Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 70152 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 351(@200wpm)___ 281(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70152 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 351(@200wpm)___ 281(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
4. He never attends school functions. No basketball games. No dances. He doesn’t join clubs. I don’t even know if he has a job. Weston McGrath plays hockey and that. Is. It.
5. He has never been seen with a date in public, and I use the term date very loosely. Puck bunnies (i.e. girls whose sole purpose in life is to sleep with a hockey player) are constantly hanging on him, but I don’t think he’s ever taken anyone out before. My guess is he’s doing a whole lotta screwing and dumping.
I mentioned my best friend Jenna before, and she just happens to be one of those girls who are fascinated by Weston. Unfortunately, I am forced to hear all the sordid details about him from her whenever they cross paths. In fact, she never shuts up about it, as if she’s his personal factotum.
The ironic part of all this? Jenna has a boyfriend (poor Alex Mitchell).
Anyway, if she spots him anywhere, she will drive you crazy with her yammering on and on about Weston McGrath and how hot he is. I think if he ever approached her, she’d toss her cookies on his black leather boots from all the built-up anticipation and adoration.
Pfft, black leather boots.
I glance over at his feet.
Yup, he’s got ’em on.
To be honest, he scares me a little. I’m naturally a smiley, sunny person who gravitates toward happy people—like my bestie, for example. She’s got such a cheery disposition that it’s hard for me to ever have a bad day. Believe me when I say this: I’ve never seen Weston McGrath smile. But Molly, you might be thinking, you just said you don’t hang out with him! Well, you and I both know you can tell when someone isn’t a naturally cheery person, you know?
So, his scowl must be a permanent expression meant to scare the shit out of people—or maybe it’s tattooed on like the rest of him. Also, I wonder if he’s gotten his teeth bashed out from playing hockey…
Weston’s a forward on the team and has been captain since freshman year, which…is really incredible.
Like I said, he’s a badass.
He still hasn’t looked away, and I feel the heat rising up my neck. Whenever I get nervous, this hideous rash forms on my chest. It’s really embarrassing, so I look away and sit up straight, clamping my legs together. The last thing I need is him trying to look up my skirt.
Pervert.
Really, is it hot in here?
Ugh, suddenly I can barely stand it, and knowing that Weston McGrath is looking at me makes me all the more overheated. Abruptly, I am frantically trying to come up with a list of friends with pools in their backyards that I can immediately go jump in—yes, fully clothed.
Like, I am that hot.
I use all my self-control to not fan myself.
Fumbling with my papers, I begin stuffing the doodles back inside my binder and then slam it shut. Glancing up at the rusty old library clock, I see I have less than five minutes of sitting here left. How long has he been watching me? Should I look up? Oh my god, what if he’s still over there staring at me. I will die a slow death.
Well, okay.
I’ll die a less-than-five-minute death, because that’s as long as we have to sit here before the bell rings.
I take a chance and raise my eyes.
Yup, there he is, staring at my face with his lips pulled into a smirk, the dark hair under his ball cap curling up slightly over his ears. The sleeves are cut off the bright blue A&F shirt he’s wearing, and as he leans back lazily with his arms crossed, it draws attention to his biceps, which look…insanely ripped. He’s tall at six foot two. I know this because I’ve seen his stats in the school athletic program—you know, the one they hand out before games.
Tan skin.
Broad shoulders.
His face clearly hasn’t been shaved today. A dark shadow along his jaw and upper lip are unmistakable, even from where I’m sitting. Dear lord it is…sexy.
Really, Weston looks more like a man than most men, and not much like an eighteen-year-old boy.
Nope. Calling him a boy would be wrong, wrong, wrong on so many levels…
I wonder what he’s thinking right now as I stare blatantly back, taking in the large black tattoo covering his entire right arm. It starts halfway up his forearm and stops at his shoulder. Maybe he’s sitting there thinking I’m a goody two-shoes.
His eyes look black from here, and oh god, his lips are amazing.
Torture.
CHAPTER 2
WESTON
“Son, mark my words: staring is the best and quickest way to get yourself kicked out of Victoria’s Secret.”
– Brian McGrath
The bell rings for the last period of the day to end, and I slide my books off the crappy library table. Geez, buy some new goddamn furniture already, I can’t help thinking. Rolling my shoulders, I take a minute to stretch my upper body. I’m stiff and sore from slouching through the entire fifty-minute study hall, and I’m bruised from last night’s game. Some dickhead on the other team checked me into the boards of the rink so hard I was up icing my shoulder most of last night.