For All The Wrong Reasons Read online

  For All The Wrong Reasons

  Rachael Brownell

  Contents

  About the Author

  Also by Rachael Brownell

  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

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  “How to Lose Your Best Friend”

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Epilogue

  Waiting on Someday

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Rachael Brownell is an award-winning author of young-adult and new-adult romance. She resides in the midwest with her husband and son. To learn more about Rachael and her books, follow her on social media or sign up for her monthly newsletter.

  For more information…

  www.AuthorRachaelBrownell.com

  [email protected]

  Also by Rachael Brownell

  Rumors Series

  Imperfect Love Series

  Storm Series

  * * *

  Dating Dilemma

  Worth The Fight

  Dark Bishop

  Lucky 13

  Waiting on Someday

  Always in My Heart

  Take A Gamble

  Chasing Fate

  Sticks & Stones

  * * *

  Holding On Series - book 1 is always FREE!

  For All The Wrong Reasons

  Chapter One

  GABRIELLE

  How does the saying go?

  You only want what you don’t have because you don’t have it.

  Something like that, anyway.

  I hate that saying. It’s ridiculous how much truth lies in one sentence. How much control the heart has over the brain.

  Why can’t they work in tandem?

  Why can’t they agree on how to feel? What to want? What to think?

  The really fucked up part is that no matter how hard we try not to want the things we don’t have, it seems nothing and no one can change the way we feel. You can’t ignore the indescribable need that haunts you all day every day. The constant obsessive thoughts you can’t seem to shake no matter how hard you try. No matter how much you want to think about anything other than the one thing you can’t have.

  Take brownies for instance.

  I loved them. When I had a chocolate craving, they were my go-to. When I was down on myself, I knew I’d feel better after I ate a few. Or a whole pan. Don’t judge. Anytime I needed a pick me up, brownies were there for me. Homemade. Store-bought. It didn’t matter.

  Then I went on a diet. I wanted to get healthy.

  Retract that.

  I needed to get healthy. I’d eaten my weight in brownies over the course of a few weeks, gained ten pounds, and there was no sign of me slowing down any time soon if I didn’t force myself to get off my ass and take back control of my life.

  Why was I eating brownies for breakfast, lunch, and dinner?

  Gavin.

  My boyfriend of three years.

  The man I thought I was going to marry.

  Right up until the moment he broke up with me.

  It was a real-life Legally Blonde moment. Same ending and all.

  Not as funny when it happens to you in real life by the way.

  He took me out for a nice dinner. Nice restaurants were generally reserved for special occasions. Birthdays. Our anniversary. Valentine’s Day.

  So when he told me where we were going, I couldn’t help but get excited. This was it. It had to be. We’d reached that exciting next step in our relationship. With only a year left of college, he was going to propose.

  I was ready.

  The next chapter of our lives couldn’t start soon enough. I’d been hinting at the future for months. We’d talked about backpacking about Europe together after graduation. Just the two of us. Two months of romance and fun before we had to embark on the real world. Before we had to grow up and act like adults, do adult things, and start our careers.

  Why wouldn’t I think he was about to propose?

  All the signs were pointing to him sliding a sparkly, more than likely small—but that didn’t matter—ring on my finger at dinner. He would tell me how much he loved me. How I was the one who was meant for him. That he wanted to spend the rest of his life with me, to start a family, and grow old with me.

  The scene played out in my mind while I got ready, spending extra time on my hair. I made sure my makeup was flawless. I even bought a new dress for the occasion, complete with matching lace bra and panties for the celebration afterward.

  When I opened the door and found him standing on the porch, his face reserved, emotionless, I should have noticed something was off. I was beaming with excitement, a permanent smile on my face and glimmer in my eye. Why wasn’t he? Why did his eyes seem empty, uncaring?

  My focus was on what was about to happen, so instead of worrying, instead of asking the questions I should have, I brushed it off as him covering up his nerves about proposing. I slide my arm through his, even when he didn’t offer it to me. I stood patiently next to the car door waiting for him to open it for me, keeping my hands clasped in front of me to keep them from shaking, my anticipation overwhelming me.

  When he didn’t initiate a conversation on the way to the restaurant, I took the opportunity to tell him how excited I was for tonight. How much I appreciated him taking me out for such a nice dinner. I may have mentioned how lucky I felt to be dating him a time or two. How grateful I was for the way he takes care of me.

  You know, I made sure he knew I was all in without accepting his proposal before he got the chance to drop to one knee. I didn’t want to ruin it for him.

