One Week (Stolen Kiss #0.5) Read online

  Rule #12: Never let yourself be surprised. Always have the upper hand.

  “I spoke with him right before I called you,” Mom said, her voice tight and too high-pitched. “He told me about the people he’s getting to know at the resort. He’s having a great time.”

  Resort. Mom always referred to it as “the resort.” As if Keller-Burns Rehabilitation Center was just a spa getaway. Rule #8: If reality wasn’t the way you wanted it to be, create your own.

  “We’re pulling up to the airport now,” Mom said. “I have to go.”

  My jaw ached from how hard I clenched my teeth together. “Fine. Call me when you land.”

  “I will,” Mom said. “Behave yourself, Hannah. Kisses!”

  “I love—”

  The line went dead.

  I frowned at the hogs in the truck ahead of me. “Be glad you don’t have to deal with your mothers,” I told them. Exit 53B finally came into sight and I veered off the interstate onto another one that sloped down into a green valley between the rolling, tree-covered mountains. In the distance, hazy blue peaks blended into the bright blue sky.

  I rolled down the windows and took a deep breath of fresh air. If Mom could live in her fantasy world this summer, maybe I could too.

  #

  “I want you to not be Hannah Cohen this summer.”

  I smirked at my life coach Mark Cavallo. It was our last session before the summer and I had already told him about my decision not to go to Paris with Mom and instead head to Asheville to stay with Aunt Lydia.

  “Sure,” I said dryly. “Who should I be then?”

  Mark pushed the loosely rolled sleeves of his white button-up shirt farther up his arms. “Be yourself, but be the you that you could be, not the you that everyone else wants you to be.” He leaned forward in his blue chair, his elbows propped on his knees. One shoelace on his brown loafers was about to come untied, but it didn’t seem to bother him. “You rely too much on your rules, Hannah. You’ve let these rules control everything you do in your life.”

  I shifted on the plush green couch, avoiding Mark’s gaze. “It’s hard to fight against seventeen years of what my parents have drilled into my head.”

  “Your parents are your parents, not you.” Mark rolled his chair across the brown carpet until he was back in my line of sight. He never let me get away with not making eye contact. “You have to step outside of your parents’ shadows and do your own thing. Take this summer as a test drive. Forget the rules and do what you want to do.”

  A chill tickled its way up my spine under the red and white striped T-shirt I wore. The idea of not following the rules filled me with a cold panic. How would I know what to do? How would I keep from accidentally humiliating myself or my parents?

  “This is your life, Hannah,” Mark said gently. His brown eyes looked honest and confident as he continued, “What you make of it is up to you. You can hold yourself back forever and keep ending up here in my office when you can’t handle the pressure. Or you can be who you want to be and live a happier life.”

  “What if I don’t know who I want to be?” I asked.

  The thing I liked best about Mark was that he never laughed at my stupid questions, the ones I could never voice in front of Natalie or my other friends from school. In their eyes, I was Hannah Cohen, the girl who had everything and could do anything.

  “Then you figure it out,” Mark said. “Push yourself outside your limits and try everything.” After a moment, he added, “Within reason. I don’t want your parents to blame me when they have to bail you out of jail.”

  I smiled back weakly, as if the idea of reinventing myself and pushing the limits wasn’t completely crazy.

  If Mark really thought I was ready to handle life without the rules, maybe he was the one who needed counseling.

  #

  I was lost.

  I tried to follow Mom’s directions, but I couldn’t remember if it was a right or a left after getting onto Mangrove Park Street. I had taken a right and then a left and then another right. And now nothing looked like anything my aunt would live in.

  Back in Willowbrook, Aunt Lydia had lived in a beautifully restored Victorian home, the kind that looked like it had sprung from a storybook. Years ago, Aunt Lydia and I used to pretend we were Victorian girls in beautiful dresses, dressing up in the old clothes she kept in the attic when I spent the night with her.

