Crushing on You Read online

  Crushing on You

  Burlfriends, Book 1

  Praise from early readers:

  "Jen's debut novel is witty, fast-paced, and a joy to read. A book I didn't want to put down, and made me laugh out loud multiple times. Think Meg Cabot-style fun meets millennials, with the associated techies, foodies, and climbers we all know and love. Can't wait to see what happens on the rest of the series!"

  -Romance reader and expert at V0s and the occasional V1

  "Surprises and chemistry abound! I will also never think of bathrooms in quite the same way."

  -JD, fellow romance author

  “This book really improved my grip strength, I couldn’t put it down!”

  -Yosemite Climber & New Romance Reader

  "I found it extremely hard to put the book down once I started. I was so enthralled in this smoldering romance between Anna and Ian with a twist of climbing. It's a must-read!"

  -Artist, V3 / 5.11a climber

  "I really enjoyed this book! I love both a good romance and climbing, so this was a welcome melding of the two!

  -Voracious reader / 5.11 climber

  Copyright © 2019 by Jennifer Trinh

  Copyright cover art © 2019 by Jia Liu

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters, and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  First edition

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to all of the friends out there who make relationships possible…

  ...to my parents and my family, for their relentless love and support…

  ...and to my husband, the greatest bub of all time (GBOAT).

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Preface

  Prologue

  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

  Afterword

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Preface

  You guys…

  There’s some graphic sex in this book.

  It’s a lady in the streets, freak in the sheets.

  I know it might be kind of shocking, given the beautifully illustrated cover, but that’s one of the great things about self-publishing—you don’t have to compromise on your vision!

  You can have a cute and pretty cover instead of a photo-realistic image of two people in a hot and heavy embrace.

  You can write about an intimate moment between two people’s lives, and not have to censor either character’s thoughts, or use euphemism where it doesn’t make sense to.

  You can write with "medium-good" style (forgive me, it’s my first time!), but still get a touching story out there.

  Yes, there is sex. There’s flirtatious foreplay and wordplay, and maybe some things that you won’t understand until you get older (put this book down, child!). But there’s a lot more than that, too.

  This book is about all of the gritty details in people’s lives that shape who they are, and the relationships that they share. But it’s also fun and frivolous in the way that romance novels often are, with characters who are a bit unrealistically attractive, and perhaps slightly over-primed for happy endings.

  It’s probably not going to win any literary awards, and that’s fine—I’m proud of it anyway. I could definitely spend more time cleaning it up and fixing some minor details, but for now, it’s good enough. I will get better at it with time.

  Besides, if I find a publisher in the future, it’ll be their problem to deal with. Ha!

  This book draws a lot from my own personal experience, but please don’t be fooled—it’s not about me, nor is it about you, nor any of my family members or friends. It’s a story that I completely made up in my head, after decades of reading and reading and reading.

  And feeling.

  And learning.

  And growing.

  This is my first book, and I’m so thrilled that you’ve picked it up.

  I hope you’re thrilled, too!

  A few additional notes:

  This book is written from the first-person perspective of each of the two main characters, Anna and Ian. I alternate between their chapters, so for narrative continuity, there are a few times when events that occur concurrently are addressed out of order (i.e., something that happened in a previous chapter is addressed later by the other character in their next chapter).

  There’s a decent amount of climbing in the book, especially in the second half. I tried to explain most of the terms, but if you aren’t a climber (yet), you might want to look online for a climbing terminology guide.

  There’s also a lot of music in the book. I wanted to give readers a closer connection to Anna’s character, so check out the Crushing on You companion playlist on Spotify. You can find it through my website (jentrinhwrites.com).

  Prologue

  -Anna-

  From the first few seconds of a song, I can usually tell if it’s going to be a groover or a hoover.

  Hoovers are simple. They suck. Three seconds in and I press the skip button.

  But groovers...no matter how fast or slow the song is, groovers make me want to dance. Need to dance. They put me under a spell, force my body to sway, and turn my head into a slow wobbling vase on the pedestal of my neck. My eyes drift closed and my body becomes one giant sound vessel, quivering with anticipation for the next note and the next. And when the song ends and I awaken from my trance, I’m a woman possessed, rabid with music, and I can’t rest until I’ve passed the feeling on to someone else.

  I need to infect you with my earworms.

  And that, my dear hosts, is why I blog about music and create playlists. Why it’s my dream to become a music journalist.

  So you can imagine how stupid psyched I was when I’d learned that a small music news site had actually read one of my pieces, and (holy shit!) that they even wanted to buy it. Or how incredibly rich I felt when that money actually hit the bank.

  I was $80 closer to realizing my dream.

  BOOYAH! Take that, parents! Suck it, step-dad! Anna Tang’s gonna make it on her own!

