Love Lessons Read online

  Love Lessons

  Shelfbrooke Academy

  Daphne James Huff

  Copyright © 2019 by Daphne James Huff

  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.

  Cover Design: Parker Premades

  Proofreading: EditElle

  For Kayla, because I was too lazy to write a dedication and she was clever enough to sneak one in

  Contents

  Also by Daphne James Huff

  Get Carnival Wishes for free!

  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

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note:

  Thanks for reading!

  About Daphne James Huff

  Rebound Boyfriend Sample

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Available now:

  Get Carnival Wishes for free

  Also by Daphne James Huff

  Varsity Girlfriends

  Mountain Creek Drive

  Also by Daphne James Huff

  Sweet Young Adult:

  Rebound Boyfriend

  Leah’s Song

  Carnival Wishes

  Home for Christmas

  This Summer at the Lake

  The Princes of Prynesse:

  A Royal Distraction

  A Royal Decision

  A Royal Departure

  Dreamers Series:

  I Dream of Fire: Parts 1 & 2

  The Magician’s Test

  The Devil’s Trial

  The Nurse’s Secret

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  Chapter One

  Rex

  “We need to stop dating,” I announce at lunch, the Sunday before spring term begins.

  “I wasn’t aware we’d made our relationship official,” says Bronx with a saucy tilt of his eyebrows.

  I ignore him. The noise in the dining hall is at slightly higher-than-usual levels for a Sunday afternoon, but everyone is still filling each other in on their winter break ski trips to the Alps or, for those whose parents actually love them, Saint Barts.

  I was in New York with my dad, like every Christmas, so I have no vacation details to share. I have something more important to talk about, something I spent ten days thinking about in an upper-west side apartment filled with books older than this country.

  “Girls are a distraction,” I say, and then let it sink in. I know this will be an uphill battle. Reggie and Bronx are, like me, part of the more popular crowd at one of New England’s most exclusive boarding schools. And popular means girls like you. And if you’re Reggie and Bronx, you spend approximately 95% of your time thinking about them, rather than focusing on what really matters.

  “Girls are the only good thing about this school.” Bronx’s scowl proves my point.

  “We need to focus on school right now.” I smile patiently. They’ll agree with me eventually, like they always do. They just need to feel like they’re being heard.

  “It’s the last semester of senior year,” says Reggie. “We already got our acceptance letters.” He crosses his arms and leans back in his chair. He knocks into Don Armado at the table behind him, who spills orange juice onto his school sweater. He gives Reggie a murderous look before getting up and storming back to his room. I glare right back at him, remembering some of the comments he’s made in the past about Reggie.

  “Only some of us know what Ivy League we’ll be gracing with our presence in the fall,” I say, turning my attention to Bronx, who remains completely unfased by the reminder. “And the Navarre competition is being announced tonight. We need to get ahead in schoolwork so we can devote our time to it.”

  “You’re the one who’s going to be the big famous writer,” says Bronx. He pokes at his filet mignon. The start of term feast is basically Hogwarts with more money, but after almost four years here we barely notice. “Neither of us have a shot of winning that. You’re the Navarre.”

  I clench my jaw and try not to say something snarky. That’s all I’ve heard the past three years. Of course, everyone—teachers, parents, other students—thinks I have the competition in the bag, just because my great-grandfather is the one they named it after. That and the fact basically everyone in my family except one person has won it. No pressure or anything.

  I take a deep breath. “Colleges still look at last semester grades and can pull their acceptance if they want.” I know Reggie doesn’t need the reminder, but Bronx does. “And it’ll be good practice for college to balance competition with other schoolwork.”

  They both look at me, eyebrows cocked, and arms folded. Okay, so not entirely convinced yet. Onto phase 2 of the plan.

  “We should maybe shave our heads, to make our hygiene routine shorter too. More time to study.”

  “No way.” Reggie runs his hand through his short afro. “It took me months to grow it out this much. Not happening.”

  Bronx just shrugs, clearly not bothered by the idea. He dyed his hair bright green freshman year until his mom made him change it.

  “Fine, the hair can stay.” I give in happily, knowing this small victory for them will make it more likely they’ll say yes to my big plan. I take a deep breath before I lay it out. “But no girls and no parties until prom.”

  “What? That’s excessive,” says Bronx, now visibly irritated. A few people glance his way in a not so subtle way. “The Navarre presentation is in April. Prom isn’t until May. We’ll never find dates if we’re not out there before then.”

  “Fine, three months.” I try to hide my grin. This is what I wanted all along. I couldn’t have them distracting me during the most important three months of my life.

