Undeniable (Always Book 3) Read online

  Undeniable

  Always, Book Three

  Lexxie Couper

  Contents

  Blurb

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Thank you for reading

  More Romance From Lexxie Couper…

  First Chapter Preview: Unconditional

  About Lexxie Couper

  It was all background noise, until he made her stop and listen

  Chase is tough, snarky, witty and fiercely loyal to her family. She is also hearing impaired, which makes the world around her sound like white noise a lot of the time. But that’s okay, she can deal. It’s not like she’s actually deaf, and she’s learned to lip read…when it suits her.

  What she can’t deal with is guys like Caden, who think their looks and charm will win her over. They won’t because Chase has zero interest in pursuing a relationship with someone who’s leaving the country soon. What would be the point?

  Well, there is the fun they have together. The way Caden shows he cares about things greater than himself, like abandoned dogs. There’s his smile, his eyes and his wicked sense of humour.

  In fact, if Chase ever admitted it to herself, she might say Caden is just about perfect.

  But how could a perfect guy possibly ever want someone who isn’t?

  Undeniable

  Copyright © 2015 by Lexxie Couper

  Published October 2019

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced nor used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used facetiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Subscribe to Lexxie’s newsletter The Lexxicon for up-to-date news and information.

  Dedication

  For Caitlin, the inspiration for Chase and one of the loveliest young people I’ve had the honor to know. And Sophie, her big sister, who loves Caitlin for everything she is.

  One

  “Lots of people talk to animals. Not very many listen though. That’s the problem.”

  ~ Benjamin Hoff

  Chase

  Caden O’Dae could bite me.

  Not literally of course. The proximity of the annoying Australian’s mouth to any area of my body was an essential part of the problem I faced.

  No, he could bite me because, no matter how hard he tried, I refused to fall for him. It was not happening. Didn’t matter how cute he was, with his blue eyes, sexy Aussie accent, ridiculously endearing passionate need to care for wounded animals, beard that made me want to . . .

  Wait. What? Where was I going with this?

  Ah, that’s right. Me not falling for Caden or his shtick.

  For one, I didn’t do the romance thing any more. I’d learned my lesson last year and frankly, it was a lesson learned well.

  For another, I’m defective, and defective people like me don’t make for good “romantic” entanglements, no matter what the movies tell you (learned in part from that lesson I already mentioned).

  So, yeah, there we go. Didn’t matter what Caden O’Dae did, me and him were not going to happening.

  Once you’ve had your heart ripped out and stomped on, once you’ve had your defect thrown in your face as the reason for the decimation of your heart and any Happy Ever After you’d planned, you know it’s just better to be that girl. You know the one? The prickly, stand-offish, sarcastic girl who never dates and spends her time scoffing at the ridiculousness of the world. I’m that girl, with the added bonus of being defective.

  The thing is, I’m okay with the defective bit. I was born that way.

  I overheard my father call me that when I was twelve. I’m using the term heard in an ironic way, of course, given the reason I’m faulty. I have profound sensorineural hearing loss in my left ear and moderate conductive hearing loss in the other. Or to put it more simply, I’m completely deaf in one ear and can hardly hear with the other. The “officially” recognized term is Hard of Hearing.

  I was born with the profoundly deaf ear, thanks to a serious case of being premature and Mom being rushed into an emergency C-section that almost went horribly wrong. The almost-but-not-quite-working ear came about thanks to some nasty, nasty reoccurring ear infections as a result of being premature. Essentially, my pressing need to get into this world earlier than planned kind of fucked me over somewhat. Go figure.

  Sometimes I wear a hearing aid in the ear that almost works, but it irritates the hell out of me, and frankly, the second people see it pity fills their eyes. Have you ever been looked at with pity? Yeah. Not fun.

  My hearing, or lack thereof, also means I tend to tilt my head a little to the left when people talk, so that I can pick up their voices, even as I watch their lips move. I also get annoyed when people don’t look directly at me when they’re speaking, which – what with the hypnotizing power of cells phones and the seeming inability of the average person to exist for more than five seconds without looking at one – happens more often than you realize. We really are, as a species, becoming enslaved by the ubiquitous devices.

  I’m amazing at reading lips. Amazing. I can also sign, and do so whenever I want to swear or tell my sister something I’d rather not share with the world when we’re with company, but I don’t rely on it for communication. Because the moment someone realizes you’re deaf, they treat you differently.

  That sucks.

  It’s never stopped me or slowed me down, my defect. It’s never really bothered me. Sure, going to the movies is a pain (it’s just too damn loud for me, which is also ironic when you think about it), and getting treated like I’m sub-human and intellectually deficient, or fragile and helpless, has a way of bringing out the bitch in me if I’m not careful, but it’s never stopped me from living the life I want to.

