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Do Over

Do Over

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Do Over

3.5/5 (4 evaluări)
161 pages
2 hours
Jul 21, 2012


Paisley’s juggling three key plans her senior year:
1.Get her parents back together
2.Organize a stellar prom
3.Find the perfect date

Finding the perfect date--an excerpt from Do Over:

I read, “Would you rather have someone run their fingertips or fingernails over your wrist?”

Trey’s eyebrows lifted. “I don’t know. Show me.” He flipped his hand over, palm up with the back of his hand against the black foam bar.

I swallowed and ran my fingertips over the blue veins on his wrist. His fingers twitched. I looked into his eyes when I lightly scraped my nails over the same spot. His fingers flexed and touched the back of my hand. His eyes widened and dilated. His dark green gaze dropped to my mouth.

I took my hand away. “Which one?”

“Yes,” he said. ”Both.”

I scribbled the answer.

The cart jolted upwards another two feet and paused. He said, “What about you?”


“What did you answer?”

I shrugged. “I’ll do mine later.”

Trey flipped my hand over against the bar. He held it down with his right hand, and with his left rubbed calloused fingers down my palm and across the inside of my wrist. I felt the sensation from my fingertips to my elbow and reflexively tried to jerk my hand away. Trey tightened his grip, and ran his fingernails lightly over the same spot.

A shiver went through my whole body.

“I wonder if the order matters?” He ran his fingertips over my skin next. The tingles were amazing.

I trembled and yanked free. Staring hard at the questionnaire, I drew a column down the page and wrote my answer: Both.

Lights came on around the fair, refusing to let the day end as red, gold, and pink streaked through the sky with the sunset. The evening breeze pushed the cart and shifted Trey’s brown hair across his forehead, hiding his injury. He slid an arm over my shoulders. “What’s the next one?”

Jul 21, 2012

Despre autor

The author Emily Evans is a graduate of Texas A&M University and American College Dublin with an MFA in Creative Writing. She is a native Houstonian. You can visit her at www.EmilyEvansBooks.com.

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Do Over - Emily Evans

Do Over


Emily Evans

Do Over

Copyright 2012 by Emily Evans

Formatted by IRONHORSE Formatting

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book,

write to Emily Evans at


For upcoming books and other information,

visit www.EmilyEvansBooks.com.

[1. Fiction. 2. Romance. 3. Young Adult.]

Table of Contents


Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen


Other books by Emily Evans



You’re awesome: Michelle, Teresa, Veronica, Jennifer, Stacy, Joellen, Barbie, Brennan, Joseph, Megan, Mishann, Rachel, Wayne, Darlene, Jeff, Heather, Trevor, Mom & Dad.

Chapter One

Super-hot guy, dead ahead.

I shivered and goose bumps rose on my arms. I was looking at my future. Nicholas Tresmont, aka Trey, the best-dressed guy in my class, stood on a raised white walkway in the underground tunnel between Houston’s art museums. The weird blue lighting played off his dark brown hair and tan skin making him resemble an anime character. Seeing him up there, slumped in an unconscious pose, like a model on a catwalk, lit up all my fashion designer dreams.

His dark jacket and grey vest were perfect for a winter day. Every piece he wore was different from the jeans and T-shirts on the rest of the guys in our senior class. Only his collar, caught in the lapel of his vest, needed a tweak. I couldn’t resist moving forward to straighten the flaw. My fingers smoothed the soft cotton fabric and I breathed in his showery cologne a second. You have the best clothes and you treat them so shabbily.

Trey dropped a hand to my hip, preventing me from stepping back. Come back to my house after the field trip, and I’ll let you go through my closet.

His rich voice and dark green eyes tempted me, and I felt a rush of excitement at the thought. I hadn’t been on a date since last February when my parents broke up. Maintaining the peace while my parents divided their assets had killed the romance of dating. Now I had an infallible plan to get my parents back together and I wanted a prom date. The image of Trey in a tuxedo made my heart pound hard enough to forget his reputation.

Fortunately for my momentary lapse into lust, his reputation caught up to us, in the form of his hookup of the week, Zoe. She shoved me aside and said in a cutesy voice, Twey, around that wall there’s something I have to show you--in private. She tucked her platinum hair behind her ear and spared me a glance. You don’t mind, do you, Paisley?

The weird underground lighting was playing tricks on me, making me consider stupid things: like telling crazy Zoe I minded, like going out with Trey. Toughen up. I told myself, stepping back, careful not to fall off the runway. Nope. I don’t mind. A brush of the chilled air-conditioning hit me and I buttoned my cardigan and retreated. Catch you later.

I didn’t see the two of them again until we all gathered around the main display case by the exit.

Ms. Herrington, our English teacher and chaperone, scooped up the hem of her maxi dress and leaned toward the glass. Who knows what February 2nd is?

Super Bowl. Behemoth John mimicked a quarterback pass toward the impressionist exhibit. Skinny Ian jumped for the imaginary ball.

I shuddered. The Super Bowl and I have a bad history. Growing up, I helped Mom decorate for the big bash. Every year, my parents had stopped speaking to one another by the fourth quarter. Last year, everything went wrong even earlier. By kickoff, my parents were arguing. Our guests escaped during the halftime show, and by the fourth quarter, Mom had moved out. Fighting and Super Bowl were as linked in my mind as reality shows and teary confessionals.

