COLLEEN HOOVER (NYT Bestselling author of Slammed, Point of Retreat, This Girl, Hopeless, and Losing Hope) just released a new teaser for her upcoming novel MAYBE SOMEDAY on her Facebook page!
Read more to see the teaser.
I’m mindlessly tapping my feet and singing along to his music with my made-up lyrics when he stops playing mid-song. He never stops mid-song, so naturally, I glance in his direction. He’s leaning forward, staring right at me. He holds up his index finger, as if to say, Hold on, and he sets his guitar beside him and runs into his apartment.
What the hell is he doing?
And oh, my God, why does the fact that he’s acknowledging me make me so nervous?
He comes back outside with paper and a marker in his hands.
He’s writing. What the hell is he writing?
He holds up two sheets of paper, and I squint to get a good look at what he’s written.
A phone number. Shit. His phone number? When I don’t move for several seconds, he shakes the papers and points at them, then points back to me. He’s insane. I’m not calling him. I can’t call him. I can’t do that to Hunter.The guy shakes his head, then grabs a fresh sheet of paper and writes something else on it, then holds it up.
When I still don’t move, he flips the paper over and writes again.
I have a ?
A question. A text. Seems harmless enough. When he holds up the papers with his phone number again, I pull out my phone and enter his phone number. I stare at the screen for a few seconds, not really knowing what to say in the text, so I go with:
Me: What’s your question?
He looks down at his phone, and I can see him smile when he receives my text. He drops the paper and leans back in his chair, typing. When my phone vibrates, I hesitate a second be- fore looking down at it.
Him: Do you sing in the shower?
I shake my head, confirming my initial suspicion. He’s a flirt. Of course he is, he’s a musician.
Me: I don’t know what kind of question that is, but if this is your attempt at flirting, I’ve got a boyfriend. Don’t waste your time.
I hit send and watch him read the text. He laughs, and this irritates me. Mostly because his smile is so . . . smiley. Is that even a word? I don’t know how else to describe it. It’s as if his whole face smiles right along with his mouth. I wonder what that smile looks like up close.
Him: Believe me, I know you have a boyfriend, and this is definitely not how I flirt. I just want to know if you sing in the shower. I happen to think highly of people who sing in the shower and need to know the answer to that question in order to decide if I want to ask you my next question.
I read the lengthy text, admiring his fast typing. Guys aren’t normally as skilled as girls when it comes to speed-texting, but his replies are almost instantaneous.
Me: Yes, I sing in the shower. Do you sing in the shower?
Him: No, I don’t.
Me: How can you think highly of people who sing in the shower if you don’t sing in the shower?
Him: Maybe the fact that I don’t sing in the shower is why I think highly of people who do sing in the shower.
This conversation isn’t going anywhere.
Me: Why did you need this vital piece of information from me?
He stretches his legs out and props his feet up on the edge of the patio, then stares at me for a few seconds before returning his attention to his phone.
Him: I want to know how you’re singing lyrics to my songs when I haven’t even added lyrics to them yet.
My cheeks instantly heat from embarrassment. Busted.
I stare at his text, then glance up at him. He’s watching me, expressionless.
Why the hell didn’t I think that he could see me sitting out here? I never thought he would notice me singing along to his music. Hell, until last night, I never thought he even noticed me. I inhale, wishing I’d never made eye contact with him to begin with. I don’t know why I find this embarrassing, but I do. It seems as if I’ve invaded his privacy in some way, and I hate that.
Me: I tend to favor songs with lyrics, and I was tired of wondering what the lyrics to your songs were, so I guess I made up a few of my own.
He reads the text, then glances up at me without a hint of his infectious smile. I don’t like his serious glances. I don’t like what they do to my stomach. I also don’t like what his smiley smile does to my stomach. I wish he would stick to a simple, unattractive, emotionless expression, but I’m not sure he’s ca- pable of that.
Him: Will you send them to me?
Oh, God. Hell, no.
Me: Hell, no.
Him: Pretty please?
Me: No, thank you.
Him: What’s your name?
Me: Sydney. Yours?