  Most times, I should point out, I’m not careful. That helps deal with the people who treat me like I’m less than them. Keeps them at arm’s length. Keeps them wondering. Keeps them on guard. When people are on guard enough they tend to eventually move away from you.

  I’m good with that.

  Essentially, I don’t do people. I don’t do relationships. I definitely don’t do romance. Not any more. There’s nothing romantic about someone whispering sweet nothings in your ear when you can’t hear them. They get antsy when you don’t whisper something back. (I’m not good with whispering. Unfortunately, it’s a volume thing I’ve never gotten the hang of.)

  The few times I tried to do romance when I was a teenager ended with the intended recipient of my affections giving up and finding themselves a date with someone who didn’t have to wear a hearing aid in one ear; who didn’t ask them to repeat themselves when they whispered said sweet nothings in said ear. Who didn’t get irritated in crowds and parties, and snarky with people trying to communicate with her when she couldn’t decipher what they were saying.

  The one time I got really serious about romance, the only time I sincerely believed the person I was with loved me for everyt
hing I was, including the faulty hearing, ended up with me sobbing ugly tears in my closet and dropping out of college.

  Apparently, dating me is hard and, according to Professor Douchebag, an inconvenience. Have you ever been told you’re an inconvenience, not just by a stranger who doesn’t like how long you’re taking to order your coffee at Starbucks, but by someone who you’ve given your heart to? Have you been told an integral part of what makes you you is an inconvenience? It freaking rips your emotions to shreds and makes you feel like shit. As a result, I stopped dating.

  No dating. No falling in love. No decimated heart. It was a win-win for everyone concerned, right? I just needed Caden O’Dae to get with the program and stop being so . . . so . . .

  Damn it.

  Why had I agreed to pick him up from the airport again? I knew what he was going to do – see me through the crowd, grin, wave, weave his way toward me with an emotion in his eyes I didn’t want to acknowledge, even as my tummy tightened at the sight of it.

  Every time I’d collected him from LAX to date, my tummy told me my body liked the way he looked, and the way he looked at me. Every time I told my tummy to tell my body to get a grip. Every time, my body refused to comply.

  Stupid body. Hadn’t it learned its lesson with Professor Douchebag? Apparently, I was as defective in the head as I was in the ears.

  I didn’t need an annoying Australian making my life complicated with his sexy accent and smiling eyes and relaxed laugh that vibrated through me regardless of how little I could actually hear it. I didn’t. I didn’t need anyone. Not in that way.

  I had my family, who I love beyond words. My mom (she of the witty sarcasm and addiction to running marathons) and dad (he of the over-protective coddle-swaddling and zero tact), my big sister Amanda (The best sister ever, even if she does like Coldplay) and her husband Brendon (The Wonder from Down Under, with a heart as big as his biceps, which is saying something), and my nephew Tanner.

  Tanner is my world. A fighter to the nth degree, at the age of three Tanner has already fought and beaten leukemia, learned to say g’day like the half-Aussie he is, and spent more time in hospital and tolerating doctors and needles than any adult should, let alone a child.

  But apart from those people, and a friend or two here and there, I don’t do human interaction. It’s easier. Less frustrating. Less exasperating.

  Less . . . painful.

  Caden, however, has refused to read my fuck-off-and-leave-me-alone vibes.

  Didn’t matter how many times I ignored him, or rolled my eyes at him or swore at him (signing, of course – I figured if I sign at him enough he’ll do what everyone who’s not my immediate family do when I’m signing and get all uncomfortable and weird and just go away), he seemed hell-bent on not taking the hint.

  Didn’t matter that the one time we almost kissed, I damn near sprinted from the room and pretended I was asleep in Tanner’s bed. Seriously, the guy can’t take a hint.

  If it wasn’t for the fact he’s so freaking smart, I’d think he was stupid. He’s definitely not stupid. Stubborn, yes. Obstinate, yes. But stupid? No. You can’t be top of your class at college and be stupid.

  Caden O’Dae is far from stupid. Caden is . . .

  Jesus, why am I talking about him so much? I don’t want to talk about him. I’ve said my piece. I was not – repeat not – falling for him, no matter what he did.

  I’m not talking about him any more.

  For now, let’s concentrate on me. (Hey, what twenty-two year old doesn’t want to do that, right?)

  I’m a college dropout, something my university-professor father is horrified about. By the way, Professor Douchebag is not my dad, I should make that clear. Professor Douchebag is the reason I’m a college dropout, but no one apart from he and I know that.

  Of course, Dad thought I’d dropped out to irritate him and I happily let him go with that.

  Don’t get me wrong, I love my father. I really do. He’s just . . . a perfect example of academic pretentiousness wrapped up in over-protective righteousness with a safety-harness of elitism attached for good measure.