  I had always imagined that Aunt Lydia had relocated her old house from Willowbrook and plopped it down in the mountains. But the tiny brick homes I drove by were far removed from the restored Victorian in my memory. Everything was so green and lush, the trees gathered together in tight clusters around the homes. Wildflowers swayed in the breeze back and forth along each side of the road. The houses rose on the sloped land around me as the road dipped down and then back up again in the distance.

  Thunk.

  Thunk thunk thunk.

  What was that?

  I drove a few feet more, but the thunking only grew louder, and I felt the weight of the car shift as it dipped down on one side.

  I pulled over to the side of the road, flipping the switch for my hazard lights. Then I opened the driver side door and leaned out.

  “Great,” I muttered. “Just freaking great.” The front left tire was completely flat and the rubber hung loosely on the wheel. I grabbed my phone. I had the number to roadside assistance programmed into my contacts for emergencies.

  But when I looked at my phone, I saw there was no signal. Not even one bar.

  Perfect. I wanted to pound on the steering wheel and let out a cry of frustration, but as usual, my mother’s words echoed in my head.

  It’s all about image, Hannah, the wise Marilyn Cohen always said. If you look as if you have it all together, you will have it all together. Never lose control. Maintain the image of perfection. That’s Rule #1, the most important.

  So I sat in the driver’s seat, my hands gripping the steering wheel as I tried to maintain perfection.

  The problem was, I had never changed my own tire before.

  But it was okay. I could handle this.

  I got out of the car and walked to the trunk, popping it open to inspect the spare tire. It was still there, securely latched in the little molded well under the carpet.

  Okay, so I needed tools.

  I found a black pouch tucked into the side of the trunk and opened it to find what looked like a crowbar, another metal rod, and a folded metal square thing.

  I could not handle this.

  Gravel crunched on the asphalt as an old pickup truck slowed to a stop behind my car. It was painted a dull gray primer color with white splotches randomly placed across the hood. I could see a guy in the driver’s seat, but the glare of the sun on the window made it impossible to make out a face.

  Girl alone on a backwoods road with a flat tire. Guy in a creaky old pickup truck stops to help. Why did this sound like the start of a horror movie?

  I quickly slipped back into the driver’s seat and shut the door. I watched in the rearview mirror as the guy got out of the truck and started walking toward my car. He was tall and lean, dressed in faded jeans and a white T-shirt. Brown hair hung around his shoulders.

  This was definitely a horror movie in the making. I discreetly hit the lock button on my door and then squeezed my fists until my nails dug into my palms.

  I jumped at the tap on the window next to my head. The guy leaned down to look in at me, his wide gray eyes studying me. He looked young, probably around my age. He couldn’t have been more than eighteen or nineteen at the most.

  “Need some help?” he called through the window.

  Rule #4: Never ask for help.

  I shook my head. “No, thank you. Someone will be along any minute, I’m sure.”

  He looked around the quiet, empty street. “I guess I’m someone. You got a spare tire?”

  “You don’t have to do that,” I called to him. “
Really. I’ll call roadside assistance.” I fumbled for my phone. He didn’t know that I couldn’t get a signal.

  Unfortunately, I managed to knock the phone into the tiny crevice between the console and the passenger seat.

  “It’ll only take a minute,” the guy said. “No need to call for help.”

  Before I could stop him, he walked to the back of my car and disappeared behind the open trunk door. I could hear him rattling around and the car shook back and forth. After a moment, he pulled the spare tire out and rolled it over to the front of the car.

  “I’ll need you to get out while I jack the car up,” the guy called.

  Get out? Of the car? I stared at him for a long moment, but he made no movement to leave. I crawled over the console and climbed out of the passenger side, keeping the car as a barrier between us.

  Stranger guy didn’t comment on my weird behavior. I watched as he worked, taking in how the sun shone a glowing halo on the top of his hair and how his shirtsleeves rode up as he moved, revealing nicely muscled arms and the black edges of a tattoo.

