It Could Only Be Tyler : A Sweet YA Romance (Beachbreak High Book 2)

  It Could Only Be Tyler

  Beachbreak High #2

  Emily Lowry

  Cover Photography by

  Filip Nadaski via Canva Pro

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  Contents

  1. Nina

  2. Tyler

  3. Tyler

  4. Nina

  5. Nina

  6. Tyler

  7. Nina

  8. Tyler

  9. Nina

  10. Tyler

  11. Tyler

  12. Nina

  13. Tyler

  14. Nina

  15. Tyler

  16. Nina

  17. Nina

  18. Nina

  19. Tyler

  20. Nina

  21. Nina

  22. Nina

  23. Tyler

  24. Nina

  25. Tyler

  26. Nina

  27. Nina

  28. Nina

  29. Tyler

  30. Nina

  31. Tyler

  32. Nina

  33. Nina

  34. Nina

  35. Tyler

  36. Nina

  37. Tyler

  38. Nina

  39. Nina

  40. Tyler

  41. Nina

  42. Tyler

  43. Nina

  44. Tyler

  45. Tyler

  46. Nina

  47. Tyler

  48. Nina

  49. Nina

  WANT MORE BEACHBREAK HIGH?

  The Christmas Crush: Chapter One

  PLEASE LEAVE A REVIEW

  Also by Emily Lowry

  1

  Nina

  I stood at the edge of the beach, alone, watching the gray surf crash over the sand and rush towards my sneakers before it returned to the ocean. I shivered against the breeze coming off the water. My fingers moved, and I imagined playing my trumpet, the song carrying over the water, maybe reaching someone on a distant shore. And maybe, like some Greek legend, that someone would sail across the ocean for me.

  Or, more likely, people would stare at the lonely girl playing her trumpet at the beach and wonder what on earth was wrong with her.

  “Nina. Come back. I think they’re opening soon.” Mom’s voice echoed across the sand.

  I gave the ocean a last, reluctant look, then retreated from its edge.

  My mom loved Christmas. And not just a normal amount. I mean, my mom REALLY loved Christmas.

  How much? She nearly made us camp out in front of a Christmas-themed pop-up store on Highline Beach. Like literally. She wanted to set up a tent so we could be first in line. She didn’t change her mind until I pointed out that if we set up a tent where she wanted, the tide would sweep us away. Though, when I pointed this out, she also insisted I was just being difficult.

  I didn’t think “not wanting to drown” counted as being difficult.

  Fortunately, she relented, and we settled for arriving two hours before the store opened. Yes, we were there even before some employees. And yes, they gave us the strange look reserved for crazy people who lined up days in advance for Black Friday events.

  And it wasn’t even Black Friday yet.

  “They’ve got some good stuff in there, Neen,” my mom said, standing on her tiptoes to peer through a plastic window. “You can’t find decorations like that online.”

  I shimmied beside her.

  The store was made of candy cane striped canvas with thin, plastic patches that served as windows. The interior was an oil painting of everything Christmas — handmade wooden nutcrackers, beautiful green and red wreaths, and strings of Christmas lights with different shapes. Snowmen, snowflakes, reindeer. The canvas smelled vaguely of pine, like it was stored in a forest all year long.

  As much as I hated to admit it, Mom was right — you couldn’t find decorations like that on the internet. And, because of her overzealous nature, we were indeed the first people in line. In fact, so far we were the only people in line, because only my mother would get up at 6am in early November to line up for a Christmas pop-up store.

  “Do you want me to run and grab us some breakfast?” I asked.

  “Here,” Mom said, pulling a package of Pop-Tarts out of her purse and shoving them into my hand. “Part of a complete breakfast.”

  “Not the healthy part,” I grumbled. But I tore open the foil and ate the Pop-Tarts anyway. Strawberry, my favorite.

  Mom gave me a strange look as I nibbled my way around the edges. “You’re like a squirrel.”

  “I resent that,” I said. Okay, maybe she had a point. When I ate pop tarts, I didn’t bite into them like — oh, you know — a normal person. Instead, I nibbled around the outside, chewing off the crust that didn’t have any icing on it. Then, I peeled back the layers of icing, eating those first. Which, with hindsight, was awfully like a squirrel would eat. Finally, when I was left with nothing but a pastry and a bit of filling, I started eating like a normal person.

  My mom squealed. “I think they’re opening!”

  She grabbed my wrist and dragged me around the front of the Christmas tent, put on her best smile, and waited for the employee — dressed like a Christmas elf, of course — to tie back the flap.

  The employee, a girl about my age, had dark circles under her eyes and coffee breath. She looked at us with all the enthusiasm of a retail worker who had seen six too many Christmases. “Welcome to—”

  Mom squealed again, yanked me by the arm, and bowled the poor employee out of the way as she charged into the Christmas shop.

