Read One Northern Morning (A Novella) (Southern Nights Novella Series #2) Online
Authors: Marissa Carmel
Tags: #One Northern Morning
One Northern Morning (A Novella) (Southern Nights Novella Series #2)
Table of Contents
ONE NORTHERN MORNING
Copyright © Marissa Carmel 2015
All rights reserved.
Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.
No part of this book may be reproduced or shared by any electronic or mechanical means, including but not limited to printing, file sharing, and email, without prior written permission from author Marissa Carmel.
Cover photo by Eric McKinney, 6:12 Photography
Cover Model: Chase Ketron
Cover Design by Marisa Shor, Cover Me, Darling
Editing by Jenny Sims, Editing4Indies, and Candice Royer
Proofread by Nichole Strauss, Perfectly Publishable
Interior Design by Christine Borgford, Perfectly Publishable
In life, as in football, you won’t go far unless you know where the goalposts are.
~Arnold H. Glasow
Winter break
Freshman year
H
e didn’t show up . . .
I’m standing across from a camera crew in my father’s newly opened restaurant in our hometown. You know, the one he moved us to my senior year of high school—Nowhere, Alabama. It’s a full-service diner with a modern twist on down-home cooking. I know he’s my dad and all, and I’m supposed to brag, but the food really is amazing. Especially the wildly flavored milkshakes. My favorite, the frozen hot chocolate. It reminds me of New York when he would take me to Serendipity on a Sunday afternoon. Those were the best times. I didn’t realize how much I missed them until he started concocting his own recipe and using me as his tasting guinea pig.
The cooking channel isn’t here to feature Celebrity Chef Riley’s new eating establishment, though. No, they’re here doing a segment on master chefs and their children. Which means I’m on camera right now.
Me.
I
hate
the spotlight, but I want to support my father. So, over the last several hours, with bright lights shining in my face, I’ve assisted as he made our favorite meal—the one I would demand as a child. Spaghetti and meatballs.
Kam was supposed to be here. He knew how important this was to me—he knew how nervous I was—and he promised. He’s been doing that to me a lot lately—making promises and never following through. I know he doesn’t do it on purpose. At least, I keep telling myself that.
He’s a pretty popular person at the moment. He led Alabama to the conference finals, and then won.
As a freshman.
That’s almost unheard of, unless you’re Kamdyn Ellis.
He’s a natural born star.
And my absent boyfriend.
I watch, trying to hide the disappointment, as my father presents a plate of perfectly coiled spaghetti with meatballs and happily garnishes it with a sprig of parsley. When he’s finished, he wraps one arm around my shoulders and smiles into the camera.
“And there you have it. Spaghetti and meatballs a la Laney and Riley Summers,” he says in this watered down Southern accent.
“Thanks for joining us. May your plates be full and your company be plentiful.” He throws in his signature catch phrase—the one he became known for on the cooking competition that made him famous. It’s something similar to what my grandmother used to say when we would sit down for holiday meals. Food and family, she firmly believed, are two staples that go perfectly together.
“And cut,” the director yells with a huge grin. “Perfect.” He shakes my father’s hand zealously. “You two were great. Great chemistry. Laney, you’re a natural.”
“Thank you.”
I think.
There didn’t feel anything natural about being filmed for three hours. But if he liked it, that’s all that matters.
“Hungry, kiddo? I promised the crew some dinner when we wrapped up.”
“No. I’m good, Dad.” I wrap my arms around myself. My stomach is in knots, and my chest is aching.
He didn’t show up.
“Maybe a milkshake later.”
“You got it.” He knocks my chin with his fist, lightly, lovingly. He knows something’s wrong.
A second later, the bells of the diner jingle as Kam comes barreling through the front door. “Did I miss it?”
I stare at him silently over the counter. “You missed it.” I try to keep my emotions in check, but I am so fed up.
“Shit. Laney, I’m so sorry.” He starts his spiel. “My agent called last minute. A reporter wanted an interview. It was only supposed to take a few minutes—”
“I got it, Kam,” I interrupt him curtly.
“Lemon . . .” He coos my nickname remorsefully. I’m not mad. I’m just hurt, and Kam’s apologies just aren’t cutting it anymore. No matter how sincere.
“No more apologies.” I shake my head sorrowfully. “Why don’t we just call this what it is.”
“What’s that?” Kam’s baby blue’s flash with concern.
“Quits.”
“This is not quits, Lemon.” He’s stern.
“I can’t do this anymore.” My voice is small. So small, I barely recognize it. So hurt, I can barely stand it.
“Come on, this was just a hiccup.” He tries to argue, maybe reason. Either way, I’ve made my mind up.
“It’s a hiccup that’s going to keep happening for the rest of your life. I know who you are, and I would never want to change that. But I have competed for attention most of my life. With my mom and my dad, and now you. I’m tired of vying,” I stress. “I would like to be put first, just once.”
I’m not trying to sound like a whiny two-year-old, but that’s just the reality of my life. I don’t feel unloved. I know my parents love me. But my mom takes ‘career driven’ to another level. I barely ever see her, and it’s been that way for as long as I can remember. When my father’s career picked up, it became the same way. He was constantly working, or filming, or cooking. And now that Kam is in the spotlight and the center of attention, it’s happening with him, too. I get it, but I’m starting to resent him, and I hate that. Because I love him, truly, with all my heart. But I love myself, too. It’s going to tear us apart eventually, so I’m just trying to make the split amicable. For all our sakes, especially his mother and my father, since they began dating shortly after Kam and I got together. Apparently, there was some leftover attraction from high school. You could almost see the sparks fly.
“Laney, you are the most important person in my life.” The sincerity in his voice nearly has me reconsidering. Then his phone rings, ruining the moment. “Shit,” he mutters, as he looks at the screen. He’s conflicted about picking it up or continuing with this conversation. I know who’s calling him. It’s Sam the Magic Man, his agent, who calls him every freaking five seconds lately.
“Go ahead, pick it up. Talk to him. I know you have to.” It’s part of the game. Kam is going to the NFL, and this is part of the path to get there.
“Lemon, this isn’t over,” he says strictly, the phone ringing in his hand.
“Yes, it is.” I start to walk away.
“Lemon!” Kam raises his voice as I disappear into the kitchen. “Lemon!” The phone annoyingly rings again. “Lemon! Damn it! Hello.” I hear him snap just before the door swings closed behind me.
Three years later.
Spring Semester, Senior year.
I
breathe in the spring air as I walk across campus. It’s early morning. Well, relatively. Being up at eight thirty is hellish for most college students but normal for me. I’ve already worked out, eaten breakfast, showered, and dressed. It’s just part of my routine—the routine I’ve followed since I stepped foot on this university three and a half years ago.