Sour Read online

  Sour by Jennifer Woodhull

  Published by Septem Stellae Publishing 525 Royal Parkway, #290171, Nashville, TN, USA, 37229-9715

  www.JenniferWoodhull.com

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permissions contact:

  [email protected]

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  © 2019 Jennifer Woodhull

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Writing may be a fairly solitary activity, but it takes more than one person to bring an author’s vision to life. I cannot give enough thanks to everyone who made this book possible.

  Developmental Editing by Christine Parker of Chickadee Revisions

  Cover Design by Julie Hopkins of Indie Book Cover Designs

  Special thanks to all the bloggers, reviewers and bookstagrammers who give so much of their time, creativity and heart to supporting the writing community. Thank you for all that you do.

  Table of Contents

  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

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Preview: The Dating Alternative

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  Chapter 1

  Elle

  It feels like it’s been three years, seven months, four days and six hours. At least. It’s actually been ten days. Ten. That’s how long I’ve been on vacation with my family. I’m finally back home in the Queen City, where I can get chicken prepared as nature intended—fried, on a biscuit with a slice of cheddar cheese.

  Don‘t get me wrong—the trip was amazing, and the Bailey clan is great. My brother is hilarious, and my parents are loving and supportive, if a bit over-the-top. This year’s Bailey Family Bonding Adventure, the term for vacation that my father has insisted on using for the past twenty years, was a big one. Every other year, we go somewhere outside of the U.S. that we’ve never been before. No phones. No computers. GPS is the closest thing to technology that’s permitted while we take in the culture and spend quality time together. The theme of this year’s trip was Black Forest to Bavarian Alps. Ten days of my father in lederhosen and my mother’s ample bosom spilling out of a dirndl is enough to send anyone into therapy. Somehow, though, I have survived.

  I really missed my friends. Okay, friend. I basically just have the one. Noah Adler. He works across the hall, lives around the corner. He has been a part of my life for years, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

  On the plus side, going to Germany, home of the world’s finest gummy bears, means I’ve been able to bring Noah back a suitcase full of the wriggly gelatinous little globs of sugar he so adores. Gummy everything, per his request.

  My parents pull up to my building and my brother Andy gets my bags out of the back of the SUV. I lean into the window and kiss my Mom’s cheek and wave goodbye to my Dad.

  “Sunday night! Seven o’clock. Don’t be late or you’ll have a lot of dishes to do, young lady!” Dad winks at me. Late for dinner, wash all the dishes. Bailey house rules.

  “Got it, Dad. Thanks again for an amazing trip. Love you guys!” I walk back to the trunk where Andy is standing with my suitcases and clobber him with a hug. “Watch yourself, Bailey boy.”

  “You watch yourself, Bailey girl. Love ya, sis. Thanks for making the trip more fun. Sorry we couldn’t find you an Alpine goatherd to marry,” he jokes as he hugs my neck.

  “Sorry all the barmaids thought you were twelve.” Now that is a real joke because in the last couple of years, Andy has filled out and looks like a man—a big one at that. I’m the only one under five-ten, and the only real redhead in a sea of blondes. I swear they found me in a cabbage patch.

  I grab my suitcases and turn to wave as they drive off. I lug the two huge suitcases up the four steps to the door of my building. At least I was smart enough to pick a place with elevators.

  Outside my place, I put my ear to the door before I put the key in the lock. Silence. Noah must have decided not to come over and welcome me home. I breath out a sad sigh as my shoulders drop. It’s fine. There’s no reason he should rush over to see me just because I’ve been out of the country for ten freaking days. It’s no big deal. Really.

  I open the door and roll my giant luggage into the foyer of my apartment. The number one thing I want to do is have a shower. Well, the number one thing was see Noah, but that doesn’t look like it’s happening. The number two thing is eat pizza and drink a soda with ice in it, a luxury I have not enjoyed for ten whole days.

  I walk over to the stackable washer/dryer combo in the back of the kitchen, drop my jeans, peel out of my t-shirt, and look for a towel in the basket of clean laundry I thought I had left on the washer, but it’s not there.

  I must’ve left the basket in my room. Getting packed was a blur—digging for shoes, throwing toiletries in the bag, and throwing clothes around the room. It wouldn’t surprise me if that stuff is still strewn across my bed.

  I walk down the hall, and turn the corner into my room to find, to my shock and dismay, a wall of dripping wet muscle standing at the foot of my bed, toweling himself off.

  I gasp, clutching my palm to the bare spot on my chest between the cups of my bra—thankfully, a t-shirt model that offers at least a little coverage. Hearing me, he turns, holding the towel just so that the most critical information is unavailable.

  “Hey, you’re home!”

  Noah takes three long strides toward me and leans forward to hug me. I put my palm out, and it lands firmly in the middle of his perfect, muscular chest.

  “You’re naked! You can’t hug me naked! It’s weird!”

  “You’re naked too!” He argues, wrapping the towel around his waist and folding it into a not-very-secure-looking knot at the side.