  Nothing is more important than winning the Navarre Prize. My family has been winning this thing for decades, until my dad broke the streak. It doesn’t matter that he went on to win a Pulitzer. The Navarre Prize is the one that he always wanted. And I am going to get it.

  But life at Shelfbrooke is one of permanent distraction. Boarding school is supposed to be this focused institution of learning, but the only thing that happens when you put 300 teens in a place with bedrooms and mini fridges is, well...let’s just say a different kind of learning. Only you can’t go home to get away from your ex, instead, you see them at breakfast every morning. That’s why I’ve always kept things casual with girls. Bronx and Reggie get their hearts broken at least three times a year. And I don’t want to see them go through that again.

  The only reason they’ve gotten to senior year with their GPA intact is thanks to my epic study session planning. This is the same thing, just over a longer peri
od. I know we can do it, just like we’ve done every year during the weeks leading up to midterms and finals.

  I hold out my hand so the three of us can shake on it, the way we always do before starting a big project.

  “You know it’s kind of dorky to have a secret handshake at eighteen,” Bronx says, but holds out his hand anyway. He’s deflecting, which means he knows he’s making the right choice and is just fighting against it.

  “This is very undignified,” says Reggie, his forehead crinkled in a frown as he holds out his hand.

  “Here are the terms,” I say, ignoring them both. “For the next three months, no parties, and no trips to town. No talking to girls outside of class and assignments. Which obviously means no girls at our table, but we’ll limit mealtime to fifteen minutes anyway so that shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “Sounds super fun,” says Reggie, rolling his eyes. “But I could probably use less time lingering at the dessert bar.” He pats his completely flat stomach with his free hand. We all met during freshman year tryouts for the track team, and while the team spirit didn’t last more than a year, our regular morning runs together stuck. I don’t even bother mentioning those; they’re more of a habit than brushing our teeth.

  “All of our assignments for the week are done by Tuesday night,” I say, going through the list I worked out carefully during one of the more boring holiday parties I had to sit through. “The other nights are entirely for writing.”

  Bronx groans so loudly, the next table looks over at him with mild interest. “Why does it have to be so strict? Why can’t it just be no parties? That leaves the weekends free for writing.”

  “Either you’re all in, or you’re all out,” says Reggie. I smile at his dedication. “Besides, you fall in love just by talking to a girl.”

  “That’s not—” Bronx stops, considers, and nods. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

  “If we see you talking to a girl, we’ll pants you,” I say, realizing that punishments will probably be necessary. “And I’ll post on the Knight Watch about that dream you had about Madame Dupuis.”

  His eyes grow wide. “You wouldn’t.”

  “I really need you guys in this with me.” And I mean it—mostly. Really what I need is for them to not distract me, and the only way to do that is to have them along for the ride. And it will help them, too, whether they want to admit it or not. “It’s only a few months. Twelve weeks is nothing.”

  “Twelve weeks is forever.” Bronx moans. But his hand stays on top of mine and Reggie’s. “Writers need to get inspiration from somewhere, and love is the best kind.”

  I roll my eyes at this. “We can get inspiration from other places; we don’t need love.”

  “Where are we getting ours if we’re confined to our rooms?” he asks.

  “Books and movies,” Reggie says. “Besides, you’ve dated practically everyone at this school. Make yourself a little scarce for a while. It’ll drive the ladies mad.”

  Bronx considers this, nodding at the logic of it. “True. Pickings have become so slim that I’ve considered dating Marion. Couldn’t hurt to take a break.”

  I grin. I knew they’d come around. “Exactly. After three months without dating, we’ll be crawling with dates for prom.”

  We’ve never had trouble finding girls, so I’m confident this break will do exactly what Reggie says it will. Besides, who wouldn’t want to go to prom with the winner of the Navarre Prize?

  “So, we all agree to the terms?” They nod and I release an internal sigh of relief.

  Everything is going just like I planned. I’ll have the time and space to really focus on making my submission the best it can be.

  Just as our hands finish the last of the intricate movements that make up our secret handshake (which, admittedly, is a little dorky), a murmur whips through the dining hall. We turn our heads, and Bronx lets out a low whistle.

  “Are you sure you can’t start this tomorrow?” he asks, practically salivating.

  Three of the most gorgeous girls I’ve ever seen are walking into the room, trays balanced on unsteady arms, like this is the first time they’ve ever had to do this. And it may very well be. I’ve never seen anyone so beautiful before. While my logical mind knows they’re clearly exchange students from a country where supermodels roam freely, my writer’s mind is convinced they’ve descended directly from heaven to grace Shelfbrooke with their angelic presence.