  To celebrate, my boyfriend Asher took me to a ritzy sushi restaurant in Williamsburg. We’d just demolished a huge seven course meal (with sake pairing!), featuring a delicate matsutake mushroom broth, a sweet and savory unagi omelet, and a rainbow of raw fish slices that melted like butter on our tongues. I barely had room for dessert, molten black honey mochi with roasted matcha ice cream...but of course I ate it. It was ice cream.

  All in all, it probably cost a fortune, way more than what I’d been paid for my piece, but we were cel
ebrating the significance of my accomplishment, not its fair market value. Besides, Asher came from money—he wouldn’t care.

  Tall and lean, with wavy chestnut hair and expressive brown eyes, he was cute and approachable, like the boy next door. He acted like a boy sometimes, too, like just then when he sat back in his chair and belched, long and loud. I wrinkled my nose.

  “Excuse me.” He lightly beat his chest and emitted a series of smaller burps. “Wow, I’m so full. Do you want the rest of my ice cream?”

  My eyes lit up at the sight of the large spoon of ice cream still on his dessert plate. The mind was willing, but the flesh...ah, screw it. Stomachs were elastic for a reason, and that reason was dessert. I ahhh-ed and he slipped the spoon into my mouth, business end first.

  “Bathroom, be right back.” He leaned down to kiss my temple before taking off towards the restroom.

  On his way there, he nodded at a handsome older Chinese woman who was walking towards me. Everything about her screamed well-off Asian mom: the dark blue wool cardigan and black silk pants, short permed hair, and of course, oversized designer handbag. My eyes nearly slid past her, but snagged when her eyes widened, openly staring at me as she walked by. I didn’t recognize her (thank goodness! Not family!), so I flashed her a polite smile before glancing around at the other patrons and licking the last of the ice cream off the spoon.

  The restaurant was cozy and stylish, softly illuminated with flickering candles and pale yellow lanterns, the live flames faintly reflecting off the dark wooden furniture and matching wall panels. A large, fully-stocked bar occupied nearly half of the restaurant, and was surrounded by a gaggle of women, all of whom were decked out in little black dresses and flashy penis jewelry. In their midst stood a very drunk and very loud bride-to-be, complete with sash and tiara.

  Behind me was the older Chinese woman’s family. I tried not to listen to their conversation, but it was hard to ignore them when Asher wasn’t there to distract me from their loud Mandarin. Besides, they were clearly talking about me.

  “That Chinese girl behind you is very pretty,” said the older woman. “She has a very good face.”

  “Shhh, Ma, what if she can understand you?” whispered her son.

  “Then let her. She knows she’s pretty, this isn’t news to her.” I smiled. Damn straight.

  “Ma, please. Just eat more sushi. Ba, you too.”

  “Eh, it’s too salty. I just want dessert,” said the father.

  “Ba, you shouldn’t eat so many sweets. You already had two donuts today. Too much sugar is bad for you.”

  The dad scoffed. “A little extra is okay sometimes.” I silently agreed with him and placed the sparkling clean ice cream spoon back down on Asher’s plate.

  The mom continued, “You should talk to her. She might make a good wife for you.” I quietly snickered. Whoever he was, there was no way I’d be good, or a wife, to him.

  “Ma! Stop that. Ba. Here, just eat...” Geez, especially when he was such a nag.

  Asher rematerialized and sat back down, grinning, his long legs bouncing up and down beneath the table. “So, did you enjoy the meal?”

  “Yeah, it was delicious. Thanks for bringing me here.” I gave him my 10/10 post-food smile.

  He pushed the empty plates aside and reached for my hand across the table, his legs still jackhammering underneath. “Anna...we’ve been together for three years now.”

  Oh shit. Mentions of romantic history or longevity always made my skin prickle. Those types of conversations usually didn’t end well. “Yeah, it’s been fun,” I said, my face and tone carefully neutral.

  “I...I’ve really enjoyed our time together, and I think we make a great couple. I mean, we both love music and dancing, both love having a good time. Whenever I look down from the stage and see you dancing there, I just...it always means a lot, to see how much you enjoy my music.” He smiled sweetly, though his hands were slick with sweat.

  I relaxed a little and smiled back. Music was my element. “It’s easy to enjoy! Your band’s music is fantastic.” His electronic music band, Spice Dust, was actually pretty good. I’d met Asher at one of their shows, where I’d been dancing in front of the stage, trying my damndest to seduce him. I’d succeeded, of course.

  He squeezed my hand and finally stopped bouncing his legs. “Anna, I’m really glad that I found you, and I hope...ah...”

