Until Fountain Bridge: (InterMix)

Also by Samantha Young

On Dublin Street

Down London Road

Until Fountain Bridge

An On Dublin Street Novella

Samantha Young

I
NTER
M
IX
B
OOKS,
N
EW
Y
ORK

INTERMIX BOOKS

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have control over and does not have any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

UNTIL FOUNTAIN BRIDGE

An InterMix Book / published by arrangement with the author

PUBLISHING HISTORY

InterMix eBook edition / June 2013

Copyright © 2013 by Samantha Young.

Excerpt from
Down London Road
copyright © 2013 by Samantha Young.

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

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375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

ISBN: 978-0-698-14150-6

INTERMIX

InterMix Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group

and New American Library, divisions of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

INTERMIX and the “IM” design are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

Chapter 1

It was always the same when you were looking for something amongst a big pile of
some things
—the something you were after was at the
bottom
of that big pile of some things. I finally dropped the last box on the other side of the room and wiped a streak of sweat from my forehead.

When I’d moved in with Adam three months ago, I’d promised him that all the boxes of junk that I put in his spare room would be sorted out and put away within a couple of weeks. I’d unfortunately reneged on that promise and wasn’t ashamed to say I was still leaning on my tumor scare to get me out of the admonishment that should have followed. I’d been diagnosed with a benign—and yet still terrifying—brain tumor eight months ago; a diagnosis that not only traumatized my family and friends, including Joss, but had kicked Adam, my brother’s best friend, in the behind. He’d finally admitted to everyone he was in love with me, and we’d hardly spent a day apart since. Although our relationship had changed, we were still
us
, and Adam tried not to treat me like I was made of glass. However, I’d noticed he let me get away with things he wouldn’t have before—such as cluttering up his clutter-free, swanky duplex with all my rubbish—and I didn’t know if this was because of the scare or because we were a couple now and he was compromising.

I swooped down on the last box with a grunt of triumph and ripped off the packing tape. Inside I found exactly what I was looking for and I smiled. I’d already upended the box and sent my old diaries cascading across Adam’s hardwood floors before it occurred to me that upending a box of diaries might cause scratches. Wincing, I did this silly little dance over the falling journals as if this would somehow, magically, soften the impact of their rapid descent.

It didn’t.

I dropped to my knees, picked up the books, and checked the floor for nicks. Nothing. Thank God. Adam was an architect. This meant that he liked his space a certain way, and his way was in pristine condition, especially when his space had cost him a fortune. Hardwood flooring wasn’t cheap. Adam had already changed his life for me, doing a three-sixty from being the ultimate player to coming a devoted boyfriend; from bachelor and proud clutter-free homeowner, to doting partner and proud owner of stylish duplex covered in weird crap that his quirky, overly romantic girlfriend picked up in random places. He’d literally allowed me to leave my mark on every room, so damaging his floors wasn’t exactly a nice way to pay him back. I kissed the tips of my fingers and pressed them against the floor in a gesture of apology.

“Els, what was that noise? You okay?” Adam’s deep voice could be heard from across the hall. He was in his office working on his and Braden’s current project.

“Uh-huh,” I called back, flipping through the diaries to make sure I had every single one of them. I was so lost in what I was doing, I didn’t hear Adam’s footsteps.

“What are you up to?” His voice was suddenly right above me and I jumped, startled, only to lose my balance.

I heard him smother a snort and glared up at him. “I need to get you a bell.”

Ignoring me, Adam crouched down onto his haunches, his eyes taking in the diaries. As always when I studied him, I got a little flutter in the pit of my stomach, and my skin tingled. With his thick, dark hair and great body, honed from daily visits to the gym, Adam was a good-looking guy—but the kind of good-looking that immediately transformed to
hot
when you started to talk to him. He had a wicked smile, intelligent dark brown eyes that twinkled when he was interested in what you were saying, and a rich voice that seemed to take a direct path to a woman’s erogenous zones. Those gorgeous eyes of his lifted to smile into mine. “I haven’t seen you with one of these in a while.”

“My diaries?” I nodded, trying to sort them into chronological order. “I stopped writing.”

“Why?”

“I stopped after we got together. There didn’t seem to be any point to them any more since they were basically just an outlet for my feelings for you.”

