She's Got It Bad. Sarah Mayberry

      SARAH MAYBERRY has recently decided to list her profession as Gypsy/writer, since she’s moved eight times in the past five years. Currently she’s based in Auckland, New Zealand, but she still calls Melbourne, Australia, home and hopes to have a latte on Brunswick Street sometime soon. When she’s not writing books, she also writes for TV, reads, cooks, shops for shoes and tries to get her derrière to the gym occasionally.

      Every book is a journey and I wouldn’t have been able to take this one without Chris holding my hand, as always. I love you.

      

      Then there is my editor, the amazing and talented Wanda, who always steers me right—thank you for listening to me ramble and curse and always, somehow, managing to sound interested no matter how long it goes on.

      

      And lastly, thanks to Mihiteria, for helping me keep writing and laughing even when sometimes it felt like an uphill battle.

      She’s Got It Bad

      Sarah Mayberry

      

www.millsandboon.co.uk

      Table of Contents

       Cover

       About the Author

       Title Page

       Prologue

       Chapter One

       Chapter Two

       Chapter Three

       Chapter Four

       Chapter Five

       Chapter Six

       Chapter Seven

       Chapter Eight

       Chapter Nine

       Chapter Ten

       Copyright

       Prologue

       Melbourne, Australia October 1997

      IT WAS SO DARK that Liam Masters could barely see his hand in front of his face. His boots scuffed against an uneven stretch of concrete as he turned from the Fords’ driveway onto the paved path that led through their backyard. He could just make out the paleness of the studio ahead, a less-dark shape in all the blackness.

      If he’d stayed at the party, he’d probably be peeling off Sally Kendrick’s underwear by now. At seventeen, he had more than enough experience to know when he was going to get lucky.

      He had no idea why he’d decided to come home instead.

      Stupid, that’s what he was.

      A shadow moved against the side of the studio as he reached into his pocket for his keys. He froze, muscles tensing. Then he heard someone take a deep, shaky breath and the smell of honeysuckle reached him on the warm night air.

      Zoe.

      He pushed his hands into his back pockets. The safest place for them when Zoe Ford was around.

      “You’re home early,” she said.

      “What are you doing out here?” His voice came out sharper, harder than he’d intended.

      “Waiting for you.”

      He didn’t know what to do with her straight-up answer.

      “You shouldn’t be out here,” he said. “What if Tom comes home?”

      Her brother was wildly protective of her. Liam didn’t need to see her face to know that she was frowning. Could picture her dark eyebrows knitting together, the stubbornness in her green eyes.

      “I’m sick of waiting,” she said.

      Shit.

      He wished he hadn’t downed those three beers at the party. His brain was fuzzy, not as crisp as he needed it to be when he was within touching distance of his best friend’s little sister.

      “No one asked you to wait,” he said.

      They weren’t talking about him coming home from the party to find her on the front step of his temporary home. They both knew that.

      “Is it true?” she asked.

      “What?”

      “What Tom told me. Is it true you’re going out with Sally Kendrick?”

      “You need to go inside before your parents hear us,” he said.

      “Are you going out with her or not?” Zoe’s voice was shaking.

      “No.”

      He should have lied. Told her he and Sally were nuts about each other, that he’d just rolled out of her bed.

      “Is that why you’re home early? Because things didn’t work out with Sally?”

      She’d moved closer, within reach. He could see the pale oval of her face, smell the sweet honeysuckle smell of her favorite body lotion.

       She’s fifteen, man. Fifteen, and the daughter of the people who took you in when no one else wanted you.

      He needed to make her go inside, back to her own bedroom, back to her single bed and her walls covered with posters of heavy-metal bands and football teams.

      “I don’t know why I came home,” he said.

      She took another step closer. What little light there was glinted off her eyes.

      “Kiss me,” she said. “Please.”

      He clenched his hands into the denim of his jeans.

      “You have to go inside.” His voice sounded low and too quiet. Unconvincing. Desperate.

      She must have thought so, too, because she took a last step and closed the distance between them. He could feel the warmth of her body, the brush of her small, firm breasts against his chest, the whisper of her breath on his neck.

      “I can’t stand it anymore, Liam. Sitting opposite you at breakfast and dinner, seeing you at school, at home. I can’t stop thinking about you. Please kiss me.”

      Every muscle in his body tensed as she slid her arms around his waist. She pressed her body against his, her hands clutching at his back. She lifted her head, and her hair skimmed his chin as she pressed tentative kisses onto his collarbone and neck. One, two, three, her mouth soft and moist.

      He