Defending Taylor (Hundred Oaks #7) Read Free Page B

for his help, he said, “You got yourself into this. You’ll have to work through the consequences.”
    I thought I could handle the sacrifice I made to save Ben’s scholarship, but I can’t. Deep down, I was hoping he’d defend me and come clean, telling everybody what happened was his fault. He’s the reason I don’t plan on dating again. Because you gamble when you give a guy your heart.
    I bet wrong.
    • • •
    Before my second day of school, I stop at Foothills for coffee. This diner is from the Stone Age.
    I step inside, expecting to find woolly mammoths and cave drawings, but instead, a bunch of old men sitting in vinyl booths look up from their newspapers. They’re all, like, eighty years old. Perfect. Well, perfect in the sense that none of these men are going to tempt me like that hot guy at Donut Palace yesterday.
    It’s not so perfect because, well, I get nervous around the elderly.
    It goes back to eighth grade when my school choir visited a Chattanooga nursing home. We were singing Christmas carols to a large group of residents when this old man stood up from the audience and made a beeline for me. He grabbed my elbow, then demanded we play gin rummy.
    Since then, I steer clear of old men, which is difficult when your father wants to keep his senate seat. He’s always making me attend events, like the local bingo night. I wouldn’t mind if I actually got to play for real. But a senator’s daughter should be seen, not heard, and that’s impossible when yelling “Bingo!” I’ve won a lot of games without anyone knowing.
    I pass a booth of old guys who are complaining about the Titans offensive line, walk up to the to-go counter, ring the bell, and that’s when it happens.
    “Tease.”
    I’d recognize that slow, deep voice anywhere. Over the years, he stopped calling me Tee like everyone else and had nicknamed me Tease . Why on earth is he here? Isn’t he in college at Cornell? Is it his fall break? Oh God, talk about the last person I want to see!
    “Tee?”
    I slowly turn toward him.
    Ezra Carmichael.
    The guy who filled my thoughts for years and years.
    The first time I met him, I was ten. For elementary school, I went to a private girls’ school, so I hadn’t met many of my brother’s friends. It was Oliver’s twelfth birthday party, and he had invited a ton of boys over to the house for video games, swimming, and a game of football. Mom said they had to play two-hand touch, but as soon as she went to the back patio to drink mint juleps with the other moms, Ezra announced to the boys that they were playing tackle.
    “No wimps!” he said, and of course, none of the boys tried to bow out. You had to play tackle or you’d be considered a pansy forever.
    With hands on my hips, I stood on the porch in my little red dress and announced, “I want to play!”
    “No way!” Oliver said.
    “Let me on your team or I’m telling Mom you’re playing tackle and you’ll be in trouble!”
    Ezra scowled. “Just let her play, Oll. She can be on my team.”
    The other team kicked off. I sprinted forward and somehow managed to catch the ball. “I caught it!” I yelled, and Ezra waved his arms, screaming, “Run!”
    I took off for the end zone, my red skirt flapping in the wind. I was nearly there—and then this whale of a kid tackled me into the ground. A rock gashed my forehead.
    I felt blood trickling down my face as Ezra slid to a stop in front of me. He pulled off his sweaty T-shirt and held it to my forehead, stopping the flow of blood. It hurt like the devil, but I couldn’t cry in front of these boys, especially Ezra, who had stood up for me and argued to let me play. So I bit down on my lip.
    He crouched over me that day. “Tee? You okay?”
    “Did I score?”
    Ezra burst out laughing, and that’s when I knew I wanted to marry him.
    When we were in high school together, I spent a lot of time secretly doodling Ezra + Tee and Tee + Ezra in the margins of my notebook, then