This Love (This Boy Book 3) Read online

  Copyright © 2021 by Jenna Scott

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Paige Press

  Leander, TX 78641

  Ebook:

  ISBN: 978-1-953520-11-1

  Print:

  ISBN: 978-1-953520-12-8

  Contents

  Also by Jenna Scott

  1. Camilla

  2. Camilla

  3. Camilla

  4. Camilla

  5. Camilla

  6. Camilla

  7. Camilla

  8. Camilla

  9. Camilla

  10. Camilla

  11. Hunter

  12. Camilla

  13. Camilla

  14. Camilla

  15. Camilla

  16. Camilla

  17. Camilla

  18. Camilla

  19. Camilla

  20. Camilla

  21. Camilla

  22. Hunter

  23. Camilla

  24. Camilla

  25. Camilla

  26. Hunter

  27. Camilla

  28. Camilla

  29. Hunter

  30. Camilla

  31. Camilla

  32. Hunter

  33. Camilla

  34. Camilla

  35. Camilla

  36. Hunter

  37. Camilla

  38. Camilla

  39. Camilla

  40. Hunter

  41. Camilla

  42. Camilla

  43. Camilla

  Hunter

  Also by Jenna Scott

  Paige Press

  About the Author

  Also by Jenna Scott

  This Boy

  This Hurt

  This Love

  Chapter One

  Camilla

  “The winds of freedom blow” is Stanford’s motto, and honestly, I do feel the winds of freedom all around me here. Beginning the next chapter of my life at the uber prestigious Nor Cal university with a clean slate—far from the destructive rumors and annihilating heartbreak of my past—is both everything and nothing like I’d imagined.

  Ever since I set foot on the school’s lush, tree-filled campus for New Student Orientation, I’ve been energized by my new independence. That, and the relief of not having to come home to my mother’s drunken bullying after a long day of classes.

  Emmett being enrolled here has also been amazing. Having a built-in friend from La Jolla to explore campus with is a total security blanket for me…which, luckily, he doesn’t seem to mind. We’re both having a blast so far. I think he might even have a crush on my roommate.

  We met her after orientation, when all of us incoming freshmen were taking part in the traditional fountain hopping that goes on across Stanford’s campus. Emmett and I had decided to jump into every single fountain we could find, rather than partying in just one, so we tagged along with a likeminded crowd of swimsuited and costumed freshies trying to set a new school record for speed-hopping.

  Amid the chaos of hysterical laughing and splashing and water bottles being passed around (filled with contraband booze, of course), we spotted a beautiful girl dressed like a mermaid who was doing ballet in the Claw Fountain. With her long purple wig and fake seashell bra, I could see why Emmett was immediately transfixed. He complimented her costume and inflatable seahorse, and we all got to chatting.

  It turned out that Olivia Yu was my new roommate.

  Our dorm is in this huge, gorgeous, hundred-year-old building called Roble Hall that looks like a cross between a mansion and a European castle—it looks like something out of Harry Potter, and thus is right up my alley. I love the location, too, across from the meditation center and a sculpture garden. Olivia is the perfect roomie to boot: super friendly, tidy, and rarely home, thanks to a combination of partying and her long hours of dance classes and studio practice time. She isn’t much of a study buddy, but I have Emmett for that. He’s in the same dorm, technically, but his residence hall is on the far side of the building, a few minutes’ walk from mine.

  Despite all of the new classes I’m loving and the adventures I’m having, I still miss Isabel like crazy, though. No words can describe what a lifesaver she was to me at Oak Academy last year. Saying goodbye to my BFF in August was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. We all carpooled from La Jolla to Los Angeles, where we had a tearful dinner at Isabel’s swanky new apartment near FIDM—Fashion Institute of Design and Merchandising—before Emmett and I hit the road again. I miss her sharp tongue and her tight hugs already. We’ve FaceTimed since, and we text almost every day, but it’s not the same.

  Which brings me to where I am now.

  Starting over at Stanford, I can finally cut ties with everything bad that happened back in my hometown. The friction with my mom, the salacious rumors about me and my English teacher back at La Jolla High, and the heartbreak of how terribly things ended with my first love. But no matter how hard I try to keep Hunter Beck off my mind, he still lingers at the edges of my thoughts, all day every day. Reminding me of what we had. What we lost. All the time I wasted, imagining our future together.

  I like to think the pain is worth it.

  Because I know I made the right decision for myself, even if it feels like hell sometimes. I still can’t believe I’m here, at the college I’ve always dreamed of attending, breathing easier than I ever did back in La Jolla. Not constantly looking over my shoulder to see if Hunter’s there, shooting me looks of disgust or cold indifference.

  I’m safe here. The vibe is academic, intense, but fun; all the people I’ve met have been cool and wonderfully diverse; I like my professors; I love my classes. I should feel like I’m finally getting on track. I should be happy. This is everything I wanted.

