Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 99039 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99039 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
Brooke doesn’t give a shit if I play for the Wildcats or that I’ll be entering the draft in the spring. Hell, if she knew the truth, she wouldn’t give me the time of day.
The irony of this situation isn’t lost on me.
I should go. Talk tomorrow?
Same time. Same place.
I set the phone down and plow both hands through my hair before grabbing the back of my head.
What the hell am I going to do?
Even though I know I should put an end to this madness before it goes any further, I also realize that isn’t going to happen.
Best case scenario—it blows up in my face.
Worst case…
I don’t even want to think about what that would look like.
9
BROOKE
I blow dry my hair until it floats in artful waves around my shoulders and down my back before returning to my room to get dressed for the day. Since it’s supposed to be unseasonably warm this afternoon, I grab a short, plaid tweed skirt that hits mid-thigh with a frayed trim and pair it with a lightweight black sweater that has a high neck and hugs all my curves. A wide black belt with a silver buckle gets added to the ensemble, along with a pair of sleek black boots that lace up the backs of my calves.
Voilà.
And now we’re ready to face the day.
I add a bit of eye shadow, mascara, and lip gloss before swiping my phone from the nightstand and heading into the hallway. Just as I cross over the threshold, a text pops up across the screen. My feet stutter to a halt as I scan the message.
Morning, beautiful.
That’s all it takes to have my heart slamming into my ribcage as a grin spreads across my face. Normally, we text in the evening before we go to bed. Even though I’m trying to put the brakes on whatever this is, that feels impossible. Our relationship is growing, seeping into more of our lives.
Morning. You’re up early.
Yup. Had to get a quick lift in. I was just about to head out the door for class.
Is it totally crazy how much I like this guy?
I mean…I don’t even know what he looks like. Only his abs, which, I’ll admit, were spectacular. Trust me, I spent a good amount of time drooling over the photo after we said our goodbyes last night.
I’m just about to head out the door, too.
Oh yeah?
Dressed and everything.
Send me a pic.
Air gets trapped in my lungs as I consider the request. It doesn’t take more than a handful of seconds before I’m spinning around and walking back inside my bedroom. I step in front of the full-length mirror propped up against the wall and stare at the reflection that greets me. My teeth sink into my lower lip before worrying the flesh.
I’ll admit part of me is terrified to send him a photo.
What if he doesn’t like what he sees?
What if I’m not his normal type and he decides to ghost me?
I’m not one of those rail-thin girls who subsides on salads and Diet Coke. I like to eat. And I have the curves to show it.
Most of my high school years were spent trying to live up to my mother’s rigorous standards of beauty. Not only did I spend a great deal of time hangry, but it made me feel bad about myself. Inadequate. And ultimately, it didn’t work. All I have to do is look sideways at a piece of chocolate cake and I gain five pounds.
Before I have a chance to overthink the request, I hold up my phone and snap a shot, making sure the camera covers my face. Maybe I’m willing to take a chance and send him a pic of my body, but I’m not ready to put it all out there just yet.
One hesitant step at a time.
For a long moment, I scrutinize the photo. It would be all too easy to pick apart every flaw, but I’ve made a concerted effort to stop doing that since I realized it only fed the monsters in my head and made me even more self-conscious than I already am about my weight.
I stab the green send button so that I don’t chicken out or spend the next fifteen minutes trying to get the perfect lighting and angle to make it more flattering. If Chris doesn’t like what he sees or I’m not his type, then it’s better to realize it now and move on before I invest any more time in this fledgling relationship.
That thought leaves me faltering.
It hasn’t even been a week. And yet, we’ve spent so much time texting. We’ve had more in-depth conversations than Andrew and I ever did.
And we were together for almost a year.
How sad is that?
Nerves dance down my spine as I wait for his response.