Dearest Series Boxed Set

T
wenty-year
-old Clementine Avery doesn't mind being called bitchy and closed off. It's safe, and after being burned by her high school sweetheart and stalked by a professor her freshman year of college, safe sounds pretty damn good.

Her number one rule for survival? No dating. That is until she accidentally signs up for a romance writing class and needs material for her latest assignment. Sexy RA Gavin Murphy is more than happy to play the part of book boyfriend to help Clem find some inspiration, even if that means making out...in the name of research, of course.

As Gavin and Clem grow closer, they get entangled in the mystery surrounding a missing Boston University student, and Clem unwittingly becomes a possible target. Gavin tries to show Clem she can handle falling in love again, but she knows she has to be careful because her heart’s at stake…and maybe even her life.

DEAREST CLEMENTINE is a standalone with two companion novels. This new adult romance series is recommended for readers 18+ due to mature content.

M
y pen traces
mindless circles in the margins of my journal as I stare out the window of the dusty common room.

This is what I’ve needed to find my footing
, I think as I fight the nerves taking root in my stomach.

Down the hallway, the sound of squeaky wheels is punctuated by a groan and a thump as luggage hits the floor.

“Wait, what will happen if there’s a fire? We’re on the eighteenth floor,” one girl says, her vowels long and polite. A Southerner.

A deep male voice reassures her. “I know it’s a hike down those stairs, but don’t use the elevators. The last thing you want is to get stuck between floors. I’ll check each room to make sure you’ve evacuated.”

I can’t make out the rest of the conversation until two girls shuffle by the lounge.

“Holy shit. Our RA is hot!” a girl in a sundress tells her friend as she lugs an overstuffed duffle bag. “I wonder if he has a girlfriend.”

“He’s a senior or a grad student, dork. He’s not going to be interested in
you
,” the other one says, her accent softening her words.

Hitting on the resident assistant, the upperclassman paid to keep an eye on all of the kids in the dorms, was never my thing. My RA freshman year, Tao, was five two and into Jesus. Not my scene.

I can’t imagine who would want to be an RA. Tao was always rushing some poor slob to the hospital with random broken bits. I’ll never forget the look on his face when he found my friend Sarah passed out, piss-drunk, with a broken ankle. How she managed to vomit on all four walls of her dorm room before she went down is beyond me.

Tapping my pen, I shift in my seat.

I’ve spent the last three months trying to get in the zone, grappling with ideas, but I only ended up with a journal full of manic-looking drawings.

This has to fucking work.

I breathe deeply, the smell of stale Cheetos assaulting my nose.

If I can get into a writing routine again, I can do this. I’ve done it before.

I keep telling myself the same crap, hoping something clicks. All summer, I’ve tried to be positive, and trust me, that’s no easy feat.

My knee starts to jiggle, and just as I’m about to go into full-out crisis mode, a voice startles me.

“Darlin’, now
you
don’t look like a freshman.”

Turning slightly, I see him in my peripheral vision, leaning in the doorway. The RA.

“That’s because I’m not,” I say flatly.

“So what are you doing in Warren Towers? I mean, why would you willingly hang out here? I get paid to be here. What’s your excuse?”

He’s joking. I get it. But I’m not in the mood.

“Just looking for some white noise,” I say, returning to my journal. I feel his eyes on me, and my face starts to heat. “Look, I’m not some creeper if that’s what you’re getting at. I just need a little inspiration.”

I jot down random words, hoping something can pull me out of my writing coma: suitcases, hot RAs, condoms, diet Coke, donuts.

Trying to ignore the intensity of his stare, I gaze out the floor-to-ceiling windows.

I’ve always loved this view. Boston is alive with color, rich with the burnt sienna of brownstones that bake in the August sun. Walls of ivy ripple in the breeze off the Charles River, making me wish I could go for a run.

Nostalgia tugs at me as I think about how much has happened since I lived here freshman year. I got the idea for my book in this very seat three years ago. And I’m hoping like hell I can do it again.

A quick glance at the clock feels like a punch to the gut. At this rate, I’m never going to figure out my next book if I can’t get in the zone. And I
have
to get in the zone. No one will pay my bills if I don’t, and Boston University doesn’t exactly have a soft spot for poor little rich girls. Because on paper, I’m silver-spoon-up-my-bum wealthy, the daughter of two Fortune 500 assholes. Unfortunately, my parents never got the memo they’re supposed to give a shit about my life.

