Verwandte Artikel zu What's in a Kiss?

What's in a Kiss? - Softcover

Kate, Lauren

 
9780593545171: What's in a Kiss?
Softcover
ISBN 10: 0593545176 ISBN 13: 9780593545171
Verlag: Penguin Publishing Group, 2024

Inhaltsangabe

From # 1 New York Times bestselling author Lauren Kate comes an enemies-to-lovers “what if” romance about a prom kiss that never was, and one woman’s magical chance to live what might have been.

This is not how Liv wanted to see Jake Glasswell for the first time in ten years. Once her high school rival and the prom date who humiliated her, now a successful TV personality, he’s more attractive than he has any right to be. And he’s her Lyft passenger.

Since the prom night kiss that never was, Liv’s life has not gone to plan. She deferred Julliard to be with her mom during a crisis, and now swears she’s happy as a recently furloughed drama teacher going on no-strings dates. This weekend she’s maid of honor to her best friend, Masha, and, of course, Jake is the best man. But when Liv glares into Jake’s eyes as Masha says, “I do,” the universe turns on its axis and Liv is suddenly living a version of her life where prom night was the beginning of her and Jake, not the end, and it turns out he’s the love of her life. The catch? Her mom and Masha hate her now. What’s in a kiss? Maybe everything.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Lauren Kate is the #1 New York Times and internationally bestselling author of nine novels for young adults, including Fallen, which was made into a major motion picture. Her books have been translated into more than thirty languages and have sold more than 10 million copies worldwide. She is also the author of The Orphan's Song, her debut adult novel, and By Any Other Name. Kate lives in Los Angeles with her family.

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Chapter One

"You know I hate this, right?" Masha says, riding shotgun in my Nissan LEAF as I squeeze into a parallel parking spot two sizes too small. It's a brilliant blue morning in Los Angeles, but Masha doesn't know that-she's blindfolded with the faded green bandanna my mom used to wear to weed her begonias.

"You've made your thoughts on bachelorette parties clear," I say, squinting to read the four different parking signs through the fronds of a palm tree-if there's a way to get towed in this town, I'll find it.

Damn. Thursday street sweeping.

"Luckily," I tell Masha as I throw my car into reverse, "twenty years of friendship has taught me to read between your lines. What you hate are penis-shaped plastic straws, male strippers, and Sex Position Bingo-"

Masha gags.

"Because," I continue, "you're still scarred from your sister-in-law's bachelorette."

"The stripper sat on my lap," Masha says. "And grinded."

"I know, babe-"

"Then my sister-in-law sat on his lap. And grinded."

I glance at my watch-three minutes to eleven-then boldly swerve into the marina's paid lot.

It's like there's a hole in my bank account.

But what's an additional thirty dollars for parking, compared with your best friend's happiness? When I tug off Masha's blindfold in a minute, the view of the Pacific will make a much better reveal than a side street dental office.

I park the car and reach into my back seat for the rusty green tackle box I stocked this morning with plastic lures and fishing line.

The cold nose of my terrier, Gram Parsons, nudges my hand. He loves to fish and is eager to get out of the car and consider the subtleness of the sea. Me too.

I place the tackle box on Masha's lap and take a breath.

"Here's what you don't hate," I say. "Intimate gatherings, Pabst Blue Ribbon, beef short ribs, nineties R & B . . . and fishing."

I reach for the cooler, borrowed from my friend Werner, who owns a Greek-fusion restaurant in West Hollywood. Since I'm perennially short on cash, sometimes Werner gives me lunch shifts at Mount Olympus, and recently . . . there may have been some lighthearted petting in the walk-in fridge. But that's neither here nor there. What's here-what's now-is my best friend on the eve of her wedding; my favorite pup, decked out in the turquoise life vest that makes him look like a doggie briefcase; my dad's old tackle box; and this cooler, complete with Bluetooth speaker.

I crank Toni Braxton's "Breathe Again" and undo Masha's blindfold.

"Mrs. Morsova," I say grandly, because I love how Masha and her fiancé are making a legal mash-up of their last names-come Saturday Eli Morgan and Masha Kuzsova will be Mr. and Mrs. Morsova. "Your deeply personalized, two-woman bachelorette party awaits. So, let's fucking throw down!"

Masha blinks in sudden sunlight-then screams like she won the Powerball. She lets fly her beautiful, massive smile and throws her arms around me.

"BBS, Liv," she says.

"BBS, Mash."

BBS is a code that calls back to the beginning of our friendship, to the day Masha and I met.