  I mouthed an apology.

  My mom’s enthusiasm for Christmas was legendary. Get in her way, on purpose or by accident, and you got hurt. It wasn’t like she intentionally hurt people. She was more like a puppy — full of boundless energy and uncontrolled chaos. She didn’t mean to knock over employees or swat you with a pine branch, it just sort of happened.

  It was how I got the small scar on my shoulder: The infamous pine branch incident of 2012. Which we didn’t dare mention. Ever.

  Inside the shop was a beautiful winter wonderland. The smell of pine mingled with the scent of peppermint from candy cane striped candles. White lights hung from the canvas, and there was even a fake fireplace at one end. Instrumental versions of Christmas carols played over the speakers.

  I stood next to Mom and examined a row of wreaths.

  She was picking them over, trying to determine which one would perfectly encapsulate Christmas for the Martinez family this year. She was so focused on examining the wreaths that I could clearly see something else was on her mind.

  And I was pretty sure I knew what it was. An uncomfortable sensation pricked my stomach that had nothing to do with the two Pop-Tarts I’d eaten.

  “I’ve been thinking about the Christmas Eve party,” Mom said. She looked at a wreath that had two golden bells at the top and gave them a quick flick from her finger. She winced at the sound. “You’ve probably been thinking about the party a lot,
too.”

  As far as my mom was concerned, her annual Christmas Eve party was the glittering highlight of the year. And the highlight of the party itself? The aptly named “Mayhem Under the Mistletoe.” In this photo, all the partygoers stood under a row of mistletoes and kissed their partners.

  The entire family, that was, except for me.

  Because I didn’t have a partner.

  Because I never had a partner.

  So, imagine everyone you know getting together, locking lips with their partners to pose for this photo, and you’re standing in the middle with a stupid smile plastered on your face. The only person without a partner. Instead, you’re holding your cat, an orange tabby who also doesn’t want to be in the picture.

  Yes, it’s exactly as awkward as it sounds.

  Mom picked out a second wreath. This one was made mostly out of holly. “I think I might have found a date for you.”

  “I don’t need a date,” I said quickly.

  “Don’t be ridiculous — every girl wants a date.”

  I didn’t bother to correct her. I hadn’t said that I didn’t want a date; I said that I didn’t need a date. Two different things. After seeing how happy my best friend Zoe and her new boyfriend Mason were together, I definitely wanted that for myself. I wanted a date.

  But there was no way I trusted my mom’s taste.

  After all — she married Dad of all people. Kidding, of course. My dad was pretty great.

  “I’m fine being single,” I said.

  Mom raised her eyebrows. “Is that why you’ve started playing love songs on your trumpet? Because you’re completely fine with being single?”

  Busted. I moved onto the next wreath. It was an ugly, garish thing, with bright red berries, silver tinsel, and gigantic pinecones with golden edges.

  “Why do I need a date?” I asked.

  “Because you’re getting older.”

  “I’m sixteen — not exactly an old maid.”

  “Sixteen and spending a lot of time with your cat.”

  “I’ll have you know that Oscar and I have a very healthy pet-guardian relationship.”

  Mom rolled her eyes. “You put sweaters on him.”

  “He likes them,” I snapped. “Besides — you’re always trying to get me an ugly Christmas sweater. Why can’t Oscar have one?”

  “We’re getting off track,” Mom said. She fiddled with the next wreath. This one was gold and silver. She shook her head — it just would not do. “You’re sixteen. You should be out there, having fun, kissing boys.”

  The employee — the disgruntled elf — eyed us suspiciously.

  My cheeks burned. That was what you wanted — for an elf in need of more caffeine to carry news of your loneliness back to Santa. Maybe Santa would bring me a boyfriend. Put a bow on his head and leave him under the Christmas tree. If he didn’t, my mom might.

  “I’m out there,” I said. “I do things.”

  “I’m just trying to help,” Mom said. “I’ve invited Edward Stewart to the Christmas Eve party. He can be your date for the evening. Maybe even your mistletoe kiss.”

  My stomach churned again.

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “And what’s wrong with Edward Stewart? He comes from a perfectly good family. The Stewarts are good friends of ours, you know.”

  “He’s pretentious.”

  “Nina—“

  “He’s pompous.”

  “Neen—”

  “And he has that mole on the end of his nose. The one with the hair that grows out of it. Like a witch.”

  “He trims it,” Mom said, exasperated. “And you don’t have to like him — you just have to spend some time with him. And maybe just give him a quick peck. You probably won’t even feel the mole hair.”

  I mimed gagging.

  Mom shook her head. “You don’t need to be difficult about this. Sometimes…”

  I narrowed my eyes. “Sometimes what?”

