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    Maybe This Time
    Maybe This Time
    Maybe This Time
    Ebook58 pages34 minutes

    Maybe This Time

    By Eva Clancy

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    About this ebook

    Sometimes I think of Rob Cunningham as my "One That Got Away". And sometimes I think we were just never meant to be.

    I fell for him when I was sixteen, but of course, I never told him. And as time passes, so do my chances.

    I run into him every few years but it feels like the stars are aligned against us.

    Unless... maybe this time...

    This is a second edition of a novella that was previously published by Dreamspinner Press

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherEva Clancy
    Release dateJan 26, 2018
    ISBN9781386560159
    Maybe This Time
    Author

    Eva Clancy

    Eva Clancy currently resides in the United Kingdom and loves reading, dreaming and writing sexy, romantic, emotional fiction. With favourite films such as: Talk to Her, The English Patient and Sweet Charity, musically she loves Midlake, John Grant, The Civil Wars and Bach. When it comes to books, her favourites are: The Sioux by Irene Handl, Tipping the Velvet by Sarah Waters, and The Adrien English mysteries by Josh Lanyon.

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      Book preview

      Maybe This Time - Eva Clancy

      Chapter One

      Shady Ladies nightclub, Cumbria, Northern England

      September 1996

      It’s nearly midnight and I’m drinking Drambuie and Coke—spangles juice, as Fee and I call it. Our favorite tipple.

      I’m sitting in an empty booth, staring out at the dance floor, where a bunch of sixth-formers from my school are stumbling around to Born Slippy. Is Fee up there with them? I squint, but the strobing UV lights make it difficult to see, and I’ve drunk quite a bit. Fee and I had a bottle of Thunderbird before we came out, and this is my fourth spangles juice.

      I find it a bit easier to see what’s going on when I cover my right eye with one hand. The picture in front of me stops kaleidoscoping, anyway. And that’s when I see him. Rob Cunningham.

      I wouldn’t have thought this was his sort of music. He’s a Britpop kind of guy—guaranteed Oasis is his favourite band—so he should look a right prat trying to fit in with the would-be-ravers around him. But no. Rob is moving in an easy way that makes him look totally at home. As always, he gets it spot-fucking-on.

      Because Rob Cunningham is perfect.

      Big, blond, and broad-shouldered, Rob is Wilberforce Secondary’s blue-eyed boy. He got four A’s in his A levels, plays rugby for the school and the county, and was the only person in our year to get a Duke of Edinburgh Gold Award.

      Oh, and one more thing: he’s been the subject of most of my wank fantasies for the last two years. In fact, two years ago, I pretty much convinced myself I was in love with him and spent an embarrassing few months trying, and failing, to play on the school rugby team. Which is funnier when you see me in person. As Fee would say, I’m the kind of guy a strong gust of wind could blow over.

      After a few months of being laughed at, with increasingly humiliating results, I gave up on the rugby team. By then I’d discovered indie music and black eyeliner. I reinvented myself as Will Hardwicke, the only goth within fifty miles. Nowadays I’m mainly known for going out with Fee Drysdale. Even with dyed black hair, thick eyeliner, and a ring in her nose, Fee is the best-looking girl at Wilberforce.

      But right now Fee is the furthest thing from my mind. Right now I’m fixated on watching Rob Cunningham dancing. In his faded jeans and plain white T-shirt he makes everyone else look like they tried too hard. God, I envy him that T-shirt. I’ve been sweltering in my black hoodie all night. Unlike me, he looks unbelievably cool—both literally and figuratively.

      I hate myself for my weakness, but I can’t tear my sullen, eyeliner-ringed gaze away from him. Hopefully I just look contemptuous. Hopefully I look as though I can’t believe how badly he’s dancing and not as if I’m mesmerized by his regular blond beauty.

      The song changes abruptly, the middle-aged DJ swapping genres with jarring unconcern. Backstreet Boys. There’s pretty much a wholesale change of crowd, a fresh wave of excited fifth- and sixth-form girls washing in as the ravers depart.

      I wish Fee would come back. She went to the toilet half an hour ago with her mate Michelle and left me sitting here alone in the booth we snagged when we first got here. Abandoned with the coats and drinks.

      The booth is upholstered in some fuzzy artificial fabric that picks up the UV lights and gives off a luminous lilac sort of color. I can’t imagine what color the fabric is in daylight; it’s always dark when we come here.

      The horseshoe-shaped seat glows eerily around me, and my black jeans seem to have picked up hundreds of little luminous fibers. I try to brush them off without success.

      I glance at the dance floor again. That awful bitch Clare Adams seems to have intercepted Rob on his way to the bar. She’s playing with the buttons on his jacket, her pretty face simpering up at him. A moment later she stretches up and initiates a clumsy snog. They kiss sloppily for a minute before he pushes her away with a good-natured smile and staggers off in search of another drink. She watches him go with an irritated look.

      As for Rob, he looks as plastered as I feel—he trips a little on one of the three shallow steps up to the bar. When he gets there, he leans over

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