His lips curled up at the corners. “Baby,” he murmured and reached over to tuck a length of short hair behind my ear. I frowned at the reminder my hair was short. Before the tumor, I had a head of long, light blond hair. I’d loved my hair, and I knew Adam had loved my hair. But the surgeons had shaved a patch of it off my head to cut into my brain unobstructed. I’d covered the patch with a headscarf, but had eventually stopped wearing it as the hair grew back, and I allowed my mother to talk me into getting “a chic pixie cut.”

I was horrified when I walked out of the hair salon, and only somewhat appeased when Adam told me he thought my new hair was sexy and cute. I was
completely
appeased when Joss told me anything was better than a tumor.

She was right. If my tumor had taught me one thing about life, it was to not sweat the small stuff. That didn’t mean it wasn’t damn annoying waiting for my hair to grow back. At the moment, it was barely to my chin.

“So why are you looking at these?” Adam asked, picking one up and flicking through it absentmindedly. I didn’t particularly care. I was a pretty open person anyway, but especially with Adam. I wasn’t embarrassed by anything I wrote. I trusted him with the very depths of who I was.

“For Joss,” I replied brightly, feeling giddy about the whole thing.

The night before, Joss and I had been hanging out at her and Braden’s flat—my old flat on Dublin Street—and she’d told me her manuscript was coming along nicely. Joss was American, a writer, and she’d come to Edinburgh to escape a tragic past. Her story broke my heart. When she was fourteen she’d lost her entire family in a car accident. I couldn’t even begin to imagine what that must have been like for her. I just knew it had a left a deep mark.

I’d liked Joss immediately when I interviewed her to be my flatmate, but I’d known then there was something broken about her, and I’d decided I wanted to help somehow. She’d been pretty closed-off, but when she started dating my big brother, Braden, I watched her slowly change. She said Braden and I both changed her, but really it was him. He’d helped her so much that she’d even begun to write a story based on her parents’ relationship. That was a huge step for her, and she’d told me that she couldn’t believe how much she was enjoying writing it. It had given me an idea for her next project.

“Why for Joss?”

“Because inside these diaries is the history of
us
.” I grinned at him. “It’s a good romance story. I think it should be her next novel.”

I could see Adam was dying to laugh for some reason. I had no idea why, so I ignored it. “
Next
romance novel?”

“Next, as in, follows the previous romance. The story about her parents
is
a romance.”

“Still, I’m pretty sure Joss wouldn’t classify herself as a romance writer. In fact, I’ve heard her say as much.”

“So have I.” I tossed my first diary back in the box. It wouldn’t aid Joss’s research, considering I was seven when I scribbled in it. It was mostly about my Barbies and Sindy dolls and my issues with Sindy’s flat feet and the impossibility of her and Barbie sharing shoes. It used to drive me nuts. “And I do believe the lady doth protest too much. She’s definitely a romance writer. I’ve primed her to be a romance writer, subjecting her to so many romantic dramas it would be a miracle if she didn’t become a romance writer.”

He chuckled, my diary still open in his hands. He asked, “So you wrote about me in all of these?” as his eyes scanned the pages.

Yes, yes I had. I’d had a big crush on Adam since I was ten and he was seventeen. That big crush had transformed into an even bigger crush when I was fourteen, and then just snowballed from there. I threw another diary from my childhood into the box and reached for the next one in the pile. “I’ve loved you for a long time, my friend,” I murmured.

“I want to read about it,” he replied softly, the solemnity in his tone made me lift my gaze; brought my eyes to his. They glittered at me, full of the tenderness and emotion that never failed to make me breathless. “I want every piece of you. Even the stuff I missed without even knowing I was missing it . . . ” He referred to the fact that he’d spent a good part of my crush being completely unaware of my feelings for him.

I felt myself melt. I was a romantic to the very bone and although it would surprise anyone who knew him, Adam catered to my romantic side with a dedication that thrilled me. He had a way with words that turned me to mush . . . and then usually turned me on so it was a complete win-win for him.

I gave him a soft smile as I turned to the diaries, and quickly flipped through them until I found the one I wanted. Skimming it, I found the exact entry I was looking for and then held it out to him, holding its place open for him. “Here, start with this. I was fourteen.”

Adam raised an eyebrow, I assumed at the thought of reading my fourteen-year-old thoughts, and took the diary from me. I knew exactly what he was reading. I remembered it like it was yesterday.

Monday, March 9th

It’s been a really strange day. It started like every other day. I got up just as Clark was rushing out to work, I helped Mum with Hannah since she’s got her hands full with Dec at the moment, and I tried to feed myself as I fed Hannah. This meant I had to change my school shirt because Hannah thinks porridge is for decoration only. I wish that had been the only incident today, but it wasn’t. As soon as I caught up with Allie and June at the school gates, I just knew something was wrong . . .

