Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 85453 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 427(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85453 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 427(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
My beanie sits on my head wonky when she tugs on my hair sticking out the bottom. “And I’m reasonably sure she’s only ever seen long hair on a girl.” After dragging her hooded gaze over the blond wisps of hair curling around my ears, she adds, “Do you not recall her miffed stare last week?”
“I thought she was cracking onto me?”
Through a heavy bout of laughter, McKayla replies, “You think everyone is cracking onto you.”
I make a ‘duh’ face. “Because they are.”
She laughs even harder but doesn’t deny my claim.
She can’t when it’s true.
After a deliberation way too short for how sticky it makes my underarms, I ask, “Do you have any objections to a closed-door study session?” When McKayla peers at me with lines indenting her forehead, I enlighten, “My place isn’t quiet, but no one will be game to open my door if I place a sock on the doorknob.” Since my confession doesn’t elevate her confusion, I rip the Band-Aid off in one fell swoop. “They’ll think we’re fooling around, and the bro-code means they can’t interrupt us.” I curse her humble upbringing when confusion remains her strongest expression. “Fucking. If I take you back to my room and place a sock on the doorhandle, they’ll think we’re fucking.”
She chokes out her reply, “All because you put a sock on the doorknob?”
I nod, my ick level too high for a better response.
After licking her lips, she asks slowly, “Will that bother you?”
“That people will think we’re fucking?” When she jerks her chin up, I push out, “Hell no. Virgins are the cream of the crop.” I throw my head back and close my eyes, mortified I blurted that out with no consideration to how she may feel hearing it.
Before an apology can spill from my lips, McKayla asks, “I told you I’m a virgin?”
Fuck. That word out of that mouth. It should be illegal.
I return my head to its rightful spot before shaking it. “Not in so many words. I kind of figured it out.”
She bows a brow. “How?” Hopeful she’ll find the answer herself, she drops her eyes to her linen all-in-one outfit and bland flip-flops. “Do I have a sign that states naïve virgin pinned to me?”
Her eyes snap to my face when I mutter, “You said you’ve never been kissed.” I scrunch up my face before halfheartedly shrugging. “The two kind of go together. Even a douche like Gabriel couldn’t deny that.”
McKayla closes her eyes and counts backward to ten before popping them back open. “Don’t worry about the study session. You don’t need it. You’ll be fine.”
I stop her from fleeing by tightening my grip on her shoulders then directing her away from the gymnasium. “I need the brownie points. My tutor is a fucking Nazi.”
She ribs me but doesn’t pull away, her curiosity too high to discount.
A chuckle rumbles in my chest when McKayla’s entrance into my room slows to a snail’s pace. As her eyes scan the back wall, she murmurs, “Now the nickname makes sense. What is Milo? And why do you have so many tins of it?”
I wait for her to face me before placing a sock on the door and closing it. I won’t touch her. Forcing myself onto an uninterested party isn’t how I operate. I just want to give her the chance to save her reputation before it’s too late.
When an objection fails to spill from her pouty lips even after staring at my closed door for what feels like an hour but is barely a second, I answer her question, “It’s my favorite drink from Australia.”
“It’s a drink?” The hue creeping up her neck doesn’t match the easy nature of her tone.
As I notch up my chin, the chuckle I held back earlier ripples through my lips. “Yeah.” I stop, quirk my mouth to the side, then say with a shrug, “Kinda. You’re meant to have it with milk, but just like the Nutbush, a real Aussie will tell you the milk is the side dish of this meal.”
I nod when McKayla waves her hand at a tin not filling the wall of tins at the back of my room, wordlessly requesting to touch it.
With interest, I watch her pry open the lid with a spoon before sniffing it.
She doesn’t look impressed.
Her screwed-up nose doubles my grin.
“Can you eat it like this, straight out of the tin?”
“You can, but I wouldn’t recommend it.” When her eyes ask the question her mouth refuses to release, I say, “It is as dry as fuck without milk.”
Remaining quiet, she watches me open a bar refrigerator under my desk, pull out a carton of milk, then snag a clean glass from the makeshift kitchenette above my microwave. “For a guy with an entire frat house at his disposal, you have quite the setup.”