  His reply came in the way of a forced smile and a slight nod as he kept his eyes trained on the road.

  Dinner was a lot of the same. I’d talk, he’d pretend to listen, his attention focused on the food in front of him. His silence should have spoken volumes, but all I could hear were wedding bells.

  And they were blaring.

  My vision was clouded by ideas for flower arrangements and possible color schemes. Thoughts of dress styles and potential venues.

  My knee started to bounce under the table when our waiter came over to offer dessert. I’d been too nervous to eat my dinner, but I never passed on dessert, and Gavin knew that. Chocolate was my weakness when it came to all things.

  But he didn’t order chocolate. He handed the waiter his credit card and waved him away with the flick of his wrist.

  The pep in my step fell flat, my knee settling itself down as my heart slowed its pace inside my chest. Sitting across the table from me, Gavin shifted his body so he was directly facing me and then leaned forward on his elbows.

  “We need to talk,” he began, but I barely heard the rest.

  We’re too different. Headed down separate paths. We want different things out of life. It’s best to end things now to preserve our friendship. He’ll always h
ave feelings for me. He’ll always love me.

  The true kicker.

  He’s sorry.

  As he after excuse as to why he was breaking up with me, because let’s be honest . . . all his reasons were excuses, all the little details of the night started to add up in my head. Then I searched further back in my memory. Weeks, months even, and I started to pick up on the tiniest things.

  Missing date night.

  Not returning my text messages.

  Forgetting about plans.

  Avoiding our usual hangouts.

  None of it stood out on its own, but I finally saw what it all added up to.

  Another woman. There was no other explanation.

  Now, I’m generally a quiet, soft-spoken woman. I don’t like to make a scene, in public or private. I keep my cool even when I have a right to lose my shit. My parents taught me to act like a lady. To treat others with respect. Most importantly, they taught me to never say something I might regret.

  To think things through before speaking.

  That my actions speak louder than words.

  Gavin knew this. And he was banking on it.

  Having attention drawn to me in a crowded, upscale restaurant, isn’t something I would want. I’d avoid it at all costs.

  But he’d broken me at that moment. And a broken, scorned woman tends to be anything but level-headed.

  Calm, cool, and collected went out the window the moment he started talking. The moment he denied me chocolate.

  So, in true Reese Witherspoon fashion, I blew up on him. Every pair of eyes in the restaurant watched as I called him out on his bullshit. They saw me throw my glass of wine in his face. Watched as I slapped him and told him to go fuck himself.

  The look of shock on his face is all I could see through my blinding rage.

  I’ve been an emotional wreck since that night. With classes finally starting last week, I had to force myself to pull my shit together. It hasn’t been easy. Every day is a struggle.

  Here’s what I don’t understand . . . if him shattering the person I used to be was the cause of my weight gain and my current hatred for brownies, why do I still want him? Why was I still pining after him?

  Because my heart hasn’t sent the proper signals to my brain. It’s the only thing I can think of. My heart is still in control, telling my brain to lust for him. To want him in my life. That he’s my forever, even though deep down I know the truth.

  We’re done. He doesn’t want me anymore. I wasn’t enough.

  The heart’s sole purpose is to keep us alive, yet it feels like it’s trying to kill us half the time. And the brain does nothing to stop it.

  It allows us to hurt. To feel pain.

  It’s like they’re working together to ensure we feel every ounce of sorrow, of grief, of anguish imaginable. Because why would we want to feel anything else? They sure as hell don’t work together to bring happiness and joy into our lives. If anything, they seem to be at odds when times like those are right in front of us.

  But I have a plan to combat my defiant heart. I’m done listening to it. I’m done letting it control my life.

  I’ve locked it away.

  I’ll never love another. There’s no point to it. Someone always gets hurt.

  I won’t condemn anyone who searches for love. That’s their prerogative. To each their own. I just refuse to be one of them.

  I refuse to be a player in the game.

  At least, I did.

  But good intentions have a way of getting tossed aside when the one thing you want is dangled in front of you.

  I knew my sanity would suffer. That my heart would ache more than it already did.

  I was even prepared for the plan to fail and for me to resort to eating brownies for every meal again.

  Still, I went along with it. I couldn’t say no.

  This was the one chance I had at being with Gavin again. To show him we were meant to be together. I needed him to see what he was missing out on and to remember how great we were together.

  Then he would want me back.

  He would want what I want. To be together. To create the future we talked about.

