The Promises We Keep (Made for Love Book 1)

Copyright
©
2015 R.C. Martin. All Rights Reserved.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and other elements portrayed herein are either the product of the author
’
s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real persons or events is coincidental. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Cover Design by Cassy Roop at Pink Ink Designs
©
2015

Formatting by Brenda Wright at Formatting Done Wright

To my brother, Jonathan
—
the Hustle Junkie who always reminds me to never give up.

And to everyone who longs for that forever kind of love.

Table of Contents

Dedication

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

Chapter 40

Epilogue

Sneak Peek – Reckless Surrender

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Contact R.C. Martin

I wake to a screeching noise coming from the other side of my bedroom wall.
“
Ugh. Seriously?
”
I whine as I listen to the barely recognizable melody Sarah is singing in the shower. It
’
s too early to endure such torture.

I love that girl, I do, but she
cannot
sing. She
’
s been my best friend for the last three years and my roommate for the past two. She
’
s got so many things going for her, but the sound of her voice is almost worse than the beeping of my alarm clock, which isn
’
t even set to go off for another ten minutes. I
’
m half tempted to bang on the wall and signal my insistence that she stop
—
but I
’
m already up. What
’
s the point, now, really? She
’
s obviously in a good mood and I don
’
t want to ruin it.

Maybe if I join her, I
’
ll drown her out. At least in my own head, anyway.

I
’
m half singing, half humming as I make my way out of my room. We live in a three bedroom apartment just a couple blocks away from the CSU campus with my other half. Sarah and my rooms straddle the bathroom and Avery
’
s room is kitty-corner to mine. Lucky for her, she has a bit of a buffer from the sounds coming from the shower. Not that it would matter
—
Avery can sleep through just about anything.

I
’
m on my way to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee when I notice Avery
’
s long, dark hair draped over the arm of the couch. I peek over and see her stretched out, asleep under a pile of sheet music and a notebook. She
’
s still in a pair of running shorts and a t-shirt, cluing me into the fact that she didn
’
t even get around to changing into her pajamas. I smile, amused that she is currently the perfect portrayal of how we spent our Friday night. It most certainly wasn
’
t the most glamorous evening we
’
ve ever had, but finals week is only a week away and we
’
ve all been hitting the books aggressively the past few days.

Today, to break the monotony of our frantic studying, Sarah has volunteered to make us breakfast
—
us
being Avery, myself, and our favorite neighbors, who reside in the apartment just below us. Sarah is fantastic in the kitchen. She
’
s the master of anything and everything sweet. This morning, we
’
ve been promised pancakes. My mouth is watering just thinking about them.

Sure that Avery will most definitely
not
want to be discovered in her current state when our company arrives, I decide to wake her. I make my way around the front of the couch and give her a little shake. I notice, with my hand against her arm, that her skin has turned a shade darker than mine
—
evidence that she
’
s resumed her outdoor runs. I
’
m not a runner. I prefer yoga
—
away from the elements, in a quiet space, on a cushy mat. Needless to say, my tan will probably not be catching up to hers any time soon. Not that I
’
m complaining, it
’
ll give people something else to help tell us apart.

Avery and I are identical, all the way down to the mole at the base of our necks. We
’
ve never really made it easy for people to tell us apart. Once you get to know us, I
’
m sure it
’
s no sweat, but if you don
’
t spend a lot of time with us
—
good luck
. Aside from our physical appearance, our style is also very similar. We
’
re in each other
’
s closets all the time. Even our initials, A.J.G, are the same. The dead give away
—
in our opinion
—
is our hair. She keeps her long black hair cut halfway down her back; mine stops just past my shoulders.

“
Avery,
”
I say with another gentle shake.
“
AJ, wake up.
”