Never Got Over You Read online Whitney G.

Categories Genre: Contemporary, Romance Tags Authors:

Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 60867 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 304(@200wpm)___ 243(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)

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Never Got Over You

Author/Writer of Book/Novel:

Whitney G.

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Nine and a half years ago, you married a man who wasn’t me. He wasn’t even half of me…
Nine and a half hours ago, you walked through the doors of my billion-dollar boardroom for a job interview.
Although every person at the table fell for your charm and applauded, I didn’t dare. I couldn’t help but notice your bare ring finger. Couldn’t help but notice that you were even sexier now than you were on the night we first met. I honestly didn’t want to hire you, but I had no choice. (I was outvoted 16-1, but trust me, you got this job by default.)
When you signed the papers and we shook hands, I didn’t bring up the fact that you didn’t “wait for me” like you promised to years ago, or that you just moved on with your life like what we had meant nothing. Instead, I insisted that we keep things one-hundred percent professional.
So, for the record: I've long forgotten about you and all the times we shared. (This includes the way your body feels under mine, the way your laughter used to make me smile, and the way you used to breathlessly say my name for hours at a time.)
I'm definitely not in denial, this is all one hundred percent true. You'll never hear me say that you still have an effect on me, that you’re still the best I’ve ever had, or worse, that I never got over you...
*****This steamy standalone novel is a part of "Hello Brand New Era," a literary album by New York Times bestselling author Whitney G.
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Whitney G. Books



~ August 24, 2010 ~


The Kensington Estates

Edgewood, Nevada


As you know, I’ve always preferred numbers and lists over drawn-out explanations and extensive sentences, so allow me to give you a few important ones before I write this list.

4, 2.5, 810, 32 and 1.

Four. The number of times I could make you come in a single night. (More if I used my mouth.) Between bending you over the edge of my bed, grabbing fistfuls of your hair as I pressed you against the windows, and sliding my cock so deep and hard inside of you, that my name was the only thing you could say for hours afterward, I think we can both agree that our sex was impeccable, perfect.

Two & a half. The distance, in hours, between our old homes on the lake. A drive I made every night for an entire summer, without fail, without hesitation. Whenever you needed me―whenever you sounded like you needed me, I made that drive to see you.

Eight hundred and ten. The number of guests that were invited to your lavish, million-dollar wedding. (The wedding where you willingly married a man who was—and will always be, only half of me...) Funny, I didn’t get an invitation, but just so you know, the cake at the reception was a little dry. Surely you and the groom could’ve afforded something that tasted better than that...

Thirty-two. The number of beauty marks that mar your inner left thigh. The same number of freckles that dot your lower back. (There’s no point to me bringing this up, I just thought you should know that I always noticed the little things.)

One. The number of times you broke the only promise that ever mattered to me. Since you somehow graduated from a line of elite prep schools without ever learning what the phrase “Wait for me” means, I’m attaching the definition on the back of this postcard.

You have yet to even explain what the hell happened, what the hell led you to walk away from everything we built together. (And I still can’t believe I had to find out about your engagement through the press...)

I know you’ll never be happy with a man like him, but whenever you finally realize this and regret it, don’t be surprised when I’ve moved on to someone who would never hurt me in the way you did.


The man who gave you the last real love (and best orgasms) you’ll ever know.

James Garrett

“UM, SIR?” THE RED-HEADED postal agent looked over my postcard and shook her head. “I really think it’s best if you send this type of thing in a sealed envelope.”

“I need to be sure that she reads it upon delivery.”

“Right. Well―” She cleared her throat. “I can guarantee that several people are going to read this long before delivery, so I think you should consider buying more than just a stamp. This seems a bit personal.”

“It’s more than personal.” I handed her my credit card. “Charge me for the stamp, please.”

“Wait a second.” She set it to the side and looked into my eyes. “I take it that this is your first real breakup?”

I knew I should’ve used the damn kiosk instead of coming in here.

“I’ll take your silence as a yes,” she said. “I know you didn’t ask for my advice, but from the sound of this letter, I’m guessing that the breakup is still fresh?”

I said nothing. I pointed to my credit card.

“You know, whenever the heartbreak is new, we tend to say things we don’t mean. We’re too busy processing all our feelings and ...”

I mentally blocked her words, tapping my fingers atop the counter and hoping her lips would stop moving.

Contrary to her assumption, the breakup wasn’t “fresh” at all. Today marked the eighteenth month since we’d last spoken. And while Kate was probably traipsing vineyards in the south of France and living the lavish lifestyle she’d always known, I was still struggling to sleep at night. Still rolling over and reaching for her―even when I was lying next to someone else.

“If I were you ―” The postal psychologist was still talking. “I would rip this postcard to shreds, walk out of here with your head held high, and commit to trying some new things. The sooner you do that, the sooner you can start getting over this woman.” She smiled as she handed over my credit card.

“Besides,” she said, “you don’t look much older than mid-twenties right now. I’m sure your young love was intense, but later, when you look back at it, I’m sure you’ll see that it was never the ‘forever’ type that was built to last.” She finally took a breath. “So, what do you say?”

“Give me a goddamn envelope.”

The aftermath


(Yes, my name was “James” years ago, but since I don’t feel like writing a novel about why it’s different now, I’ll explain it later.)