Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 68456 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 342(@200wpm)___ 274(@250wpm)___ 228(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68456 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 342(@200wpm)___ 274(@250wpm)___ 228(@300wpm)
“Not a fan?” I ask.
“I mean, they’re kind of drinkable, just overly sweet. At least in my opinion.”
For a few seconds, I get a little lost, because she’s sitting here petting Boo and I have this flash of us hanging out like this a lot. My inner voice isn’t having it.
Don’t put the cart before the horse, fuckhead.
Yeah. I get that. I need to tread carefully.
Focusing on Ashley, I cross my legs out in front of me, lean back into the chair, and twist the cap off the cooler. “I’ve never had one before,” I tell her as I bring the bottle to my lips.
Taking a sip, I force myself not to gag. This shit is fucking terrible. Looking at Ashley, I grimace and then wrinkle my nose. “Is there any alcohol in this crap or is it just orange and a little bit of peach?”
Her eyes are full of humor as she answers, “It’s a hair above three percent.”
I make a noise of disgust. “Which means a person looking for a buzz would have to drink five or more of these. Honestly, it’d be better without the alcohol.”
“Stop.” She laughs. “They’re not that bad. It’s like fruit punch. And just like fruit punch, I can only drink one. Anything more than that feels like I’m drinking sugar water. Honestly, for me, that’s saying something, because I love sweet things. On the other hand, the stuff I gravitate toward is always chocolate-based. If they ever figure out how to make chocolate wine coolers, I’m in.”
I pretend to gag even as I make a mental note to order more chocolaty stuff for our vending machine. Right now, it’s pretty full of crackers, chips, and non-chocolate candy. Surely it’s okay to take her likes into consideration. It’s not like I’m going all-in on wooing her… yet. Maybe if I tell myself that eight hundred fucking more times, my brain and my dick will get the message.
“What’s your favorite kind of chocolate?” I ask.
“Peanut butter cups,” she answers without a lick of hesitation. “My grandfather always said I was a full-blown addict, and I have to admit he was onto something. If they ever go out of production, I’m in big trouble.”
This girl. She’s so fucking sweet I want to eat her up. I’ll buy a truckload of peanut butter cups if it makes her happy. How fucked up is that? I’ve known her for less than twelve hours, and I’m sitting over here like a love-struck douche thinking of ways to make her happy. What’s next, poetry?
Fuck.
I damn sure hope not, because that’s never fucking happening. Ever.
“Do you read?” I ask, hoping her answer isn’t going to reveal a love of sonnets or some shit.
“Of course I can read, Tyler,” she says, a hint of sass in her voice.
I can’t contain my laugh, which causes her to narrow her eyes at me and stare me down like I’m a giant dick. “No, babe, I asked if you read. Fiction or nonfiction. I already know you can read; you spent half the day reading shit on the computer.”
Again with the blushing. Looking away from me, she runs two fingers down the bridge of Boo’s snout. My dog is soaking it up. “Oops. Sorry. Yes, I read. Looks like I don’t listen too well though. I’m going to blame it on the five sips of wine cooler I’ve had. It’s obviously going right to my head,” she says with a self-deprecating laugh.
I like that she’s not an overly dramatic, self-involved nightmare. I’ve known too many women who would be pouting and demanding attention right about now.
“What do you read?”
I’ll consider it a sign that she’s way the fuck off-limits if she says poetry, because romantic shit is not in my repertoire. The interest I have in her is a hell of a lot more extreme than anything I’ve experienced before, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to turn into a love-letter-writing idiot.
Shit, who am I kidding? I’d probably try if it would make her smile. Maybe she’d laugh at me being so inept that I’d probably rhyme cock with rock.
Fuck. I doubt it. Please don’t fuckin’ say poetry, I think as I wait on her answer.
“Well, right now, I’m mostly in a spiritual phase,” she says.
It’s good that poetry isn’t going to be an issue, but a spiritual phase sounds like some hippy-dippy California shit.
“What’s that mean?” I ask, wondering if she’s about to reveal some crazy. Maybe that’d be for the best though.
Even my dick doesn’t believe that. Maybe there actually are certain kinds of crazy worth putting up with.
I cringe even thinking it. Making decisions based on what my dick thinks is a disaster that leads directly to a slippery slope down to hell. I stop thinking about any of that when Ashley lets out a soft giggle. “I’m open to whatever people believe, but I’m not one for chanting or powering up my healing crystals in the desert. I’m talking about manifestation books along the lines of The Secret. You must have heard of it, right?”