The Family Friend

Some crushes don’t fade.
They just wait.
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Harriet
It’s my grandmother’s eightieth birthday, and all I can think about is how to survive it.
She gives me the attic loft, but I won’t be sleeping alone because I’m sharing the space with
… drum roll please … Heath Donovan.
You know the type.
The family friend who grew up next door, who spent every summer of my childhood stealing my s’mores and my good sense. The boy I trailed after like a stray. The boy I almost kissed the summer before college, right up until I made an absolute fool of myself and ran—two weeks early, all the way to a different coast, and straight into ten years of pretending it never happened.
He’s not a boy anymore. He’s six-foot-five, a professional athlete with a grin that still turns my brain to static, and I am absolutely not counting the space between his bed and mine.
I know how this goes. I reach, I get it wrong, I run.
It’s practically my signature move.
The problem is, ten years is a long time to convince yourself you’re over someone.
And eight feet is not nearly far enough to keep proving it.

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One bed away from everything
she swore she was over.
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The FAMILY FRIEND: a second-chance, one-bed romance with the boy-next-door
A childhood friends-to-adult lovers, second-chance, small-town, one-bed-vibes romance. Her 80-year-old grandmother pulls the strings. He’s back, not gangly anymore – a 6′ 5″ pro athlete, and they’re forced to bunk down 8 feet apart.
Spice with charm. Standalone. No cheating. No cliffhanger. Guaranteed HEA.

(WARNING: explicit)