Magan Vernon - The Only One

“Can you ever say something unsexual?”

“Nope.”

I got out of the car and walked around to the other side, opening the door for her. I was trying to appear calm, but I was a wreck inside. I was afraid that everything would fall apart. I didn’t know if I should have kept her in the car longer and stalled. Maybe a quickie would make sure that we didn’t arrive too early. But she was already out of the car and walking toward the building. I didn’t even have time to grab my ice skates. I ran after her and stopped her before she got to the door.

She blinked as I opened the front door for her. “After you, m’lady.”

“Are you okay?”

“Of course I am.” I smiled, but I could feel the sweat gathering under my armpits. God, this had to work. This had to be right.

She gasped as soon as we stepped through the doors. It was exactly like I wanted it. The lights were dimmed and a slow song was playing. There wasn’t anyone in sight and the only hint that anyone was around was the shadow of someone from the DJ booth who also shone the lights down on the ice.

“What is this?” she whispered.

I took her hand and pulled her forward until we were at the rink. She stopped once we were at the ice. “I’m not wearing any skates,” she said, looking down at her heels.

I bent down and then swooped her tiny body into my arms, walking her across the ice.

She squealed, “John! What are you doing?”

This wasn’t the way I planned it, but no turning back now. I sat her down on one of the ledges and then reached into my pocket, pulling out the velvet black box. Monica had gone with me to pick out the perfect ring. It was a princess cut diamond with tiny teal gemstones lining each side of it. The color for the cervical cancer ribbon. I couldn’t have been happier when I got down on one knee and opened the box. Her eyes lit up when she saw the ring sparkling up at her.

“Melanie Wilder. I’ve loved you since the first day I saw you, Hermione costume and all. We’ve been through Hell and back and I would do it all over again. I want to spend the rest of my life with you, so please tell me that you’ll marry me.”

I watched as the tears filled her eyes. The put together girl hated to cry in public and seeing her come undone was always the best sight. She immediately jumped off of the ledge and into my waiting arms. “Yes! Yes John! Yes I will!”

I slipped the ring on her finger, watching it glow against the lights of the skating rink. She kissed me over and over and I held onto her like if I let go she would leave. “You’re the only one for me, Melanie. I belong with you.”

She wiped the happy tears from her eyes and looked at me, a big grin on her face. “And I belong with you.”

We stayed there for what seemed like forever, just holding each other. I knew that I would never let her go as long as I lived. She was the only one I wanted to be with and now I would never have to be without her.

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Magan Vernon is a Young Adult and New Adult writer who lives with her family in the insurance capital of the world. When not writing she spends her time fighting over fake boyfriends via social media.

You can find her online at http://www.maganvernon.com

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First off, I have to thank YOU. Yes. You. The reader who picked up this book and gave me a chance…even though I kind of think you just picked it up for the hot cover.

All the amazing bloggers who have done so much for me and my career. I love that you love my characters and find my awkwardness charming.

My publicists, Jessica and Kelly, I love that you’re able to up with my weirdness and still promote me.

Regina Wamba, for my amazeballs cover. You still have the market cornered on these panty dropping covers.

My critique partners and Betas: Kelly Viel, Kate Ashton, Ava with Book Nerds Anonymous, Leigh T. Moore, Christina Lee (My Flover), Chelsea Cameron (Twitter Wife), Karen Hooper (KPoop) and Brenda Rothert.

Special shout out (again) to Brenda Rothert for copyediting this mother and having long text conversations with me that were borderline inappropriate.

The Indelibles, thank you for dealing with my constant whining.

Donna Dull, Kristina Circelli, and Jennifer Synder thanks for reading my smexy times and not judging me for them.

Dawn Pendleton, for our word sprints that I so desperately needed to get this story done.

Amanda Clark, for discussing male parts with me. We may be inappropriate, but I don’t care. I love it.

Tasha Tomlinson, thanks for putting up with me asking you random questions and being one of the first real readers of this book.

