Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 84826 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84826 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Not really.
Shelby is bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet, grabbing Abby by the arm and whining, “Please! Please! You have to come with us!”
Once again, Abby caves. “Um, I mean. I don’t usually go to the bars on Sunday night, but… I guess it’s okay to make an exception?”
Shelby claps with glee, looking Abby up and down. “Yay! Why don’t you run home and change quick and we’ll meet you out in a half hour. Mkay?”
Abby looks down at the front of her feminine gray sweater. I can read her mind as she furrows her brow and glances back up at me with bright red cheeks and her lips part in a surprised ‘O.’ What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?
Nothing. Nothing is wrong with what you’re wearing, I want to say. Shelby is kind of being a bitch.
“Maybe we should just stay home,” I suggest with a hopeful voice.
“No! No. That’s okay. I’ll just go home, and, uh… change. Then we’ll go.”
“Are you sure?” I ask her.
“Really, it’s fine.”
“She said it’s fine, Showtime. Why are you being weird about it? Get your shit together and let’s go.” Weston smacks me hard on the ass and shouts, “HeYaw!”
And just like that, we’re back at Abby’s house and I’m leaning against her kitchen counter, waiting for her to change—yes, change—even though I told her countless times on the walk over that she looks great and not to kowtow to Shelby.
It’s the most words I’ve said to her all afternoon.
“First of all, what’s kowtowing?” she’d asking, laughing at me. “Never mind, don’t answer that. Whatever it is, I’m not doing it. I’m just… changing out of my sweater.”
Abby emerges from her bedroom a few minutes later, looking cuter than she did when she went in. My breath hitches, because man, is she adorable or what?
Propping a hand on one denim-clad hip and chewing slowly on salted caramel I found on the counter and popped into my mouth, I take her in from head to toe, not missing a single detail. Having changed out of her boot-cut jeans and into dark skinny jeans, Abby stands in the doorway of the kitchen, fingering the thin silver belt threaded through the belt loops and knotted on the end. It hangs jauntily off to the side, emphasizing her slim waist and long legs. The hem of her tight white V-neck tee is neatly tucked into the waistband, and naturally, my eyes land on her boobs.
I mean, shit. I did just mention it was a tight shirt, right? Hey, I might be a socially awkward bastard, but I’m still a guy, and I haven’t gotten laid in…
Never mind. That’s not anyone’s damn business.
She is still wearing her hair down and has the silky strands pulled over one shoulder.
Abby is classy, understated, and sexy.
And smart.
And clever.
And sweet. Well, except in the instance where she was climbing out the second story window of a seedy fraternity house, then getting pissed at me for helping her not die—but that’s hardly my point…
My parents loved her. I know this because my mom hasn’t stopped text-bombing me to drill in the point.
Mom: Abby is a doll.
Mom: Make sure you act like a gentleman. Hold her doors open. And tell her how nice she looks. She’s so pretty.
Mom: Talk. Don’t just mumble.
Me: Mom. Stop.
Mom: Don’t just talk about hockey. Ask her about herself.
Mom: Take her out in public. I know how much you like your bedroom, sweetie, but please don’t just stay home with the poor girl. She needs sunlight.
Me: Please stop.
Mom: What is she doing for spring break? When are you bringing her home? Dad wants to know.
My dad wants to know? Yeah, right. No offense to my dad, but he could give a shit about any of my… girlfriends. Correction: Girlfriend—as in, singular. As in, only having one.
Snorting, I shove my phone in the back pocket of my jeans and push off the counter as Abby approaches in heeled half-boots that have peep toes. I slide my large arm around her waist and pull her against my body.
Pressing a kiss to the top of her head, I give her hair a whiff, expecting it to smell like greasy burgers and food from the restaurant we were just at.
It doesn’t.
It smells like…
“Why does your hair smell like cherries?” I ask, both confused and intrigued, because I sure as shit don’t smell this good.
“Um. Dry shampoo.”
Dry shampoo? What the ever-loving eff is that?
Abby grabs her keys off the counter, and puts them in her purse, a small rectangular bag on a gold chain with her initials stitched on it. “Ready?”
“As I’ll ever be,” I tease, kissing the top of her head again.
CHAPTER 23
ABBY
In the end, we don’t end up going to O’Malley’s.
Even though it hadn’t been my idea to change my clothes in the first place, it takes me just shy of one half hour to change into something “better.” But it takes Shelby longer, causing Blaze to lose interest in going downtown altogether.