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)
Milo is smarter than I gave him credit for. His ruse might actually work.
After greeting a handful of giants by patting them on the back, Milo drops his attention to me while guiding me through the kitchen where counters are lined with a range of alcohol. “Remember, laugh as if I’m funny, smile when I do, and never agree to pick the music.”
His last suggestion draws my brows together. “Why can’t I pick the music?”
I test his fake laugh request when he breaks out into a country hick tune I wouldn’t be caught dead listening to. I am from the South, and my family’s ranch is massive, but that doesn’t mean every song I listen to includes a banjo.
After chuckling for real about my disgusted expression, Milo asks, “Would you like a drink?”
“Ah…”
He steals a cup out of a random partygoer’s hand, gifts it to me, then plucks a bottle of beer out of another man’s hand. “You don’t need to drink it,” he mutters under his breath when a sniff of the slosh in my red cup almost knocks me off my feet. “Just hold it in your hand and pretend you are.”
“Why do I have to pretend?”
Over the thudding music keeping the conversations to a bare minimum, he asks, “Will you ask a question every time I make a suggestion?”
I shrug. “Depends.” After holding my breath so I don’t get drunk on the fumes, I take a fake sip of my drink. “Knowledge is powerful.”
My mouth gapes when Milo corrects, “No. Knowledge is like underwear. It is useful to have but unnecessary to show off… especially when it is as bland and uninviting as your selections, Einstein.”
I roll my eyes at his nickname before replying, “Sports bras are comfortable.”
“When you’re playing sports. Do you play sports, McKayla?”
“No,” I mumble through pursed lips, my reply barely audible.
Milo won’t let me off easy. “What was that?”
“I said no.” When our merger out of the kitchen has me locking eyes with Gabriel again, I add, “But I’d sure like to play tonsil hockey with him.”
It dawns on me that Milo will be a good learner when his gagged response exposes some of my lessons are already sinking in. “You’re disturbing.”
While pretending to laugh as if he is hilarious, I shadow him onto the back porch where I’m introduced to a handful of his basketball friends and their partners.
“Professor Ren’s psychic sessions, right?” Kamil questions after accepting my handshake.
“Yeah.” I feel bad for how I handled Gabriel’s lack of recognition about our joint classes when I add, “Do you sit in on her lectures?”
He scrubs a hand across his prickly jaw. “Every one of them.” After slinking back in his seat, he adds, “If basketball doesn’t pan out, we all need something to fall back on.” He drifts his dark eyes between Milo and me. “Is that how you two met? Via Professor Ren?”
“Ah…”
I almost undo our ruse but am saved by Milo. “McKayla had some car trouble a couple of months back. I helped her out.” Since his comment is truthful, it sounds that way.
My car broke down my first month here. It was off campus, so I never considered my helper was from my school. I thought he was a mechanic.
I can’t help the grin that stretches across my face when I recall my savior coming to my rescue. “He was drenched head to toe and wearing a hideous Hawks poncho.” Once again, nothing but honesty is heard in my tone. “I had no clue who he was.”
“I gifted her my poncho since her car didn’t have its roof up—”
“It’s broken. It doesn’t work,” I inform Milo, grimacing when I recall how badly the interior smelled after that night. It’s still a little stinky now.
Milo shakes his head like he’s not shocked by my expression before finalizing, “I fixed the issue she was having, then sent her on her merry way.”
I assume I’ll have them buying into our scheme with my next comment, but I’m sadly mistaken. “Then we met again at the drama squadron.”
“Drama?” Kamil spits out at the same time as several people surrounding us.
Milo kicks his shin with the toe of his boot. “Not at the drama squadron. I was detouring through it.”
Before his friends can call him out as a liar, we’re interrupted by a feminine voice at our right. “On his way to visit me, no doubt.” A woman with glossy black locks, red-painted lips, and a teeny tiny skirt rakes her nails across Milo’s suddenly thrusting chest before stopping to stand in front of us. I know who she is. Everyone does. She is Milo’s ex-girlfriend, Vivienne McLaren. “That was last Friday, right?”
Her question is for Milo, but my head bobs automatically. “But we didn’t make things official until Tuesday.” From what I’ve heard, dates shouldn’t matter since Milo and Vivienne broke up months ago, but Vivienne’s tone is too filled with accusations not to respond to.