Read Serial Hottie Online

Authors: Kelly Oram

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Serial Hottie

 

by

Kelly Oram

 

 

 

Published by Bluefields Creative

 

Copyright © 2012 by Kelly Oram

 

 

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

 

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

ALSO BY KELLY ORAM:

 

 

“Most superhero stories start with a meteor shower or a nasty insect bite, but mine actually starts with a kiss.”

 

www.beingjamiebaker.com

 

 

 

...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For Christy Ann

 

Not because we used to stalk our hot neighbor or anything...

TABLE OF CONTENTS

 

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

 

BONUS MATERIAL

 

“HOUSE HUNTING” (Seth’s first glimpse of Ellie)

 

CHAPTER 1 FROM SETH’S POV

 

COMING NEXT FROM KELLY ORAM

 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

 

 

 

This was going to be the longest summer of my life. Being deprived of my three best friends, Jesse, Josh, and Jack—otherwise known as the J’s—was worse than I’d imagined it would be. It’d only been a week and I was already cracking like a nut job from the summer boredom. If it weren’t for the new kid across the street I’d be in a room with padded walls already.

The new kid and his mom moved in the day after the J’s left to go to hockey camp for the summer. I’m not even going to start on how unfair it is that I couldn’t go with them just because of the fact that I’m a stupid girl—a fact which my older sister says is debatable—because it will only make me punch something.

Anyway, the J’s all left to go become NHL material, and just when I thought for sure I was going to literally die without them, a moving van pulled up in front of the house across the street. Naturally I was curious, so I sat up in my room, with a bowl of ice cream and Weezer blaring loudly through my open window, and watched as the movers began hauling stuff into the house.

After a few minutes, I stuck the spoon in my mouth and forgot to remove it until I got a massive brain freeze. This was not because I’m a moron and don’t know how to eat ice cream. It was because a BMW, of all things, pulled up to the curb in front of the house.

Of course I’ve seen nice cars before, and it wasn’t even about the fact that I live in the kind of neighborhood where people only drive minivans, but a BMW? That’s like German or something. If you’re going to move to Detroit—okay well Canton, which is only a suburb of Detroit, but still—the least you could do is have the decency to drive American.

I waited to see what kind of people would have the nerve to roll up in a foreign car, and the woman who stepped out from behind the wheel seemed to perfectly fit the stereotype I had in my head. She was super skinny, which, not to be rude to a lot of the moms on my street, was not something we were used to seeing around here. She had really shiny brunette hair, like the kind you see on shampoo commercials. Her clothes were probably designer, not that I would really know, and she had something hanging on her ear, which I decided was one of those cell phone things you see people using in the movies. In fact, she looked like someone you would see in the movies.

Then
he
stepped out of the car and I felt like I’d died and gone to
The OC
. He had shaggy, dark brown hair that was as messy as the guys’ that play hockey with me, except that his seemed to be styled like that on purpose. It hung down into his eyes, making him look kind of mysterious, and he was really tall. Definitely varsity basketball team tall—not that he struck me as the type to play organized sports. And tall is good, because I’m like five, ten.

Not that I’m planning our wedding or anything, I’m just saying.

He seemed a little on the skinny side, but you could see the definition under his polo-fit tee. It gave him the appearance of an Abercrombie & Fitch model, officially making him the hottest boy I’ve ever seen. So hot, that I could feel myself blushing even though he was down on the street and had no idea I was watching him.

And that’s what I did for the rest of the week. I watched him.

I’d become obsessive about spying on him over the last week since it was my only form of entertainment. Well, it was the most exciting entertainment anyway. I did have my X-box to keep me company, but even
Grand Theft Auto
couldn’t compare with Mr. Abercrombie working out in his garage.

The workouts started the morning after he moved in. Every morning around nine a.m. he worked himself ragged. Half the days he did an extensive cardio workout, with a jump rope of all things, and then he’d beat the crap out of a punching bag. That’s pretty fun to watch, but I’ll admit I liked the days when he lifted better. He had one of those weight machines that allows you to work out all the different parts of your body, so after he worked his thighs and gluts, he moved on to my particular favorite, his upper body.

I kind of have the perfect view, too. My bedroom window is directly across from his bedroom window, which sits above his garage. So after his workout, I can usually catch a glimpse of him stripping his tank top off as he heads into his bathroom to shower. Best ten seconds of my day. Only today it was actually more like a whole minute, because he stopped to look out his window as he gulped down a bottle of water.

I was completely mesmerized by his hotness, and didn’t think to hide from his view until our eyes locked. I panicked and quickly ducked out of sight hoping that we were far enough away from each other, that maybe he didn’t notice me. Maybe I only thought he’d seen me.

I waited a minute and then peeked again to see if he was gone, but he was still standing there. Not only that, but it’s like he was waiting for me—like he knew I’d look again. At that point what could I do, hide again? I think not. I was already busted.

In an attempt to save my dignity, and hopefully make him think I’d just happened to notice him and wasn’t actually
watching
him, I threw my hand up and waved. He didn’t wave back, but beneath the intense stare he was giving me, the corners of his mouth curved into half a smile. I couldn’t help but think,
Is he laughing at me?

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