John clamped his left hand over his right wrist and did a dance move, stirring it up. Party. My house.

Dude, Super Bowl’s on the third, this year, Trey said, shoving John with a big hand.

Ms. Herrington waved them off. Groundhog Day. February 2nd is Groundhog Day.

John bopped both fists in the air. Dog sees his shadow, and we get six more weeks of winter. He howled toward the ceiling.

My BFF, Lauren, laughed. Ms. Herrington tried not to look judgmental. I rolled my eyes and scooted closer to the exhibit.

Ms. Herrington nodded at the display case. See the crystal in the center? The blue circular one?

John peered at the gold nameplate on the case, and ticked up a few more brownie points. "A dhéanamh thar stone from the Isle of Skye."

The beautiful round crystalline blue drew me. We needed a fascinating centerpiece for the prom tables. Maybe, something this compelling would add to the evening.

Ms. Herrington said, "The Celtic name loosely translates to Do Over. Some say our ancestors weren’t talking about the weather. They say if the day shown fair, you could wish on a Do Over stone and repeat the last six weeks."

My fingertips touched the cool glass. I stared at the artifact, imagining I could feel the brightness.

Haven’t you ever noticed how some winters seem to drag on? Ms. Herrington asked. Or, had a sense of déjà vu? Those are both caused by someone using a Do Over stone.

John groaned. Who’d want to repeat the last six weeks?

I would. Well, not this year, but last year I would have died to have a chance like that. I’d have used the stone and changed everything. I would have been up early to help Mom. The football-themed decorations would have been placed. The drinks would have been iced. The chicken wings would have been on the barbeque before the guests arrived. Everything about our party would have gone smoothly and my parents wouldn’t have fought and broken up.

My fingers dropped from the glass. I could only change what I did next. Prom was the answer. My friends and I would meet at the park for photos. All the parents would stand together taking pictures. The gowns would be elegant. The tuxes sophisticated. The atmosphere would scream romance. That was the answer: Prom day. I’d get my parents back together.

Y’all have about ten minutes for the bathroom or the gift shop, Ms. Herrington said, looking at her watch. Then, we’ll meet on the sidewalk for headcount.

The gift shop had replicas of the Do Over stone. The crystals shone with the same brilliant blue. If I’d had $24.99, one would be mine. As it was, I used my five to buy a pink sparkly pen. The light inside the barrel would inspire me as I helped our prom committee throw a perfect prom.


Trey lay to my right, flat out on John’s living room carpet. John’s Super Bowl party guests counted out his lifts as he bench-pressed a giggling Zoe. Six.

I rolled my eyes and ate another barbeque-flavored chip, ignoring the spectacle. The snacks at John’s party consisted of classic guy choices: chips still in the bag, sausages speared by toothpicks. I’d rate the overall spread a six. Now for prom, the food was going to rate a ten. Sparkle, my committee, would make everyone proud.

Lauren plopped down on the couch beside me, causing the overstuffed cushion to shift with her weight and my navy skirt to ride up. I tugged on the hem and slid back, glad I’d worn a short skirt because John had overheated the room.

Lauren snagged one of the salty chips and tucked a loose strand of her strawberry blonde hair back into her headband. Crunch. He’s hot-tastic. Her amber eyes glowed as she stared across the room. The large green Ficus made a great backdrop with her coloring.

We both needed prom dates and I hoped fresh game would present itself tonight. I sat straighter, my gaze darting around the living room, passing T-shirt wearing guy after guy. Who? My gaze caught on an array of deer heads mounted on the wall. Six of them, arranged from largest to smallest, stared back at me with glossy, pissed brown eyes.


Not John. I slumped against the cushion. John wasn’t hot. John remained the same blond football captain, whiny jock he’d always been. Lauren could do better. I made a noncommittal noise and ate another barbeque chip.

Zoe giggled again, her platinum cheerleader curls bouncing with each lift. In the background, the partygoers continued counting Trey’s efforts. Seven.

John’s the one, Lauren insisted, her voice escalating with her enthusiasm. He throws epic parties.

Hmm, I muttered, so as not to insult her choice of the week. It didn’t pay to invest too heavily in Lauren’s man quest. She changed her mind regularly about who’d be the best prom date. I flexed my foot and wished I’d worn navy flats. My platforms were cutting off circulation to each pinkie toe. The pain was becoming all I could focus on. Are you wearing stilettos to the prom?

Of course. Lauren looked at John again. John’s tall enough. He’s the date for me, Pez. You should see his online profile.

I flinched a bit at the nickname. Not that Pez was any worse than my real name, Paisley.

Her lips twisted at my reaction. You need a new nickname. What’s your middle name? Her thin eyebrows arched and she attempted to pry the secret from me.

I shoved a strategic barbeque chip into my mouth and chewed instead of answering. My middle name was even worse than my first—a million times worse.

Eight, the crowd counted. The firelight gleamed on Trey’s tan skin.

Nice arms.

Nine, the crowd said, and Zoe giggled louder.

My gaze lingered on the overworked tan biceps. Wow. Nine would be impressive if the feat was performed by anyone other than uber-jock, Trey. He

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  • (4/5)
    It was a good book. I liked it a lot but fair warning it has some mature content.