  In one sudden motion, he stood up and got down on one knee in front of me, knocking over his chair and announcing the spectacle to the entire restaurant. He snapped open a blue velvet box to reveal a delicate, rose gold ring, twinkling with an assortment of little white diamonds. “Will you marry me?”

  I froze, hands outstretched but too late to stop him. Had I heard him correctly? There was no way that I had. I’d told him dozens of times throughout our time together that I didn’t want a family, didn’t like being dependent or depended on, that there was no point in my getting married. It was an antiquated practice, and it hadn’t worked out well for my mom nor anyone else in my family.

  Yet somehow, here we were.

  Dozens of pairs of eyes turned our way, and the restaurant fell quiet, awaiting my answer along with Asher. The only sounds were the bachelorette party loudly awwing and the older Chinese woman muttering, “He’s not even half as handsome as you.” Her son quietly shushed her again.

  With a tight little smile, I whispered, “Stop joking around and get up. People are looking at us.” Surely he was joking, right?

  But his crestfallen expression...oh no.

  “Anna...I’m serious.”

  Bile burned my throat, and I regretted every last bite of food from our meal. I tried to pull him up by his arms, but he wouldn’t budge. “Get up, Asher,” I whispered fiercely.

  His eyes hardened, but he calmly pressed on. “Answer the question.”

  I shook my head and blinked away the moisture in my eyes. “Don’t—I can’t—please just get up,” I begged.

  The disappointment...no, the devastation...on his face. I turned away, unable to stand it. Without another word, he snapped the box shut, stood up, and walked out of the restaurant.

  The girls in the bachelorette party all booed.

  Numb and cold, I stared down at my empty plate, trying to process what had just happened. Conversation resumed, slow and uneasy, as I put my head in my hands and tuned out everything but my thoughts.

  Why had he forced my hand that way? We’d been totally fine together as we were. We didn’t need to get married. He fucking knew how I felt about marriage, and yet...why? Did he think that I was just playing hard to get? That I didn’t know what I actually wanted? I’d told him, clear as day, that I was never going to get married. Yet somehow, after three years of dating, he hadn’t listened.

  And we lived together, so now...now I had to go home and face him, in private, assuming he’d gone straight home. Fuck.

  I stood up to go.

  Out of nowhere, the waitress appeared with the server book, her face carefully blank. “How was your dinner this evening?” she asked, placing the book on the table and beginning to clear away our plates.

  FUCK. Asher had said that dinner was his treat. He’d been the one to pick the place, and I certainly couldn’t afford it, not on my meager office admin salary. I grabbed the book and checked the bill. $267.43. That didn’t even include tip. My poor, abused, low-limit credit card would almost certainly get declined for that amount.

  “Ah...it was good.” I reached into my purse, made a show of rummaging around, then gave her my credit card anyway. “I’m going to the bathroom, be right back.” I needed to call Asher and tell him to get back here and pay.

  The waitress sniffed and frowned, likely discerning hints of cheap nylon dress with afternotes of thrift store heels from my person. She took my card between her forefinger and thumb as if it were contaminated, then dropped it into the server book. I wasn’t fooling anybody.

  As she walked away, I escaped in the other direction, towards
the bathroom. I hurried into an empty stall and nearly dropped my phone into the toilet in my rush to call Asher. Breathe. The phone rang and rang, but he didn’t pick up. I tried twice more, until my call went straight to voicemail.

  What to do what to do what to do?

  I rubbed my temples, the beginnings of a massive headache brewing. Had he deliberately saddled me with the bill? To demonstrate how dependent I was on him? I snarled. How fucking dare he?

  I sat down on the toilet and held my head, pulling on the roots of my hair, willing myself to just breathe, keep breathing, keep breathing...until several minutes later, when my head was finally clear.

  Well. It was simple. I just had to explain to the waitress what the situation was. Maybe she’d hold on to my phone or ID as collateral while I looked for Asher. I had no family, and my only New York friends were his friends, all of whom were casual music show buddies, at best. It had to be Asher.

  But what would happen when I found him? Would he even care anymore? Was it over between us? And beyond being romantic partners, he was my best friend in New York. He wouldn’t just throw that away, would he?

  If our tumultuous history were any indication, he would still care, and I’d figure out some way to manage things between us. I always did, because I had to.

  But a rejected proposal seemed like a much bigger issue than late rent or accidental flirting, and there was no way that I was budging on this. I was not getting married.

  Breathe. We’d find a solution, somehow.

  I smoothed my hair and my dress, unlocked the bathroom stall, and walked out, back towards the table. I repeated my carefully crafted excuses over and over to myself, preparing to face that snob-goblin waitress. But the words evaporated when I saw that the table was clean and empty, with nothing other than the red rectangle of my credit card in the center. There was no shameful credit card slip with DECLINED printed at the top waiting for me.