  My mother’s voice sang out in my head again, Tattoos are for bikers and prostitutes, Hannah.

  After a few moments, the guy eased my car back down, removed the jack, and then rolled the flat tire to the trunk. He shut the trunk door and returned to the front of the car, wiping his hands on his jeans.

  “You ran over something big,” he said. “Not sure what it was, maybe a piece of metal in the road.”

  I stared stupidly at him for a moment, before I was able to croak out, “Okay.”

  The guy nodded to me and then straightened, turning around and walking toward his truck, like that was it. Like he hadn’t just done me a huge favor.

  “Wait,” I said as I hurried after him. He stopped and I skidded to a halt a safe distance from him.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  He nodded again. “No problem.” He started walking toward his truck, reaching for the handle.

  People didn’t just do things for other people without getting something in return. My dad had always taught me to never be indebted to someone. Rule #21: Even the score as soon as possible.

  “Do you want money?” I blurted out.

  He looked at me, crinkling his nose. “Money?”

  I held up a finger to him and then dashed back to my car, reaching in for my purse. I found my checkbook and then walked to my trunk as I opened the little book.

  “How much do I owe you?” I asked, clicking my pen.

  He raised one eyebrow. “For what?”

  I shrugged. “For changing my tire. Isn’t that how this usually works? There are people who get paid to change tires every day.”

  He shook his head. “You don’t owe me anything. Just doing my good deed for the day.”

  “You’ve got to want something.”

  “You’ve already said thank you, that’s enough.” He pulled the truck’s driver side door open, which squeaked in protest.

  “I’m not looking for a boyfriend,” I said.

  He wrinkled his nose. “Neither am I.”

  My neck flushed hot. “I mean, I’m not going out with you for changing my tire. Just so you know.”

  “That’s a little presumptuous,” he said, leaning his tanned arms on the top of the open door. “What makes you think I’d want to go out with you?”

  I sucked in a breath, stung. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He looked me up and down. “Maybe you’re not my type.”

  “Maybe you’re no one’s type,” I snapped back. I realized I sounded like a five-year-old, but I couldn’t keep my mouth shut.

  The guy smirked and then climbed into the truck. He turned the ignition and the truck groaned, but didn’t start.

  I edged closer to the unpainted truck. There were dents and scratches along the side and the back window was cracked all the way across.

  “Just let me pay you,” I said. “You look like you could use the money.”

  Now his easygoing expression disappeared, replaced by a deep scowl. “Keep your money,” he snarled at me as he slammed his door shut.

  I jumped back, blinking at the sudden change in his demeanor. The truck sputtered to life and the tires squealed as he pulled back onto the road, the spinning tires kicking up dirt and rocks toward me. I coughed, watching as he disappeared down the dip in the road.

  Maybe Natalie was right about hillbillies.

  I tossed my checkbook onto the passenger seat of my car as I got back in. I would probably never see the guy again, so it didn’t matter if I hadn’t settled the debt.

  Leaning over the console, I shoved my hand into the tiny space next to the seat and managed to fish out my phone. I drove until a signal bar finally appeared on the screen, and then I called a number I hadn’t used in years.

  “Aunt Lydia?” I said, feeling butterflies erupt in my stomach. “It’s Hannah. I think I’m lost.”

  Chapter Two

  Aunt Lydia had downsized over the last four years. The beautiful Victorian home she had owned in Willowbrook had been replaced with a small, single story, red brick home. It was nestled at the edge of the steep hill that rose behind it. Pine trees stood over the house, providing privacy from the neighbors.

  I slowly pulled onto the driveway. Aunt Lydia was sitting in a swing on the front porch, her feet propped up on the cracked wooden railing. I cut the engine off, but didn’t move from the car. I studied her through my windshield. She was older than my mom, but something about her looked younger. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a ponytail, with strands escaping from the sides. She wore a pink tank top and old jeans, but no shoes on her dirty feet.

  This wasn’t the Aunt Lydia I remembered in the stylish business suits she wore to run the museum.