Who knows what I did to piss them off? It’s immaterial at this point. The bottom line is I need money.
Pronto
.

I have one thing on my side. On a good day, if the stars align and the fates agree, I can write my ass off. Which helped at the end of my freshman year when I received the letter from the bursar’s office noting that I owed a cool twenty grand.

It’s ironic that my novel, which highlighted one of the most humiliating moments of my life, helped pay that bill.

I haven’t been able to write anything on par with
Say It Isn’t So,
my one and only book, the lucky ticket that bailed me out of debt. But I guess I haven’t had to. What started off as maudlin ramblings in my diary that I shaped into a narrative somehow jumped up the charts and became an indie bestseller.

The RA clears his throat, pulling me from my thoughts. “And you thought you’d find inspiration here, a freshman dorm?”

I don’t have to look up to know he’s grinning.

How the hell do you hear someone smile?
my inner voice quips.

He chuckles. “Are you having any luck? Finding inspiration?”

Finally, my eyes sweep up, and my stomach instantly lurches. He’s tall with dark, shaggy hair that flops in his face. Intense green eyes stare back.
The girls were right. He
is
good-looking.
He smiles a dazzling, megawatt grin, and my chest clenches at the thought that he probably has lickable abs.

Oh, for the love of God, Clem, get a grip.

I bite my lower lip until it stings, and my eyes dart back to my journal.

“No,” I say, wishing I had more time to write. “No luck with inspiration.”

My jaw clenches as my pen returns to drawing circles. Ignoring the hammering of my heart that I hope has everything to do with my looming tuition bill and nothing to do with Henry Cavill’s doppelgänger, I flip through the pages in front of me, desperate to find something that will help me get my shit together.

He shifts in the doorway.

“I’m Gavin, by the way.”

“Nice to meet you,” I say half-heartedly. My body, on autopilot, starts to pack my stuff even though it’s too early.

Shit. Fuck-it-all-to-hell shit!
You can’t go. You don’t have anything figured out yet!

“And… you… would… be?”

“Leaving.” My inner voice sighs at me.
Always such a bitch, Clem.

“Yeah, that’s not what I meant.” He sounds amused.

I swing my messenger bag over my shoulder.

“I know what you meant,” I say, glancing up as he blocks my exit.

He’s taller than I thought… and built…

The fact that my heart beats even faster the second I smell his citrusy cologne pisses me off. I pride myself on being a modern girl, one who doesn’t need a man, especially if all he’ll do is break my heart. So the idea that this guy and his little smirk give me kamikaze butterflies aggravates me more.

I let out an exasperated sigh as I wait for him to move out of the way, my eyes traveling along his bulging bicep, which strains against his t-shirt.

Stop. Checking. Him. Out.

I shake my head at myself as I scoot around him and head for the elevator. I press the button and wait all of three seconds before I punch it again.

“You know, you’re on the eighteenth floor. This could take a while,” he says behind me. “I’m guessing you probably have more than enough time to tell me your name.” He chuckles again, apparently undeterred by my fuck-off vibe.

This doesn’t mean anything. Just because you didn’t get an idea today doesn’t mean anything.

Nerves jumble my stomach, and I half consider taking the stairs when the elevator doors slide open and relief floods my chest.
I don’t know why I have to get away from here right now, but I do.

I get in and turn around. Obnoxiously sexy RA guy is leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his broad chest, watching me. Our eyes meet, and he raises his eyebrows.

As the doors start to close, I feel a twinge of guilt.

Ugh. Fine.

“Clem. My name is Clementine.”

The doors close, but not before I catch him grin.

* * *

T
he musty smell
of our apartment building blasts me in the face as I trudge up the stairs. Everyone is standing around the wagon-wheel coffee table, and Jenna hovers protectively in front of her garage-sale find with her hands on her hips. Her shoulder-length blonde hair is pulled up in a spiky ponytail and she has a smudge of dirt across her cheek.

“Clem, help me out here,” she says in her sweetest South Carolinian drawl. “Do you think this is hideous? Because I don’t. I think it has personality.”