  “Nothing.”

  “What?”

  Mom sighed. “Sometimes you act like you’re the belle of the ball. It’s like you think you’re going to just get lucky and end up dating, I don’t know, some famous rapper named Diego.”

  I snorted. Where did that come from?

  “I just want Christmas to be perfect this year,” Mom said. “And as much as we all love Oscar, he shouldn’t be your mistletoe kiss.”

  “Neither should Edward Stewart,” I said. “Couldn’t you find anyone better?”

  “I asked around, but he was the only boy interested.”

  Wait, what?

  I grabbed my mom’s wrist. “You asked around? Who?”

  “Don’t be dramatic,” Mom said. “Just some family friends. And then some of their friends. And then some of their friends’ friends. It’s harder to set you up with someone than you think.”

  I let go of my mom’s wrist and rubbed my eyes.

  Great. She’d asked around, and apparently the pompous jerk that was Edward Stewart was the best I could do.

  How humiliating.

  2

  Tyler

  Parker was the judge, jury, and executioner. She sat on a throne of driftwood, her minions surrounding her. Her chief minion, Blair, sat on a log beside her, carrying an oversized purse that held all of Parker’s accessories. She dug inside her purse, found a mirror, and passed it to Parker.

  Parker flipped open the mirror and examined her reflection. She frowned, fiddled with her eyelashes, then snapped the mirror closed. “You understand why you’re here?”

  I did. The evening of our homecoming dance, I was supposed to be Parker’s date. But I made a grave mistake. An unforgivable sin for which I could not atone.

  I was late.

  And even if I had a good reason — which I did — I was going to be punished for it.

  I didn’t bother responding. I’d only been dating Parker — and I used that term loosely — for about a month. Maybe a month and a half. But in that time, I’d learned that ninety percent of her questions were rhetorical.

  I stared out at the ocean. It was a dreary November day — the sky was gray, the water was gray, and even the seagulls were miserable.

  “You could at least look at me,” Parker sniffed.

  So I did.

  Parker was beautiful, in a two-dimensional way. She was tall and slender, with long copper hair and pearly white teeth. Her skin was smooth as a porcelain doll, the antique kind with the dead eyes, and a matching personality. She was so pretty she belonged in a display case. One that had caution tape wrapped around it. Warning: Contents may be Haunted.

  She gave me her most patronizing smile. “Let’s review the night of homecoming, shall we?”

  I smiled back, matching her tone. “Let’s.”

  “You were under strict instructions to pick me up at 7pm. No earlier, no later. But at 7:30, when I asked Blair to look out the window, were you there?”

  Another rhetorical question.

  Parker looked to Blair. “Was he there?”

  “He was late,” Blair sneered. “He didn’t get there till eight.”

  “Which was fifteen minutes before you were ready,” I pointed out.

  Blair gasped. Parker looked like someone had thrown cold water on her.

  The thing with Parker was that no one ever called her out. She thought it was because she never made mistakes. But I knew after spending some time with her that it was because, if you called her out, she would make your life miserable.

  Well. She could bring it on. I wasn’t just going to stand here while she tore a strip off me. I’d had enough of her hypocrisy.

  “What did you just say, Tyler?” Parker asked. “You’re good looking — and you’re on the football team — so I’ll give you a chance to correct yourself.”

  I laughed. “Dude, this isn’t gonna go how you think it’s gonna go.”

  “Um, did you just call her dude?” Blair twitched.

  I pretended to scratch my cheek, but really,
I was trying to hide the smirk on my face. This entire scene — the driftwood throne, the minions, the dreary weather — it was like Parker thought she was royalty. Like she could demand that I put my neck in the guillotine for her to lop off. But it was all so absurd. So stupid.

  Parker glared. “You were late for homecoming.”

  “So were you,” I said evenly. “But at least I had a good excuse.”

  Blair scoffed.

  I ignored her.

  “And what excuse is that?” Parker asked.

  I sighed. We’d been through this before. Several, several times. The day of homecoming, I’d gone with Mason to help him prepare a surprise for my sister Zoe. They’d fallen for each other, and he wanted to make things official. He had lots of ideas for a spectacular surprise, but without my help, he said he wouldn’t be able to pull it off.

  So I did what any good friend — any good brother — would do. I told Parker I’d be a bit late, then I went to help Mason prepare his surprise.

  In Parker’s world, that was unacceptable. She wanted to be my first priority. She wanted to be everybody’s first priority.

  And I had had enough of it.

  I shifted in the sand. No one liked being dumped. Especially not someone like Parker. I thought I would give her an out — I would do the honorable thing and do this in private. When I’d agreed to meet with her on the beach, I’d assumed we’d be alone. Dumb assumption on my part.