  I silently will the knot to fail and expose the only bit of Noah Adler that I’ve never seen, but sadly I still have not developed telekinetic powers, so nothing happens.

  “There, better?” He stands back, cocks his head a little to the side and turns his palms up.

  He doesn’t give me a chance to answer and instead wraps thick, muscular forearms and defined biceps around me as he pulls me into his sculpted torso.

  “I missed you!” He says, laying his cheek against the top of my head.

  I wrap my arms around his midsection and look up as I give him a squeeze, carefully jutting my ass out so my belly doesn’t make contact with what I imagine is a sizable and delicious member beneath the towel he’s barely wearing.

 
“I missed you too. You should’ve come with us,” I close my eyes, inhaling the soapy goodness of his skin as I do a happy dance on the inside because he came to see me after all.

  “I’m not a Bailey. No Bailey family bonding adventures for me,” he laughs. “But I’m going to need you to tell me every detail, Ariel.”

  I squirm away from him. “Well, that didn’t take long. I’m over missing you now.”

  Only my parents call me Ariel, a name I detest. My mother’s love of animated movies, the year of my birth, and my red hair collided in the perfect storm that led to her giving me the worst name a little red-headed girl could have. Instead, I choose to go by Elle so fewer people make the mermaid comparison.

  “Aw, come on! It’s been nearly two weeks! You gotta give me at least one.” He puts his hands on his hips.

  Drop, damn you, you stupid towel! Drop!

  Nothing.

  “Whatev,” I shake my head as I step toward the bathroom. “I’m taking a shower. Order us food, would ya? And put some damn clothes on, you pervert. Why are you showering at my place anyway?”

  “Well, you clearly didn’t notice since I haven’t heard a thank you, but I cleaned your nasty apartment. I was gross after I finished. I wanted to clean up. Luckily, it was pretty to find one of my t-shirts, though, since you steal them like an unrepentant kleptomaniac. I had to dig around to find some sweats I’ve left over here at some point, though.” He grins, cocking up an eyebrow, and I freeze in my tracks.

  Shit!

  “First of all, I liked my stuff where I had it. I hate it when you do this—it will take me weeks to find all my shit now. Second of all, when you say dig through…,” I trail off.

  I take mental inventory of the contents of my home, wondering if I could’ve left anything incriminating.

  Playgirl? ‘Sports’ massager? Voo-doo love potion labeled for use on best friend?

  I think I’m safe. I mean, as a single woman, I have been known to take matters into my own hands, but if I’m being perfectly honest, the far-more-expensive-than-reasonable shower-head in my bathroom is my weapon of choice.

  “Don’t worry, I didn’t find anything remotely fun or interesting. I did wash and put away about a hundred pairs of sad, white cotton panties. Sheesh! No wonder you’re always so cranky! You’re definitely not getting laid if you’re always wearing granny panties.” He shakes his head.

  Well, he’s not wrong. I haven’t gotten laid in far too long. I haven’t really dated anyone since I broke up with Nathan a few months ago. That was the weekend I spent like a catatonic baby kangaroo, balled up on Noah’s lap for two solid days.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Shut your pie-hole, order us some pizza, and put some damn clothes on!” I smile sweetly and bat my eyelashes before disappearing into the bathroom.

  I drop my bra and peel off my underwear, which are now completely soaked thanks to my bestie being naked and gorgeous in front of my poor, deprived eyes, and hop into a scalding hot shower. I wash my hair and slather myself with honey-papaya body wash. I’m running the soapy loofah between my legs, the valley between them twinges with ache, and I glance up at the detachable shower-head.

  Don’t even think about it, sister. You can’t. Absolutely not. Noah’s right in the next room.

  I try to tamp the thought down, but the ache is cruel. I’ve spent ten days sharing a room with my younger brother, and when I get home, the first thing I see Noah’s spectacular body, dripping and naked. I lick my lips and still everything, listening intently to see if I can hear where in the apartment he might be.

  “It’s the shower-head, isn’t it?” Noah’s voice booms from the other side of the shower curtain, startling me and causing an avalanche that starts with me dropping the loofah, flailing to catch it, and ends with every bottle of shampoo, conditioner, and body wash on the shelf in my shower tumbling to the floor in a clatter.

  “What the hell? Why are you in my bathroom? Dude! Boundaries—maybe you’ve heard of them?” I yell over the water.

  I hear his deep, throaty laughter as it cuts through the steam. “I told you, I missed you. You were taking too long. But back to my point, the reason I didn’t find anything fun is because you use the shower-head, isn’t it?”

  I place one hand on the edge of the shower curtain, and yank the edge back with the other, just enough to poke my head out. “Seriously, Noah. Get. Out. Of. My. Bathroom.”

  He stretches his neck just a little as if he’s trying to see around me to sneak a peek behind the curtain, and smirks. He leans forward and kisses the tip of my nose. “I’m waiting for us to catch up. Hurry up and get out here or I’m coming in.” He winks, and calls back as he walks out, “Food should be here any minute!”

  I have no response. The thought of him joining me in the shower is enough to cause my brain to implode.