Jeremy Glenn, Nathan Weller, and cousin Vinny Happach for dealing with me constantly asking “IS THIS SOMETHING A COLLEGE BOY WOULD SAY?”

Scott, Yeah you were my college boyfriend and we’ve both gone our separate ways, but thank you for not running for the hills when I got the dreaded “call.” Thank you for letting me cry in your tiny room at the Teke house and thank you for caring. I’ll never forget that as long as I live.

Katie, we found a friendship in a hopeless place. Being sick sucks, but I’m glad that we found each other.

My girls, Claire and Olivia. I write strong heroines for you. I write about these situations that happen to a lot of people and no one writes about for you. I want you to have women to look up to and stories to read that aren’t just a textbook.

Tim, my heart, my soul, my everything. Thank you for encouraging me to follow my dreams. I love you more than words can say.

Aubree

“This solution is incorrect, Miss Walker.”

I looked down at the formula and went back over it carefully. “No, sir. I believe that this is the correct answer. I’m sure I got it right.”

“No. It’s wrong.”

“Could you tell me why?”

“Because a mongoose doesn’t mate with a chicken.”

“What? I’m sorry. I don’t understand what that has to do with math.”

“Exactly. Perhaps you haven’t been working hard enough. Maybe you got too many A’s and not enough F’s. Everyone in this class knows that a mongoose doesn’t mate with a chicken.”

I looked around at the class. All the desks were occupied with…chickens. They all looked at me with beady red eyes and sharp yellow beaks, laughing their fool chicken heads off.

Oh god, I was being mocked by a roomful of chickens who knew how to do math better than I did. “But they’re all chickens. Of course, they would know the answer.”

“That’s right, and you’re not a chicken.”

“But I could be a chicken. I could study more, work harder.”

“I’m afraid not. Do you know what happens to you in this class if you get the problem wrong? If you don’t measure up?”

“No, sir.”

“It’s the stewpot. We don’t tolerate stupid chickens in here.”

“But…but I’m not a chicken.”

“No? Then you’re just plain stupid.”

“No!” I cried. “I’ll try harder. I’ll be as good as I can.”

“I’ll be the perfect chicken,” I murmured, tossing and turning, kicking at the bed sheets. A pillow sailed across the room and struck me right in the head, drawing me out of that fitful dream.

“Aubree. You’re having the chicken dream again. If you don’t shut up, I’m going to yank out all your feathers,” Ashley grumbled. My roommate Ashley Cook and I were opposites. I was an uptight stats major and she was an artsy landscape architecture major. She was wild. I was sedate. But somehow we clicked.

Before I could respond to her half-serious threat, my cell phone chimed. I sat up in bed, now fully awake, my heart pounding. A call at this time of night was never good…wait…two a.m….it was technically morning. I fumbled around for the light and stumbled out of bed.

“Aubree. What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know,” I said rummaging through my Einstein tote in frustration.

“Oh, just turn it upside down.” Ashley huffed. Her golden blonde hair fell forward in a loose braid as she got out of bed, grabbed it out of my hands, and upended my neatly packed bag onto my bed. She snatched my cell from the jumble and handed it to me. “I swear, Aubree, you’d spend all night huntin’for it.”

“I knew exactly where it was, miz pushy. You didn’t have to make a mess out of my bag. Albert hates that.”

An indignant sniff was her reply. “Albert can kiss my ass along with your chicken professor. Besides, you love putting all your humpty-dumpty stuff back together again. Admit it.” She yawned and settled herself on the edge of the bed once again, legs crossed, her expression wry.

“Hello.” My voice was scratchy from sleep.

“Aubree Walker?” The man’s voice was deep, brushed with a soft Southern drawl.

“Yes,”

“This is Sheriff Mike Dalton.”

I frowned. I knew that name. “From Suttontowne?”

His voice was brusque, but there was regret threaded through it. “Yes. I’m calling to inform you that your aunt has been injured. She’s in the hospital.”