All stories, good or bad, begin at the right time and place.
The night Rosalie Wood's boyfriend of one year proposed to her during an Elvis Presley concert in 1956, she went from thinking she knew everything, to knowing nothing. Faced with Wendell'...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
◌ ◌ ◌
* The first book in the Of Mine book series * _____________________________
Book #1 — Girl of Mine — ◌ ◌ ◌
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
◌ ◌ ◌
All stories, good or bad, begin at the right time and place. _______________________
◌ ◌ ◌
Narrator POV
The 22nd of June, 1956.
A thick layer of auburn lipstick glided over Rosalie's lips. You could smell the strong fragrance of classic makeup with a hint of strawberries. As she finished her look, she stood up and looked closely at her own deep ocean-blue eyes in the mirror. She raised her hand to her face, and with the tip of her finger, she wiped away a spot of lipstick right under her lip.
The enchanting smile she wore with awaiting contentment didn't flake as she smeared the red speckle on her pale cheeks. Her roaring blush heightened the feel of life as if the late afternoon sun, in comparison, stood dull.
Curls in the shade of a raven having a taste of coffee cascaded her shoulders in softness and reached about the middle of her chest, which was held by a dress, leaving little to the imagination.
«You got this,» she said to herself so intensely that she had to believe it. Her boyfriend of one year was planning on proposing that night. She got all dressed up and showed off her best features, with a shirtdress that had a wide blue circle skirt, petite waist, and low-cut white shirt collar just a tad too small for her chest. God, her boyfriend, would love this look.
Wendell was the type of guy that would tell you he just «loved ya so much,» then leave her apartment with the promise of forever. While at the building next door, he had another girl he loved just as much. To the moon and back, he would say. At school, he would slide Rosalie a piece of paper with poetry written in ink. With Rosalie's nickname Sal, it said, 'Sal, I love you to the moon and back, you're my rose.' It was very sweet; Sal would admit so. The problem was that Sal had more than once found a thrown-away piece of paper with a very similar love note.
