Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 88490 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 442(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88490 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 442(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
Yikes. I’ve watched it seven times before I even blink.
What to do? My natural impulse is to tease him back. I like Blake, and he’s so sexy I’m practically licking my phone right now. But who is he to insist we’re a couple? Who does that? It’s maddening. He drives me insane.
I wish he were here right now.
With a loud groan, I roll over, face-down on the bed. My ass is in the air, clad in nothing but little cotton panties that happen to say It’s Not Going to Spank Itself. They were a joke from Dyson last Christmas, and since I haven’t done laundry since exams started, they made their way out of the back of the drawer today.
I angle my camera around to my backside and stab at the phone’s screen until I hear the camera shutter sound.
The resulting picture is a bit off-center, so I crop it a little. And while I’m in the photo editor, I try a couple of filters until I find the one that best accentuates my boo-tay.
It’s not that I’m trying to impress Blake. It’s just that I’m artsy.
I hit Send, and the reply is almost immediate.
Blake: OMFG. If you need me, I’ll be in my bunk with my hand on my junk.
This lights me up inside and then almost as quickly fills me with guilt. Damn it. Do I want to date Blake? Sure I do. But it’s a terrible idea. Because…
Picking up my phone one more time, I dial Dyson. It’s only eight o’clock in California, so he answers right away. “Yo, Jess! How are you doing in the frozen north? Or should I say who are you doing?”
“Cut to the chase much?”
“What is the count up to now?”
“The count?”
“We were at three last time we spoke—the chair, the wedding, and the Hummer.”
I sigh. “None of your business.”
“Oh, I think it is. Besides, I’m on a fifteen-minute break before I start the other four hours of my shift. Give me a happy thought. Are we up to four? Dare I hope for five?”
“Well…” I clear my throat. “It depends how you count.”
“Ungf.”
Indeed. And he doesn’t even know about the bed. We got a little sticky eating ice cream that night and ended up doing it again in the shower.
“Was it awesome?”
“Completely. But there’s a problem.”
“He doesn’t want to do it again?” Dyson yelps. “Then he’s an idiot.”
“That’s not it. Now he says we’re dating. That’s not cool, right? You can’t just inform someone that they’re half of a couple.”
There’s a moment of silence on the line. “I’ll be half a couple with Blake Riley if you won’t. That man is smoking.”
“He’s as hot as they come,” I agree. “But he’s assuming too much! Who does that?”
“He must be really into you.”
I open my mouth to argue and then shut it again. Is he really? For all his loud-mouthed bluster and total lack of a filter, Blake is actually pretty hard to read. Everything is light and airy and surface-only with him. Other than his confession about his ex and the fake baby mama drama, I’m not sure I’ve ever had a deep conversation with the guy.
Maybe deep is overrated…
Maybe? Truth is I’ve only ever dated intense, creative types. Guys like Raven, who could sit for hours talking about his feelings and pondering whatever existential crises he was going through at that moment.
But…another truth? Sometimes that got really old. And boring. I can’t remember laughing with Raven the way I laugh with Blake.
I always thought I’d end up with an artsy kook like myself. And sure, Blake’s as kooky as they come, but in a different way. He’s bold and loud and totally obnoxious at times. But he’s also hilarious, sweet, kind, loyal, great in bed…
A groan slips out. “I don’t know, Dyse. I…don’t trust it. He’s a famous hockey player. I’m a nursing student who underperformed on her final exam.”
“Oh, sweetie. I’m sorry. Did you get your grade back already?”
“No. I’m just bracing myself. The worst will be if I have to tell my parents this spring that my scholarship money isn’t going to be renewed. I’m going to tell them over the phone so I can’t see Mom’s face.”
Dyson clucks his tongue. “Panic much? You probably squeaked by. You studied hard.”
“Maybe.”
“We have to work on your self-confidence.”
“I’m confident!”
Dyson laughs. “Not so much, hon. You dump your boyfriends so fast so they can never dump you first. And now you’re absolutely wigging out about your whole future when you don’t even know yet what grade you got on the test. That, my sweet love, is not confidence talking.”
Now I’m practically sputtering into the phone. “That is not an accurate diagnosis!” I don’t know who I’m more upset with right now—Dyson or Blake. “I’m confident. Ask anyone.”
“Uh-huh. This from the girl who didn’t like to cross the middle school cafeteria alone. You used to make me walk to the girls’ room with you and wait outside.”