  I hurriedly finish my shower, grateful that Noah didn’t catch me in the act, and get dressed. When I walk out to the living room, Noah is sitting on the sofa in a pair of sweatpants and my favorite t-shirt, the green one that he bought on our trip to Cedar Point. The one that I very specifically did not return when I borrowed it because I love it so much.

  He has the pizza laid out on the coffee table, along with a beer for him, and a soda for me. In a glass. With ice. Because he’s perfect like that.

  “Please tell me you have pictures of Dr. Bailey in lederhosen.” He pulls a piece of meat-lovers from the box.

  “Oh, so many,” I roll my eyes. “I have pics of Mom in authentic gear too, but I’m not sure if I should show you those. They are mostly PG-13, but some of them are going to cause me to need to call the company benefit line for the names of some therapists.” I pull up the photo app on my phone and hand it to him, then take a long sip of soda. “Mm. That tastes so damn good.” I smile and sink back into the comfy, oversized sofa I love so much, despite the fact that my feet don’t come close to touching the ground when I scoot all the way back in it.

  He smiles. “I thought you’d be going through ice cube withdrawals.” He flips through the pics and lands on one of me, Andy, Mom, and Dad in the Bavarian Alps. We’re standing on the balcony of the hotel that we stayed at, which is built like a chalet with scrollwork and gingerbread molding all over. Mom and Dad are standing in front of the railing, and Andy and I are leaning over the porch above them, all of us in German outfits. It’s a cute picture, all of us smiling, and the dirndl and puffy shirt actually make it look like I have decent-sized boobs.

  “Please, dear God in Heaven, tell me you brought this outfit home with you!” He smiles that broad, easy smile of his that reaches all the way up his face and flashes in his blue eyes.

  “You know perfectly well that it’s going in the collection.” I toss my nose in the air.

  I have every traditional outfit, souvenir t-shirt, and piece of headwear we’ve ever bought on the Bailey Family Adventures, going all the way back to fourth grade. There’s a whole section of closet dedicated to them. I have no doubt that Noah thinks the German getup is pretty hot, if someone else were wearing it, that is. Someone with curves. Someone closer to six feet tall than five. Someone that’s not his platonic bestie.

  “Speaking of things, you brought home, did you bring me something, Elle? I mean, if I abandoned you for ten days without so much as a text message or phone call, I would definitely bring you back something special.” He narrows his eyes, and I smile.

  “Oh, Noah. Did I bring you back something? Did I ever!” I grin and walk over to my suitcases, wheeling the smaller of the two back toward the sofa. I squat down, unzip it, and turn to Noah. “Close your eyes and lean back.” I wriggle my eyebrows, and he cocks his head, suspiciously.

  My eyes narrow as I put my palm flat against the top of the suitcase, a gesture that threatens to keep the contents locked away. He shrugs, leans back, and closes his eyes, his perfect lips turning up at one corner in anticipation. I retrieve a double-sized, reusable grocery bag from the suitcase, and wa
lk over to the sofa.

  “Keep them shut tight, or else.” My warning is playful.

  I walk over and stand in front of him, positioning myself between his knees. If he sat upright, I swear, we would be nearly the same height. “Keep your eyes shut and hold your arms out.” He eagerly complies.

  I grab the bottom edge of the bag, and turn it up, emptying dozens of bags of gummy candy out onto his lap. He opens his blue eyes wide, laughing.

  “Holy shit!” He exclaims as the last of the packages spills out, off the edges of his lap, and onto the sofa around him. “This is amazing! You are the best!”

  He leans forward, putting his arms around my waist, and pulls me down beside him so I’m laying back on the sofa. My heart is thumping like an off-balance washing machine. Pinning me down, he grabs one of the bags of sour fruit gummies and pulls it open, taking a huge piece of candy from it, and holding it against my mouth.

  “Try one!” He laughs.

  “No way, those things are gross!” I argue and pinch my lips together tightly.

  “Come on, Elle! They’re awesome! Trust me. Just try a little taste.” He coaxes.

  “Mm-nn,” I make the no sound while shaking my head back and forth, lips glued shut.

  “Just try it. A tiny little taste. You’ll like it. Don’t you trust me?” He asks, cocking up an eyebrow.

  I roll my eyes. Damnit! I do trust him. I trust him with everything except the one thing he has no idea he owns—my heart.

  I let out a breath and relax my lips, and he places the giant peach slice between them so its hanging out of my mouth. I hold it with my lips and run my tongue along it. It’s sharp and sour and I’m not such a fan. I scowl and pout a little, my bottom lip jutting out making the candy bounce up and point toward Noah.

  He laughs hard. “So, I take it that’s a no?”

  I shake my head up and down. He leans forward his face so close to mine, we could kiss. For a reckless, confusing, pathetically hopeful moment, I wonder if we’re going to. He opens his mouth, and leans down, grabbing the candy from my lips with his. As he takes it, he uses the tip of his tongue to hold the slice against his lips. His tongue just grazes my bottom lip before he sucks the candy into his mouth. He sits up, grabbing my hand to pull me up beside him.