  But yet…some part of me always feels like there’s a storm cloud over my head.

  I keep replaying the breakup in my mind, thinking of how I could’ve played things differently. Wondering how Hunter would have reacted if I’d told him the pure, humiliating, traumatizing truth right from the beginning. It might not have made a difference. Or it might’ve made all the difference in the world.

  Rubbing my temples, I let out a long sigh. The Lit paper I’m working on is halfway done, and I really want to finish it up by end of day, but I can’t focus.

  The door to the common room swings open and Olivia does a little twirl as she enters our dorm.

  “Greetings, my love!” she calls out, sweaty and exhilarated from her last dance class of the day. Modern dance, judging by her outfit.

  “How was it?” I ask. “You still planning to try out for Alliance tomorrow?”

  “Fabo and hells yes,” she answered. “I’ve always wanted to join a hip-hop dance team. Plus, the networking will be amazing… I’ll freaking die if they reject me.”

  Always with the dramatics. I adore her.

  “They’d be fools. Every dance crew needs a classical ballerina for balance.”

  She grins. “Keep thinking those happy thoughts. Gonna go shower up.”

  Olivia reminds me of Isabel in so many ways. One, she’s bubbly and cheerful, effortlessly pulling me out of my shell with her exuberance. Two, she’s obsessed with binge-watching every new TV series and then dissecting it afterward, though her TV time is limited thanks to her heavy course load. And three, she keeps pushing me to do activities I wouldn’t otherwise be interested in. Specifically, social activities.

  I’m deep in my Lit paper again when she breezes back in, wet hair twisted
up in a towel and her fluffy pink robe wrapped tightly around her. The shower shoes she wears are glittery hot pink slides, with little plastic charms dangling from the straps. Ha. I’m pretty sure Isabel has the exact same ones.

  A few minutes later, I hear, “You need to get out more, Milla. Haven’t you heard that all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy?”

  “Don’t you mean ‘makes Jill a dull girl’ or something?”

  “Whatevs.” Olivia is talking to me through her open bedroom door, where I can see her lying on her bed putting on going-out makeup. “Come party with me tonight.”

  “I’m terrible at parties,” I tell her.

  “No, you were terrible at rich kid parties at your snobby-ass private school,” she corrects, pointing at me with her mascara wand. “College parties are different. First of all, no one here knows you. You have no reputation and you can be anyone you want. Secondly, everyone expects you to make a fool of yourself at parties as a freshman. It’s like, a rite of passage. Either way, everyone’ll forget about it sooner or later…unless you do something egregious. In which case you’ll have a great story to tell afterward.”

  She’s right, on all counts. I should be going out, having fun, doing the whole college experience thing. But I can’t help worrying that I’ll be the exception to what she’s saying. That I will make such a fool of myself that the entire student body will hear about it, and I’ll have a whole new shitty reputation following me around campus.

  Frowning, I try to beg off. “Maybe next time? I really need to finish this paper tonight.”

  “You always have to finish a paper.” Olivia snaps her compact shut and jumps out of bed, leaning against her doorway. “Come on. Have some fun with me. You deserve to live a little. I have this really cute purple dress you can borrow…”

  Olivia might know my favorite color, but I haven’t mentioned my mother’s alcoholism yet. My roommate has no idea that the majority of my experiences with liquor are either bad or barely passable. That my mom’s problem is the whole reason I try to avoid drinking in the first place.

  And not just that—after my breakup this summer, during the few times I attempted to drown my sorrows by getting drunk in the safety of Isabel’s house, I turned into a wallowing, crying mess. Weeping inconsolably about how Hunter had hurt me. Blubbering the same self-pitying, repetitive crap to Isabel and Emmett over and over again. After the third or fourth time it happened, I was so disgusted with myself that I decided from then on, I’d never let myself drink more than one glass of whatever.

  “Look on the bright side,” I say. “When you come back shitfaced later, I’ll be here to hold your hair back or microwave a Hot Pocket for you.” I swing my chair to face her. “And if you need an escort back home, I’ll come over and pick you up.”

  She holds up a finger, and then says, “I appreciate your offer. But just for the record, nothing you could possibly do at a party would surprise me. I’m from Vegas. Whatever there is to be seen, I have seen it. Probably more than once.” With a wink, she goes over to her closet and picks out a pair of skinny jeans and a strappy black top.

  I turn back to my work while she gets dressed, her door still wide open. As a dancer, she isn’t shy about her body, but I like to give her privacy anyway.

  “You’re off the hook tonight since it’s a Wednesday, but you can’t say no forever,” Olivia says. “Heels or flats?”

  I look up. “Wedges,” I say, thankful for Isabel’s fashion tutelage.

  “Brilliant,” she crows approvingly.

  Shoes on, she heads out with a see-you-tomorrow, which I return. Olivia’s gone out to hit up one party or social event after another almost every night since the semester started. I honestly don’t know how she can keep it up and still go to class.