  She stepped toward the edge of the porch, giving me a hesitant smile, and I climbed out of the car, smoothing my hands over my denim skirt before making my way across the yard. A layer of pine needles crunched underfoot.

  “Hannah,” Aunt Lydia said, smiling warmly at me. She opened her arms and I stepped into them for a hug. I closed my eyes and inhaled the familiar scent of cocoa butter lotion. At least one thing hadn’t changed.

  “Do you have a lot of bags?”

  I followed Aunt Lydia to my car and she opened the back door to retrieve two red suitcases, stitched with my initials in white.

  “Let me guess,” Aunt Lydia said as she looked at the bags. “Your mother bought these.”

  I grinned. “Of course.”

  Inside, the house looked even smaller than it did from the outside. The living room was tiny, and I bumped into a table as I tried to maneuver past the couch. The walls were a soothing sage green, with paintings of mountain scenery hung on them.

  “Sorry, it’s smaller than what you’re used to,” Aunt Lydia said as she carried my bags toward the hallway. “It’s definitely not a big house in a gated community.”

  My parents and I used to live in a smaller house, but then my dad’s bank went national and he was named the corporate president and CEO. My parents decided our new lives in the upper class required a new house that reflected our status, with a tall iron gate to keep out the people who didn’t fit in.

  “It’s fine,” I told Aunt Lydia. She led me to a tiny bedroom in the back corner of the house. The room contained just a small bedside table and a narrow white bed, with a pink and green striped blanket on it, and a door that opened to reveal the tiniest closet I had ever seen.

  “I haven’t gotten around to decorating this room,” Aunt Lydia said as she looked at the empty white walls. “No one ever uses it, so . . .” She shrugged and set my bags on the bed.

  “You hungry?” she asked as she turned back to me.

  I shook my head. “I’m fine. Just a little tired from the drive.” It was about five hours from Willowbrook to Asheville, and I had gotten stuck in a traffic jam near Raleigh, which added another 45 minutes.


  “Take a nap,” Aunt Lydia said. She backed toward the door, looking around as if the reunion was as awkward for her as it was for me. Things had changed over the last four years, and the close relationship we’d once had was long gone. What did she think when she looked at me? Did she think I was too much like my mother, too prim and put together? Was she disappointed in how I had turned out?

  “We can go out for dinner later. I know a great local place you’ll love.”

  “Okay,” I agreed.

  Aunt Lydia gave me a smile before she stepped into the hall and shut the door.

  I sat down on the edge of my bed, folding my hands in my lap. I tried to remember what Mark had said. This trip would be a good opportunity for me to get away from everything that held me back. A chance to forget about all the things my parents expected of me, like the Yale college application that I still hadn’t filled out, despite my mom’s insistence on early admission.

  In that moment, I made a resolution to myself: over the summer, I was going to be anyone but the Hannah Cohen whom everyone back home expected me to be.

  #

  “You like Italian food, right?” Aunt Lydia sat close to the steering wheel of her old Land Rover, which rumbled and vibrated so much, I could feel it through the seat. The car sputtered a bit as it pulled itself up the hill, away from her neighborhood.

  “Yes,” I said. “We went to Florence last summer.”

  Aunt Lydia smirked. “I’m not talking quite that Italian. This is a little mom and pop place. Spaghetti mostly, but they do have really good ravioli. It’s not even from a can!”

  She laughed, glancing over at me, and I made myself laugh, too. I had changed into a white sundress and red espadrilles and pulled my hair back with a white headband. Aunt Lydia had raised her eyebrows at my outfit when I came into the living room just before we left. She’d looked down at her ratty jeans and old tank top, then said, “Oh, I guess I’ll change.”

  “No, you don’t have to,” I’d told Aunt Lydia, feeling suddenly embarrassed to be so overdressed. Mom always insisted we look nice for dinner. Even before Dad’s bank went big, it was one of Mom’s rules (Rule #17, in fact).