  While my heart screamed yes, my brain remained eerily silent. That should have been a flashing neon sign telling me how bad of an idea this was.

  Chapter Two

  QUINN

  I’m not sure how much longer I can stand living here. It’s like a revolving door of couch-crashing drunks and half-naked men. I spend ninety percent of the time I’m home in my room, hiding from the unwelcome visitors. The other ten percent is spent cleaning up after everyone had gone home and my roommates had disappeared.

  I get it. We’re in college. We’re allowed to party it up, to have fun. We don’t have to be responsible adults yet. At least not every day.

  But cleaning up a mysterious white power off the coffee table . . . this is not what I signed up for.

  Scratch that.

  I can’t say that. I signed the lease, so in a way, I inked my fate that day. Still, I blame my attraction to Kara for not asking more questions before signing. For not setting ground rules before it was too late to look like an asshole. For not speaking up that first weekend when I wasn’t able to sleep for two days because of the constant partying.

  If I’d known she’d be parading a host of men through our house, I never would have agreed to be the third roommate. That’s probably not true. What man wouldn’t jump at the chance of living with two smoking-hot single women? One of whom you were under the impression you had a chance with. That you’ve known for two years and have patiently waited for to be single again so you could ask her out, only to have a front-row seat of her taking her rebound game to a whole new level.

  In the last two weeks, she’s been on more than a handful of dates, and those are the ones I know about. There could be others. Hell, now that the semester has started, I’ve barely seen her between classes and work. The only reason I know she’s been going out is because she leaves notes on the dry erase board in the kitchen telling Tess and me not to wait up for her.

  But I do.

  I can’t help it. Even if I wanted to sleep, I doubt I’d be able to. My mind refuses to calm down, assuming the worst has happened until I hear the roar of her motorcycle coming down the street. So when she tries to sneak in at three o’clock in the morning and the stairs creak, giving her away, I’m wide awake. Waiting. Worrying. Listening.

  I’ve tried telling myself I only wait up to make sure she makes it home safe. That the worry in the pit of my stomach is why I can’t sleep. Because there are crazy people out there and I have no idea who she’s with or where she is. Because we’re friends and friends care about each other.

  It’s all a lie.

  I’ve been lying to myself for longer than I care to admit.

  It wasn’t until last week when she brought a friend home with her that I really felt like I’d been smacked across the face. I could excuse the crazy partying and recreational drugs. She was going through a breakup, I get it. But that night . . . the reality of the situation hit me. As much as I should have seen it coming, I’d refused to. I wanted her to do what she needed to do to move on from the asshole she had dated. Whatever it took. Then I would make my move.

  Hearing her moans through the wall as someone else fucked her senseless was a wakeup call.

  If I was going to make my move, it had to be now. He was the first guy she’d brought home. He left shortly after their roll in the sheets.

  A one-night stand. No big deal, right? We’ve all been there. Made a spur of the moment, alcohol-infused decision that we regretted the next morning. It’s almost a rite of passage for college students. To experiment before you tie yourself down.

  Not Kara.

  Kara is continuing to make that decision. Night after night. Guy after guy.

  That’s where the revolving-door scenario comes into play.

  I’d love to defend her and say it’s been the same guy every night. Unless
he’s a man of many names, that’s not the case. Not to mention the variety of half-naked men I’ve bumped into in the hallway in the wee hours of the morning. Or found standing in my kitchen, pouring a cup of coffee from the fresh pot I’ve just brewed.

  Watching as they add a splash of non-fat, powdered vanilla creamer and two heaping spoonfuls of sugar to an oversized mug.

  The coffee is never for them.

  They only ever make one cup.

  And they all have the same reaction when they see me. Surprise to find a man in the house followed by a swift nod before heading back up to Kara’s room. Before I can even finish my first cup of coffee, they’re fully dressed and headed out the front door, back to where they came from. Never to be seen or heard from again.

  Except for the one guy I almost ran into on campus the other day. He was walking with a group of guys when I spotted him. Before I could turn and walk the other way, he shouted my name. I’m not sure where he learned it, considering I’d never introduced myself, but I didn’t stick around to find out. I wanted to flip him off but instead darted into the nearest building. The last thing I wanted was to hear him recap his night with Kara.

  I heard most of it through the wall.

  So I chose to be the bigger man at that moment. At least that’s what I keep telling myself every time the anger surfaces. Every time she brings home another guy. Every time I hear her moaning as I lay in bed, attempting to fall asleep.