  I return to double-checking my quotes from The Hunger Games, deleting repetitive phrases, and trying to be as succinct but clear as possible in my essay. Normally I’d be happy with this kind of work; it’s one of my favorite books and drawing the connections between real-world capitalism and the Capitol is an appealing assignment. But the most I can summon right now is a smidge of contentment.

  Sometime after two a.m., I wake from a dead sleep to the sound of Olivia bumping into furniture as she tries to make her way through the common room.

  “Did you walk back by yourself?” I ask drowsily as I flip on a light and get up to guide her to her room. “God, you can barely walk at all.”

  “No, Jo came to the dorms with me. She lives in the next hall over.” With a groan, Olivia throws herself face-down on her bed, ready to pass out with her clothes still on.

  “Oh, no you don’t.” I tug her shoes off and make her sit up. “You’re gonna get in your pjs, and I’m going to bring you a Gatorade and some crackers so you’re not completely hungover tomorrow.”

  “You’re the best, Milla.” Her fingers find mine and cling to them. “And no matter what I say or do tomorrow, make sure I get out of bed and go to the Alliance audition. Hangover or not, I’m gonna blow them away with my routine.”

  “I will. I promise.”

  She’s not all talk. I’ve seen her practice that routine about a million times, and not only is it great, but I know she can probably do it in her sleep by now.

  I fix her a little tray while she’s changing and then set it on her nightstand before climbing back into bed. Earbuds in, I load a calm Spotify playlist and try to fall asleep.

  But as with every night, as soon as I close my eyes, it’s Hunter I see.

  I hate myself for wishing he were here. For obsessing over every tiny detail of his face—the hard jaw, the soft lips, those incredible blue eyes. For replaying every single encounter we ever had, his hand brushing my cheek, his mouth on mine, our bodies joining together in a sea of hot, mindless pleasure.

  It ends up being just another night where I can’t decide if what we had was a dream or a nightmare.

  Chapter Two

  Camilla

  Despite my best efforts—and Olivia’s commitment to nailing her upcoming audition for Alliance—it’s still a struggle to get her up and at ‘em the next morning. Once we’re hunched over our bagels and to-go cups of coffee in the quad, she slides her big movie-star sunglasses on top of her head and I can see how hungover she still is.

  “Thanks for getting me up,” she mumbles around a mouthful of jalapeno cheddar bagel. “You’re a lifesaver.”

  “Roomie to the rescue again,” I joke. “You sure you don’t want to see if you can reschedule your audition for later this afternoon?”

  Olivia shakes her head. “No way. I’ll be anxious AF all day if I do that, which won’t help my moves. Better to just get it out of the way while I’m still half asleep.”

  I have to laugh. “Well, you’re an amazing dancer. I know you’re gonna be great. That Tylenol kicking in yet?”

  “Nope. Any minute now.”

  “The coffee should help, too,” I tell her. “Though it’s going to dehydrate you, so make sure you’re drinking lots of water, too.”

  “Thanks, Mom,” she says. “Always looking out for me.”

  I smile, but Olivia has no idea how much her words sting. No idea how many times I’ve gone through this same post-hangover nursing routine with my own mother.

  “Anyway, I should get going,” I tell her, slinging my backpack over my shoulder as I stand. “My Lit class is across campus.”

  “Is that the one with the hundred-year-old professor?”

  “Nope, that’s Sociology. This guy’s actually pretty young, but he seems like he knows his stuff—our reading list this semester is incredible. I love the class already.”

  “Is that the one you have with Emmett?”

  “Yep, that and American History. Want me to tell him you said hi?”

  She grins. “Sure. He’s a cutie.”

  “Will do,” I say, turning away. “Oh, and text me after your audition! I want to know how it went.”

  By the time I get to my class, I’m b
reathing hard from power walking. My professor is just about to enter the auditorium and we meet in the hallway.

  “Good morning, Camilla,” Professor Laurens says, holding the door open for me. “Did you run all the way here?”

  “More or less,” I answer, sweaty and panting and completely embarrassed.

  “Glad you made it. I’ve appreciated your input during the group discussions,” he says, and my heart grows about three sizes as we both head into the room.

  Professor Laurens isn’t at all what I expected from a Stanford literature professor. Instead of an elderly person with glasses and sweater vests and tweed jackets with elbow patches, he’s in his mid-thirties, and usually wears a faded classic rock T-shirt under his blazers. His tousled brown hair is long enough to curl under his ears, adding to the guy-in-a-garage-band look, and a bunch of girls in class have crushes on him. I kind of see their point, despite the wedding ring on his finger.

  But I’d never get involved with one of my teachers, no matter how young or good-looking they might be. Even once the semester is over and done with.

  Because if my time at La Jolla High taught me anything, it was that I don’t want to cross any lines with a teacher again. No rides home after class, no private meetings off campus, no getting too personal. Ever. Even fantasizing about such a thing would hit too close to home.