Harper is standing next to Jenna silently begging me to side with her. She removes her glasses to rub the bridge of her nose before she swats at a loose strand of dark auburn hair dangling in her face. I’m lucky to have her as my in-house shrink. Her father is a world-renowned psychiatrist, and she’ll be one too someday.

I’ve been roommates with Harper since second semester of our freshman year after neither of us could stand living with our original roommates in Warren Towers. That’s when we got matched up with Jenna, who’s a creative writing major like me. By some fluke sophomore year, our little trio ended up in a coveted apartment on Bay State Road, which rocks the most amazing brownstones. We’ve been living together ever since.

Aside from Harper and Jenna, people here don’t know me, the real me. They don’t know I stand to inherit a shit-ton of money. Between the trust fund and the holdings from my grandfather, the amount is staggering. But I don’t like how people look at me when they think I’m some trust-fund baby.

Besides, the money isn’t mine, so I don’t want it. Especially if it means groveling to my mother. Because that will never fucking happen.

Harper clears her throat to catch my attention, and I remember that I’m supposed to be the enforcer.

“Jenna, we don’t have much room in our new place,” I say, hoping to let her down easily. “Our common area is pretty small this year.”

I don’t tell her that we’ve wanted to burn her table all summer.

“Babe,” Jenna’s boyfriend Ryan says with a look of resignation, “why don’t I take it for now? I’ll put it in my garage, and you can get it next summer.” As much shit as I give him, deep down he’s a great guy. “Besides, we’ve made some good memories on it.” He waggles his eyebrows at her, and I have a deep desire to hurl.

“Gross!” Harper yells. “Why can’t you two limit your sexual activity to the bedroom like normal people?”

“I can’t help it if I have a hot girlfriend.” Ryan leans over and kisses Jenna, and she giggles like a love-struck teenager.

Fortunately, the buzzer rings, which gets him bounding over boxes and out the door to pay the pizza guy. After scrounging around for some paper plates, we congregate on the bare floor in the living room.

By the time we’re done eating and the food coma starts to set in, the task of moving all of our crap to our new place on campus seems daunting.

A weary Harper holds up her cup of soda. “Here’s to our senior year.” We all raise our drinks. “To Ryan, may he sell out all of his concerts.” He winks, his stage swagger evident in the upward tilt of his chin. “To Jenna, may she be just as pleased in the bedroom but less vocal.” Jenna shoots her the finger but laughs. Harper turns to me and grins. “To Clem, may she write another bestselling book.”

Her words send twin pangs of hope and fear through me as I pray that I can finally break my dry spell and do it again.

Ryan tips his cup toward me. “You ever gonna let me read that book of yours?”

That’s an easy answer.

“I’m thinking no.” I arch an eyebrow at him, and he feigns disappointment. Yeah, like he really wants to read my Young Adult chick book.

Jenna interrupts to finish our toast. “And here’s to Harper, may she be wrong about all of my Freudian slips!”

Laughing, we clink our cups.

Jenna pauses mid-toast to wave her hands, sloshing soda all over the floor. “Don’t forget that Ryan’s show is tomorrow night at Euphoria.” Jenna is the ultimate groupie, standing in the front row to eye-fuck her boyfriend, who’s the lead singer of Tragic Paradox. “They got a new guitarist, and he’s really amazing.”

She leans over to kiss Ryan, which goes from a sweet peck on the mouth to something more, eliciting groans from Harper and me.

As Ryan starts to pull away from the kiss, he cops a feel.

“Are you always such a pervert?” I ask, giving him what I consider a withering eat-shit look, one that only makes him smirk. The fact that he just grabbed Jenna’s breast doesn’t faze her at all. Public groping is something she has gotten used to, like getting frisked by the TSA.

He’s still looking at me with a big, stupid smile. I shake my head. “You’re immune to my powers, huh?”

“Guess so.” He shrugs.

“I never could scare you.”

“No, but you scare the shit outta all my friends.” He scruffs my hair like I’m a kid, which has me seriously thinking about punching him in the kidney. “Why you so mean, Clementine?”

I lean back and shrug. “If you can’t stand the heat, stay the fuck out of the kitchen.”