Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 113923 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 570(@200wpm)___ 456(@250wpm)___ 380(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113923 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 570(@200wpm)___ 456(@250wpm)___ 380(@300wpm)
I make an on-the-spot executive decision to omit the entire puppy encounter. Not that Pres is the jealous type, but I don’t want it to turn into a whole discussion, especially when I’ve only just arrived at Garnet and we’re doing so well. There’ll be an opportunity to tell him about my friendship with Cooper. At some point. When the time’s right.
“How did your poker game go? You didn’t text me either, now that I think about it.” But I’m also not the jealous type. Having done the whole long-distance thing, Pres and I are used to the occasional forgotten text or unanswered call. If we got worked up every time one of us didn’t respond until morning, we’d have broken up a long time ago. That’s trust.
“How was the poker game?” echoes Benji Stanton, who overhears my question as Pres and I approach the group. He snickers loudly. “You better watch out for your man. This kid is shit at cards and doesn’t know when to quit.”
“So …not good?” I ask, shooting a teasing smile at Pres.
“Not good at all,” Benji confirms. He’s a business major like Pres. They met when they shared a few classes last year.
Benji’s parents own property in Hilton Head, and his father runs a hedge fund. All of Preston’s friends hail from similar backgrounds. As in disgustingly rich. Finance, real estate, politics—their parents are all members of the billionaires’ club. So far, everyone’s been friendly and welcoming to me. I was nervous at first that they might look at me sideways because I’m a freshman, but I only get positive vibes from Preston’s Garnet friends.
“Don’t listen to him, babe.” Pres kisses the top of my head. “I’m playing the long game.”
A few minutes later, we’re climbing up the stairs. Sharkey’s Sports Bar has two floors, the upper one consisting of tables overlooking the ocean, the lower level offering game tables, a plethora of TVs, and the bar. As a server seats our group at a long high-top near the railing, the guys continue to rag on Preston for being terrible at cards.
“Lock up your good jewelry, Mac,” Seb Marlow advises me. He’s from Florida, where his family is a major defense contractor for the government. It’s all very serious and secret. I’ d have to kill you, and all that. Or that’s the line he uses at parties, at least. “He was this close to throwing down his Rolex to buy back into the game.”
Stifling a laugh, I question Pres. “Please tell me he’s joking.”
He shrugs, because the money means nothing to him, and he’s got more watches than he knows what to do with. “How about you try me at pool?” he scoffs at his friends. “That’s a real gentleman’s game.”
Benji looks at Seb and smirks. “Double or nothing?”
Never one to back down from a challenge, Preston is all too eager. “You’re on.”
The guys push back from the table as Preston gives me a parting kiss on the cheek.
“One game,” he says. “Back in a flash.”
“Don’t lose your car,” I warn. “I need a ride back to campus.”
“Don’t worry,” Benji calls over his shoulder. “I got you.”
Pres just rolls his eyes before sauntering after his buddies. Another thing I appreciate about him is that he’s a good sport. I’ve never seen him get bent out of shape over a stupid game, even when his wallet is a little light at the end of the night. Granted, it’s easy to get over losing when there’s a seemingly endless supply of someone else’s money to play with.
“Now that the boys are gone …” Melissa, Benji’s girlfriend, pushes the collection of water glasses aside to lean in toward me and Seb’s girlfriend Chrissy.
I don’t know anything about Melissa other than she sails, and I know even less about Chrissy. I wish I had more in common with these girls other than the size of our parents’ bank accounts.
Truth be told, I don’t have too many female friends. And these past few weeks have confirmed that I still suck at building connections with my female peers. I love Bonnie to bits, but she feels more like a younger sister than a friend. I had girlfriends in high school, but nobody I’d consider a ride-or-die type of friend. The only one who comes closest to being my “best friend” is my old camp friend Sara, who I raised hell with every summer until I turned eighteen. We still text periodically, but she lives in Oregon and it’s been a couple years since I’ve seen her.
My social group now consists of my roommate, my boyfriend, and my boyfriend’s friends, who waste no time bending their heads together to gossip.
“So what did you find out about that Snapchat girl?” Melissa demands.
Chrissy takes a deep breath like she’s about to dive to the bottom of a pool for a pair of Jimmy Choos. “It was some sophomore chick who’s at Garnet on scholarship. I found her roommate’s best friend on Instagram and DMed her. She said her friend told her that her roommate said they met at a boat party and made out.”