Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 102167 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 511(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102167 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 511(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Avery's had her eye on her brother’s best friend for years. But when she finally gives in to her attraction to Henry, what was meant to be a fling might just turn into something more.
Now, Avery and Henry's infamous back and forth might just pull them into uncharted territory... falling in love.
*This standalone romance is a "brother's best friend," "best friend's little sister" romance in the Meet Me at Midnight world
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
To people who aren’t afraid to be themselves—flaws, quirks, questionable life choices, and all.
To the people who love them anyway—even when they steal the covers, talk through movies, and have an alarming number of unread emails—you’re the real MVPs.
And to the people who think they’re superior or better-than somehow—nobody cares. Get a life. LOL.
January 1st
Avery
When people say “New year, new me,” my first instinct is to choke dramatically on my own saliva.
I mean, I have questions.
Why don’t you like the you that you are now?
And if you don’t, why wait for some magical ball drop to change it? Time is a construct, Tiffany.
Me? I happen to like myself—some might say too much. But I disagree. The one person you can always count on is yourself, so you might as well be your own favorite bitch. And I, Avery Banks, know exactly what I’m bringing to the table. You’re welcome, world.
What I’m not as in control of is what the world gives me or just how vulnerable I am going to be to yet another New Year’s cliché.
Six months ago, my best friend June, my brother Beau (who also happens to be her husband), and his best friends—Henry Callahan, Ronnie Damon, and Maverick Catalano—planned the ultimate New Year’s trip to a private island in the Exumas. We all chipped in to make it as obnoxiously extravagant as possible, and that resulted in the mansion having two pools, a sauna, three water slides into the Caribbean, and a chef-staffed kitchen to cater to our every whim.
According to eternal optimist June, it was the perfect way to kick off the new year—a fresh start with our favorite people. For me, that meant one favorite person—my bestie June—and a bunch of losers—my older brother and his friends.
Unfortunately, a few things have shifted since we originally scheduled this adventure, and as a result, I cannot believe I’m still going.
“Go and start the new year off with a bang,” Beau said when I tried to back out. Easy for him to say—he gets to stay home. When June bailed due to morning sickness—and general buzzkill status—my brother immediately pulled the plug too, leaving me alone with the three amigos.
To cheer myself up, I plan to drink my body weight in cocktails and bake in the sun every day—and if June hadn’t let my brother knock her up for the second time at such an inopportune interval, I wouldn’t have to do it alone.
Ughhhhh. Love that I’m getting a new baby nephew this summer. Hate that June didn’t plan this pregnancy better.
I sigh heavily and pull my G-Wagon into the parking lot outside the small private airport hangar, located on the north end of Miami Beach, looking for other cars I recognize. I’m normally last to arrive to group ventures, but for a change of pace, I’m on time today, and as a result, some of the morning fog is still burning off over the ocean.
Running a hand over my slicked-back ponytail while Billie Eilish sings “Birds of a Feather,” I glance in the rearview mirror to fix my lip gloss briefly before paying attention to the twenty-spot blacktop lot and its white-lined spaces. Several are open, so I pull my Mercedes into one on a small screech of tires and scope the area.
My brother Beau’s best friend Henry Callahan’s Mustang is three spaces down, at the end of the line—a sign that I’m in the right place—so I unbuckle, shut off the engine, and climb out to adjust my outfit. I’m dressed casually—something I’m told by my mother, Diane Banks, is appropriate when your plans include jumping out of a plane—settling for Golden Goose sneakers, Nili Lotan Bolero jeans, and a Ravella cashmere sweater instead of my usual Louboutin heels and a cultivated variation of Dior and Saint Laurent and Versace.
Those outfits are, of course, in my suitcase, but I’ll save them for the safety of the Bahamian island we’re planning to vacation on for the next few days instead of the wind of the stratosphere or whatever the hell you have to deal with at several thousand feet with a parachute strapped to your back.
You think I’m kidding, but I’m not. We’re literally parachuting into the island.
Opening the hatch at the back of my SUV, I pull the small roller bag out from its spot in the trunk and shut it again, beeping the locks as I stroll toward the arched hangar. My suitcase follows dutifully, and I settle a pair of Chanel sunnies onto the bridge of my nose to shield the bright sun.
A heavy sigh fills my lungs with air and then exits in one big huff. Ugh. I can’t believe I’m going to be stuck with Henry, Ronnie, and Maverick all by myself.
And to make matters worse, I have to freaking skydive to get there.