As soon as the bell rang for lunch break, I launched out of my seat and hurried out of Spanish class as if the hounds of hell were nipping at my feet. I tried to hold in the tears. I really tried because I didn’t want any of these idiots to know they’d gotten to me, but as I burst out of the main entrance of the school, the floodgates opened.

All the whispering and name-calling . . . It was horrible. I’d never had that happen to me before. Not like that. People generally liked me.
I was nice!
I wasn’t . . . I wasn’t a “whore.”

I cried harder when I heard boys in the year above me laugh at me as I passed them at the gates. Fingers trembling, I pulled out the phone Braden had bought me for Christmas and called my big brother.

“Els, you okay?”

As soon as I heard his voice another sob burst forth.

“Ellie?” I could hear his immediate concern. “Ellie, what’s going on?”

“Bri—” I struggled to draw in a breath through my sobbing. “Brian,” my cries continued to interrupt me, “Fairmont . . . he-he’s a fifth year, and he-he told everyone he had s-s-sex with me at Allie’s birthday p-party on Saturday night.” I stopped and huddled against a garden fence now that I was far enough away from the somewhat expensive prep school my absentee father paid for me to attend every year. It was only a twenty-minute walk from my parents’ home on St. Bernard’s Crescent, and I was more than tempted to cut school and hide in the house for the rest of the day.

“That little shit,” Braden said, his anger actually radiating through the phone and into my hand.

“They’re all calling me a whore and a slut, and whispering and laughing at me. Now June isn’t speaking to me.”

“Why the hell is June not speaking to you?”

“She fancies Brian. I didn’t even . . . Braden . . . I spoke, like, four words to him on Saturday night. He asked for a snog and I said, “In another reality, maybe.”“

“Was there anyone around when you said that to him?”

“His friends were there, yeah.” I sniffled.

“So you turned the little perv down and he started a rumor.” Braden cursed again under his breath. “Okay, where are you right now?”

“I’m going to go home. I can’t take another three hours of this.”

“Sweetheart, you can’t go home. Braebank Prep doesn’t like its students to cut class. Wait at the gates. I’ll get this sorted out.” I could tell by his tone that Brian Fairmont was about to learn you did not mess with Braden Carmichael’s little sister.

I put the phone away and wiped at my face, glad for once that Mum wouldn’t let me wear mascara or any kind of makeup until I turned fifteen. Even then, she said I was allowed to wear mascara and concealer, but no foundation—and definitely no lipstick—until I was sixteen.

My friends thought she was weird.

I felt a little better knowing Braden was coming to my rescue. My big brother was really just my half-brother. We shared the same father: Douglas Carmichael. Dad was a big deal in Edinburgh. He owned a real estate company and restaurants and a lot of property that he rented out to people. He was loaded, and although he gave time to Braden, he seemed to think spending money on me was a good enough form of apology for neglecting me the entire fourteen years I’d spent on the planet. His neglect hurt. A lot. But I had Braden who’d helped raise me, with Mum, and my step-dad, Clark. Mum married Clark five years ago, and since the moment he’d come into Mum’s life, he’d made it clear he wanted to be my dad. And he was; more than Douglas Carmichael ever would be.

I sometimes wondered how it was possible Braden and I were related to our father. We were both too nice to be his kids. Take Braden, for instance. After purposefully avoiding working for our father, a few years ago he suddenly decided he wanted to take a role in the Carmichael “empire,” which meant he worked his bloody arse off to make our father happy.

Not only did my older brother work a lot, he was wrapped up in this girl he was dating, Analise. She was an Australian student and they’d just started dating. Braden seemed to really like her. Still, he always found time for me. Say, to rescue me from hideous situations like the one I was in at school.

“Ellie,” a familiar voice, and not the one I was expecting, caught my ear and I turned my head as a car door slammed. My eyes widened as Adam Gerard Sutherland rounded the front of his six-year-old Fiat
—
a car Braden said was a stupid drain on Adam’s finances, considering Adam was a student at Edinburgh University and parking in the city was a nightmare.

I’d had a wee bit of a crush on Adam since I was ten, so I was more than a little mortified that Braden had sent him to rescue me from this situation. Not that I should have been surprised. The two of them had traded that job back and forth since I was tiny.