  So I’m a college dropout who’s deaf in one ear, partially deaf in the other, who drives a metallic purple Volvo station wagon with a neon green Chinese luck dragon painted along each side. My hair changes color regularly (it’s currently an awesome aqua-blue) and until last week I wore it in dreadlocks. Now it’s short. Short and aqua-blue.

  I’ve got a tattoo of Buddha eating pizza just above my right butt cheek, but don’t tell Dad. I’m pretty certain I’d get kicked out of the house if he knew.

  Currently, I’m working in a pet store that specializes in exotic animals, which isn’t anywhere near as exciting as it sounds. No matter what part of the world the animals come from, their poop still smells the same. Cleaning out the terrarium of an Australian bearded dragon is no different from cleaning out a terrarium of your common, garden variety Green Anole lizard, and no matter what the movies tell you, macaws from Rio are not anal-retentive germophobes, but rather big-ass birds who drop their shit wherever they happen to be perched. Oh, and they don’t sound like Jesse Eisenberg.

  Despite all that, I genuinely enjoy working there. My boss is more anti-social than I am (who knew that was even possible?), leaves me alone most of the time (win!) and the customers on the whole know what they want.

  I’ve only ever had to put my bitch hat on twice since working there, once to stop a stupid parent buying her child a snake, a gift that would have inevitably resulted in the child, or the mother, in the morgue.

  The second time I had to convince a father that the Sydney Funnel Web he’d illegally smuggled in from Australia did not make a “cool” present for his son’s graduation from elementary school.

  Safety tip for future reference: Sydney Funnel Web spiders are the most deadly, venomous, dangerous spider on the planet. They are not like tarantulas. They are not suitable for young children as pets. Yes, they look cool, all shiny and black and hairy, but they can kill you. In fifteen minutes. Like most things from Down Under, America is not physically, medically, psychologically or emotionally prepared for them.

  The same warning goes for that country’s Taipan snake, Eastern Brown snake, Red-bellied Black snake, and Caden O’Dae.

  Shit. I didn’t mean to say that.

  Back on track.

  More about me (that’s what you’re here for, right?) . . .

  So, college dropout with unconventional hair, awesomely talented artist doing little but doodling nowadays, second daughter to parents with parenting issues, totally dedicated and fabulous aunt, proud Volvo owner (FYI, I call my car the Speeding Dragon) and exotic pet shop worker. I’m a card-carrying geek who would run away with Loki at the drop of a hat. (Google him if you don’t know who I’m talking about. Tom Hiddleston . . . sigh) I still live at home (yeah, that one needs some attention), love movies but really don’t like going to the movies, generally want very little to do with most people, and have zero plans of ever being in a relationship that requires any kisses except the Hershey kind.

  You still with me? You haven’t decided to dump me yet?

  Okay, that’s good.

  So Caden O’Dae, Brendon’s cousin, comes back and forth to San Diego as often as his studies will allow. Usually those visits are only short trips. I can deal with that. But this next trip he’s staying for three weeks.

  Three weeks. How am I meant to deal with him being around for three weeks?

  He was planning to spend those three weeks with Amanda and Brendon, true, but I doubt I could avoid him for the entire time. I also knew he was going to be bringing all manner of gifts for everyone, and try as hard as I might, standing in the Arrivals section of LAX waiting for him, I couldn’t help but wonder what he was bringing me.

  The first time he came back, after Tanner’s successful bone marrow transplant, he’d presented me with a bright purple and green sock puppet dragon. He’d made it himself. He does this weird thing where h
e makes sock puppets. I will never tell him this because then he might get the stupid opinion I actually like him, but they are adorable. If his intended career as a veterinarian fails he could make a living selling sock puppets on Etsy. Not a good living, I’m sure. Not compared to what he could make as Dr. Caden O’Dae, Animal Doctor, but a living all the same.

  The last time he visited, he gave me a Thor sock puppet. Except Thor wasn’t wielding his mighty hammer, but a can of Foster’s beer. And he was wearing board shorts covered in flowers.

  “Cause he’s actually Australian,” he’d said as I stared at the puppet in my hand. “Not Asgardin.”

  That was one of those moments where, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t help but laugh. Our eyes had met for a moment. My tummy did one of those unsettling tightening things. Thank God he said something low enough that I couldn’t quite make it out, something that was probably lovely and sweet, because it gave me a reason to get grumpy and stomp off.

  (By the way, I’m sure most people think I’m a brat. Given how anti-social I am, I’m fine with that. I am guilty, however, of sometimes behaving less than exemplary to cover the fact I’m feeling awkward. I’m not a fan of feeling awkward. Who is?)

  I didn’t see him for the rest of the time he was here.

  I didn’t take him back to LAX, which was my normal routine. Instead I sat at home, glaring at the clock in my room when his plane was due for takeoff.

  My phone pinged at me once five minutes after, but when I grabbed it out of my bag, my heart beating faster than it should, I discovered it was a text from Professor Douchebag.