  Never wanting to miss an opportunity to use real-life emotions in my writing, I take out my phone to jot down that idea before it slips away. Meanwhile, my body has moved on to the next sensation: a sinking dread ripples through my stomach as I take in Reggie and Bronx’s eyes tracking the three delicate creatures across the dining hall.

  “This is going to be harder than I thought,” grumbles Bronx, his head coming to rest on his arms.

  You said it.

  Chapter Two

  Zara

  I like to think that I’m a reasonable person, open to new culinary experiences. That time Rosalie wanted to pay to cook our own food, I was willing to front the money for the group. We’re always first in line at whatever new restaurant is opening, no matter the cuisine. I am also very good at hiding what I’m thinking. Whenever celebrities are eating in one of papa’s restaurants in Paris, I never stare, and I (almost) never tell the paparazzi.

  But I am not prepared for what a tiny school somewhere in a far-flung forest of northeastern America has in store for me.

  “Um, how are we supposed to eat this?” I say in French to my best friend, Rosalie, behind me as I hold up a donut the size of my face, covered in chocolate icing, “It’s bigger than my plate.”

  The dessert options at my new school aren’t quite what I expected. Delicious, yes, but the servings are enough for at least five people.

  “If you don’t like it, don’t get it,” a voice behind me murmurs in English. My heart stops, and I don’t even turn to see who said it. All that matters is that she understood me.

  I suppose it’s not totally surprising. It is supposed to be one of the best schools on the East Coast. If I’m to be banished, at least my parents had the decency to do it somewhere with a rugby team instead of that ridiculous sport they insist on calling football.

  A wave of uncertainty courses through me as I put the enormous donut onto my tray and make my way out into the dining hall. I grip the edges of my tray and look around the room at the crowded tables. My heartbeat ticks up, and I swallow hard, the options suddenly endless and fraught with danger.

  “Zara, what are you doing? Come on.” Rosalie is right behind me, and I let out a breath. I remind myself I’m not alone here, and it makes everything seem slightly less dire.

  My family likes to say I have a flair for the dramatic. And this is not the time to activate it.

  But the stares of everyone as we make our way to an empty table make my skin prickle. Curious eyes follow our every movement, and I duck my head when we sit down.

  “Relax, ma chère, it’s only a few months,” Rosalie says, then switches into English. “We’ll survive.”

  “Though, not if this is what we have to eat,” says Maria in French, wrinkling her nose at the mashed potatoes swimming in some sort of brown sauce on my tray. “How is everyone here is so skinny and beautiful when this is on their plates?”

  Rosalie rolls her eyes. “You didn’t have to get a corn dog. There was salad.”

  Maria puckers her mouth into a tiny red rosebud in the middle of her smooth tawny face.

  “I wanted to know what it tastes like.”

  We all start to snicker and draw more stares from the tables around us. I shush them and hold my head up high, gazing around at all of them with what I hope is a withering stare. But inside I’m a ball of knots. I shouldn’t care what they think of us. Rosalie is right, it’s only a few months.

  Except for me, it may be longer. I’m here for one reason, and one reason only: to perfect my English. My perfect sister, Ines, has a
better English accent than the Queen of England, so of course, my parents expect the same from me. If I’m not perfect by the end of the semester, then I’ll be sent to school in Canada instead of going to university in Paris with my friends.

  I can’t let that happen.

  “So how does this corndog compare to your mother’s linguiça?” I say in French. Rosalie bites her lip, and I know she wants to scold me for not speaking in English. But it’s barely been a day here, and classes don’t start until tomorrow. Maria shrugs and takes the tiniest bite of it. Growing up between her family in France and Portugal, she’s probably the boldest of the three of us. I usually follow her lead whenever she walks into something without fear. Sure, it’s a corn dog, not a crowded club, but she’s always the first to try something new. She chews, slowly, then smiles.

  “It’s not terrible. Maybe not everything here will be awful.”

  “I can think of one thing that’s not terrible.” Rosalie raises her eyebrows as two boys walk past our table. The dark-haired boy is a doll-like kind of pretty that Rosalie goes crazy for. I sigh, knowing Maria will no doubt swoon over the brown-skinned boy, his eyes framed by lashes thicker than any I’ve ever seen. I try not to pout as I think of my friends going off and grabbing boyfriends for the semester, leaving me all alone. The whole point of them coming with me was so that I wouldn’t be alone.