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Here is a short sample from the book:
“Put the damn phone down, Grady, and get back to work,” my dad grumbled at me from under the boat. How the hell can he see what I’m doing? Maybe because I’ve been staring at my phone for the last three days, willing it to ring or beep with a text or e-mail.
Three days. Three fucking days! Since I met Lindsay in June, we haven’t gone more than three hours without communicating in some way, let alone three days. Something is not right. I was about to jump on my bike and drive across the state and show up on her front porch, or front door, or whatever the hell you call the outside of a penthouse in Manhattan. Then my phone beeped.
Stepping into my dad’s office for privacy, I dragged my thumb across the screen and smiled like an idiot when I saw an e-mail from Lindsay. Then I read the e-mail.
We are over. Please stop calling me.
I swear my heart stopped beating for at least a minute. It’s a fucking miracle I didn’t drop dead right there. It would have saved a lot of damage and a hell of a lot of pain.
My phone was the first thing to go, crushed beneath the heel of my boot. Next went the desk and everything on it, upended with a roar of rage I barely recognized as coming from me. My dad and Josh rushed in at that point, but they weren’t able to keep me from repeatedly slamming my fist into the wall, destroying the drywall and ripping my knuckles apart. I barely registered the pain above the blood rushing in my ears and the tightness in my chest.