We were eight years old, in third grade, each of us the only girls on our respective Little League teams. It was the playoffs. I was catching for the Yankees. Mash was batting cleanup for the Braves.

In the bottom of the ninth, Masha drove the ball to the center field fence. She was rounding third when our shortstop threw the relay to me. Masha charged the plate. I held my ground. We collided-and by some thunderclap of destiny, both of us broke our left fibulas. The same orthopedist reset both our bones.

I was in agony, physical pain compounding my grief at having dropped the ball, at the memory of the umpire calling Masha safe. But when she signed my cast (red, like hers) with Broken Bone Sisters, a lifelong bond began.

Now we clamor down the dock at the port of Marina del Rey, tackle box, fishing poles, and boom box cooler in hand. We're laughing like we're eight again. It's a typical mid-May morning in Southern California, the kind of day that dazzles tourists, but here we take our midseventies, slight breeze, and periwinkle sky just a little bit for granted.

Even though I've spent my entire life in LA, the smell of sea air still makes me buzzy, primed for adventure. It's a feeling I realize I haven't had in a while. I've been wasting a lot of recent time stuck in other people's traffic, or holed up in my bungalow, doom-scrolling job boards on my phone.

I push all that aside today. Today's about being in the moment with Masha.

We head for the whitewashed tackle shack at the edge of the dock, where a couple of bored teenagers pass out paperwork and boat keys. While Masha slathers on sunscreen and checks out the boats, I slip two of the finest credit cards from my collection to the kid at the counter and suggest splitting the rental fee down the middle. I call this going Schizophrenic Dutch.

The kid sizes me up: cutoffs and flip-flops, no makeup, hoodie with a hole in one sleeve, long dark hair tossed into a messy bun. I've always looked young for my age, which my mom swears will someday be a blessing. But for now, at twenty-eight, it means that absolutely no one-not even this pimply stoner-takes me seriously.

He looks down at Gram Parsons in my arms. "There's a fifty-dollar pet fee."

"This isn't a pet," I say.

"What is it, then?"

"Haven't you read The Call of the Wild?" I say. "This dog is my equal. This dog is-"

"You didn't reserve a crew," the kid says. "Just the boat."

I look over his shoulder at our rig for the day. It's a modified forty-two-foot sportfisher, circa 1965. In tall black letters someone has hand-painted her name on the hull: Tongva. My kind of boat.

"We're the crew," I say, enjoying his incredulity. My dad taught me to helm a 120-footer when this punk was in utero, but I don't waste my breath bragging.

"The security deposit kicks in if you-"

"We'll be fine," I assure him, taking the boat keys.

"Where are you going to fish?" he asks, following me down the gangway to the boat.

"I was thinking we'd try the water," I say with a wink as I climb aboard. "Come on, Mash."

By eleven fifteen, I'm steering us out of the marina, standing at the wheel with the sun on my shoulders and a smile on my face. Gram Parsons pants in the captain's chair behind me, and Masha's got her feet dangling over the edge, wake kicking up and tickling her toes. Her floral sundress hugs her curves as she lays back and closes her eyes.

This peace is what I wanted for her today. Ever since she got engaged, it's been a struggle for Masha to stick to her vision of her dream wedding: tiny and personal. Both Eli's and her family have been pressing them to expand the guest list, to include cousins, colleagues, cat-sitters.

Masha's big and opinionated Ukrainian family knows only one way to host a wedding, with factory settings for the DJ, catering, and decor. I've attended three such parties for Masha's relatives in the past six months alone-and honestly, they're fun. But they're also the very last kind of celebration Mash would ever want for herself.

When she put her foot down at her bridal shower brunch-capping the reception at eighteen guests and trimming the rehearsal dinner to only the actual wedding party-Masha's family was horrified. Babushka stormed out of the Ivy so fast the restaurant rattled. Ever since then, quietly and on the cheap, Mash, Eli, and I have been planning a much smaller version of a wedding that's truer to their style.

I'm proud of the way my favorite introvert has held her boundary. Tomorrow's rehearsal dinner and Saturday's celebration are going to be precisely as the bride and groom want them, if I have anything to say about it....

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Verlag
Penguin Publishing Group
Erscheinungsdatum
2024
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
0593545176
ISBN 13 
9780593545171
Einband
Taschenbuch
Anzahl der Seiten
368
Kontakt zum Hersteller
Nicht verfügbar
Verantwortliche Person
GPSR Kontakt
gpsr@libri.de

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