช๐˜ฏ๐˜จ๐˜ฐ๐˜ง๐˜ข๐˜จ๐˜ฆ ๐˜ณ๐˜ฐ๐˜ฎ๐˜ข๐˜ฏ๐˜ค๐˜ฆ.

Quarterback.
Class president.
Burnout.
We all have our identities.
Most of the time, they come from our circumstances. Theyโ€™re made by othersโ€”shoes for us to walk in whether they fit or not.
But what if?
What if we could take off those shoes?
What if we could wear a different pair?
What if those boxes we put ourselves in are betterโ€ฆworse?
And what if, when we doโ€ฆweโ€™re trapped there for good?
They all call me Cowboy.
Sheโ€™s the damsel who doesnโ€™t need to be rescued.
And himโ€ฆheโ€™s the villain.
This is our story. And this is how we want it to be told.

*The paperback is on sale on Amazon only. I’m not sure how long that will last though. 

We arrive at our exit, and I reach across his lap for my sweatshirt. He bats my hand away.

โ€œYou leave that here. Weโ€™ll get you something different to wear and be seen in.โ€

I dart my eyes up to meet his. I get it. Heโ€™s right. The women saw me in the blue.

โ€œOkay.โ€ I nod and step into the aisle. He moves in close behind me, holding his hands at my hips as we walk down the narrow pathway together.

โ€œSmile,โ€ he whispers over my shoulder.

I do as he says, and he laughs into the back of my neck. Weโ€™re two seventeen-year-old kids out for a fun date, and thatโ€™s it. Any glares we get as we walk off the bus are innocuous, so I play the part of carefree girl with a crush until we arrive in the thick of the early evening crowds at the mall.

I tense at the sight of a security guard, and this time he genuinely laughs at me.

โ€œRelax, those arenโ€™t real cops,โ€ he says, leaning in close to me.

His hand takes mine again, but this time not as part of the act or out of panic. This is just him wanting to hold it, a natural movement that I feel heโ€™s done dozensโ€”hundredsโ€”of times before. I wait until we get to the coat section of the department store across the street from the hospital, and I stop him.

โ€œItโ€™s about to snow outside. Iโ€™ll need something,โ€ I say. I hold our hands up when I talk, and I nod toward them.

โ€œItโ€™s weird, isnโ€™t it?โ€ His thumb makes the familiar stroke along my wrist. I glance to it and nod.

โ€œIt is,โ€ I say.

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