Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 124135 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 621(@200wpm)___ 497(@250wpm)___ 414(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 124135 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 621(@200wpm)___ 497(@250wpm)___ 414(@300wpm)
Cromwell Dean was leaning against the opposite wall, hands in his black jean pockets. He was wearing a black knit sweater, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. “Farraday,” he greeted casually.
“Cromwell?”
He pushed off the wall and came to stand in front of me. He smirked. “You decent?” He pointed at the partially open door.
I flushed then opened the door the rest of the way. I wrapped my cardigan tightly around me. “Yes.” I looked down both sides of the hallway. It was empty. “What are you doing here, Cromwell?”
He had a cigarette tucked behind his ear and a chain hanging from the waistband of his jeans. “I’ve come for you.”
“What?”
“I’m taking you somewhere.”
After hours of quiet, my tired heart kicked to life. “You’re what?”
“Get some shoes on, Farraday. You’re coming with me.”
My skin broke into betraying bumps as excitement soared through me. “And where are you taking me?”
If I wasn’t mistaken, Cromwell blushed.
“Farraday, just get your shoes on and your arse out of this door.”
“I’m not dressed right.” My hand ran over my bun. “My hair’s a mess. I’m not wearing makeup.”
“You look good,” he said, and I stopped breathing. He must have seen. But he didn’t move his eyes off mine. “We’re losing time, Farraday. Let’s get going.”
I should have stayed. It wasn’t wise to let him do this. But, despite what I knew was right, what was fair, I couldn’t help it.
I had to go.
I sat down and pulled on my boots. Cromwell leaned against the doorframe, his arm stretched above his head. The black sweater clung to his arm muscles and the hem lifted, exposing a couple of inches of his tattooed stomach. My cheeks set on fire. I averted my eyes and concentrated on fastening the laces of my boots. But when I stood and saw the flicker of a smirk on his lips, I knew he’d seen me looking.
“Let’s go.” He walked out to the hallway. I let him lead the way outside and to a matte-black truck, a vintage Ford pickup.
“Is this yours?” I ran my hand over the paintwork. “It’s beautiful.”
“Yeah.”
“You just get it?” He nodded. “It must have cost you a pretty penny,” I said as we pulled out of campus.
A dimple I hadn’t even known he had popped in his left cheek. I’d almost gotten a smile. Almost. “I do all right,” he said cryptically.
“With your music?”
“I don’t spin for free, Farraday.” I knew he was the most streamed EDM DJ in Europe—hell, maybe the U.S. too for all I knew. I hadn’t really thought of him like that. I’d forgotten he was Cromwell Dean, up-and-coming EDM star. It seemed crazy to me.
Especially when I knew what he could create in classical.
Cromwell had sat with Easton and me every lunchtime this week. He’d sat beside me in all the classes we shared. He had hardly spoken, but he’d been there. I didn’t know what to make of it.
I certainly didn’t know what to make of right now.
“So, any clues to where we’re going?”
Cromwell shook his head. “You’ll just have to wait and see.” I couldn’t help it; I laughed.
“You’re not at the bar tonight, or at the Barn? Won’t all your adoring fans—and by fans I mean girls—miss you?”
“I’m sure they’ll survive,” he said dryly. It only made me smile wider.
Cromwell pulled out onto the freeway. I frowned, wondering where we were going. “Can I put your radio on?” I asked.
Cromwell nodded his head. When I switched it on, I wasn’t surprised to hear fast tempos, pounding crescendos, and slamming beats. EDM. I sighed. “I guess this comes with the territory, huh? If I’m in your car?”
“What do you have against EDM?” he asked. He kept glancing between me and the road.
“Nothing, really. I just don’t know how you could pick this over all the other genres.”
“You like folk.”
“I like acoustic folk. I write the music and the lyrics.”
“I create the beats, the rhythms, and the tempos.” He turned up the current track. “This is one of my most recent.” He looked at me. “Close your eyes.” I raised my eyebrow. “Just shut them, Farraday.” I did as he asked. “Listen to the breakdown. Really listen. Hear the beat and how it carries the base of the song. Hear the layers. How the tempo changes with each sound, the keyboard, how they overlap until I have five or six layers that all work seamlessly.” I did. I let myself use all my senses to drink it in, shedding each layer one by one until I heard all of the composition. My shoulders moved to the beat, the tempo controlling my movements. And I felt myself smile. I built back the layers in my head, until they were a fusion of sounds and rhythms and beats.
“I hear it,” I said, so quietly I didn’t know if he could hear me over his music. When I opened my eyes, Cromwell turned down the volume. I sighed in defeat. “I heard it,” I said again.