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The Rest of Forever
by Kate Aaron
Ratings:
57 pages55 minutes
Summary
Written for the Goodreads M/M Romance Group's "Love is Always Write" event.
When they were eighteen years old, Paul told his best friend that he was in love with him. Scared and stupid, Jack ran away. Seven years later, haunted by what he lost, Jack returns to claim the man who'd been his since they were four years old. But has he left it too late?
WARNING. This book contains explicit scenes unsuitable for readers under eighteen. It also contains buckets of angst, crying in the rain, a jealous boyfriend and a very lonely bear.
Publisher: Croft HouseReleased: Jun 9, 2012ISBN: 9781476219622Format: book
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The Rest of Forever - Kate Aaron
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Index
The Rest of Forever
About the Author
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About the Author
Born in Liverpool, Kate Aaron is a bestselling author of the #1 LGBT romances What He Wants, Ace, The Slave, and other works.
Kate swapped the North West for the Midwest in October 2015 and married award-winning author AJ Rose. Together they plan to take over the world.
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About this Story
The Rest of Forever was written for the Love is Always Write event, sponsored by the Goodreads M/M Romance Group. For more on the group and the event, visit their Goodreads page
http://www.goodreads.com/group/show/20149-m-m-romance
For Cheri
THE REST OF FOREVER
Kate Aaron
Copyright 2012 Kate Aaron
Croft House
Eight o’clock Sunday morning in the middle of February and I’m jogging around my local park. I hate Sunday mornings, and I hate jogging. So why am I here? Because he is: Paul Adams, my best-friend-forever, the guy I’m totally, heartbreakingly, nauseatingly in love with.
I know, I know, I’m a total cliché. What gay guy doesn’t grow up and fall in love with his best friend, right? I’ve read enough sappy romances in my time to know I’m not alone. There should be a support group or something. And in all those stories the supposedly straight (they’re always straight) best friend suddenly wakes up and realises he feels the same. Cue sunset.
Except my best friend isn’t straight. And, once upon a time, he did feel the same.
Not so sympathetic now, are you?
I was named Jackson by my mother in a fit of Gaelic traditionalism, that being her maiden name and her being an only child. I guess she didn’t want the line to die completely, and at least my dad stuck around long enough to bestow us with his name—Campbell—saving me from the ignominy of being christened Jackson Jackson. You’d think with ancestry like that I’d be all peaches ’n’ cream with a shock of curly red hair, but I’m not. Coal black, my hair is, like soot. So black it shines blue in the light and everyone thinks I must have dyed it. Guys fall over themselves to tell me they love it—black hair, blue eyes, skin pale as marble. Like a Disney prince, they say. They think I’m lucky: I’m not. I live in fear of going grey—at twenty-five, a possibility that gets more likely by the day—because I know when I do I’ll look like a fucking badger, and then I’ll have to dye it.
I quite like my eyes though, blue-green like the sea on a hot summer day. I just wish my lashes weren’t so damn long, like a girl’s, so thick you’d swear I was wearing mascara and kohl. To compensate I keep my stubble rough, not so long I look like one of the
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