Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 105306 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 527(@200wpm)___ 421(@250wpm)___ 351(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105306 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 527(@200wpm)___ 421(@250wpm)___ 351(@300wpm)
He cracks open his computer and powers it up, oblivious to my ire.
“Why did you sit here? There are a million other seats.”
He cocks an eyebrow. “Really? A million?”
Oh my God, he is so annoying. “Seriously, why are you sitting here?”
I honestly want to know. And why didn’t I put my book bag on the seat when I got here?
“Because you’re so friendly and welcoming.”
“Yeah, I am—thanks.” Heavy on the sarcasm, light on the genuine gratitude.
We stare toward the front of the room and I try to ignore his existence, but he makes it difficult when he spreads his legs and boxes out his enormous body. One I hadn’t noticed before.
Today he’s wearing joggers—gray ones.
A dark gray hoodie.
No hat.
He’s worn one the other times I’ve bumped into him, and the sight of his shaggy, jet-black hair is startling.
Face the front and don’t look directly at him…
His thighs are thick—anyone with decent sight can see that. Those sweatpants are doing him a lot of favors.
Dammit!
Why are these desks pushed so close together? Aren’t we supposed to be six feet apart?
I try not to notice his jawline.
Try not to notice that he smells like cologne.
Try not to notice his large hands. The big palms.
The fingers that cover his entire laptop keyboard when he spreads them…
Whatever.
I stare straight ahead.
“Do you have a pencil?”
What kind of question is that? He’s using a laptop.
“No.”
“Got any candy?
What? “No.”
“Protein bar?”
“Would you be quiet?” I hiss, glancing around to see if anyone is listening to the exchange. “Some of us want to hear what she has to say.”
Up in the front of the room, Professor Rebecca Robinson is discussing the customer service aspects of business communication and how they’ve been impacted by the creation of social media, how it’s evolved.
At least, that’s what the header of her PowerPoint presentation says.
Beside me, Dallas roots around in his laptop sleeve and fishes out a pair of black-framed glasses. Slides them up the bridge of his nose as ovaries in every corner of the world explode.
Fine.
Okay, so he’s good-looking, big deal.
The fact is, he’s a dickhead, and I have firsthand experience.
“Have you heard from Diego lately?” he whispers next to me, all the while tapping notes on his laptop as if he were paying attention to the lecture. Meanwhile, I’ve barely heard a word Professor Robinson has said.
“No.”
He snorts. “Doesn’t surprise me. No backbone.”
Tap, tap, tap.
He types awfully fast for a guy with such large hands.
“You ain’t messaged him, have you?”
“Also no,” I mutter out the side of my mouth. “But thanks for giving me the benefit of the doubt.”
“Hey, the guy didn’t give you any closure. It wouldn’t surprise me if you’d texted him.” He taps away. “I’d be pissed.”
“Well, I wasn’t.”
Mostly wasn’t. Mostly it was ego and pride.
“Which means you didn’t actually like him.”
“Don’t analyze my relationship like you know anything about it.”
He chuckles. It’s low and deep and quiet enough that only I can hear it because his arm is touching mine and I can feel his body vibrating with the motion.
“I know nothin’ about nothin’, don’t you worry.”
“Clearly.”
He shifts in his seat, causing my laptop—the one I’ve barely touched—to jerk to the right.
Dallas barely notices.
Throughout class, I have to smell him.
Hear him breathe.
Hear him sigh.
Dallas Colter coughs four times; twice I suspect were on purpose to agitate me. Bumps his knee into mine no less than a dozen times, hogging a majority of the leg room.
Pushes those glasses up his nose with the tip of his forefinger, which isn’t as much annoying as it is distracting.
He looks like a cross between Clark Kent and some Marvel superhero but in gray joggers and a hoodie.
When class ends, I avert my eyes from his sweatpants-clad ass, pretending to pack my backpack, hoping he’ll leave before I do.
No such luck.
Dallas dicks around longer than I do.
Doesn’t say a single word as I dodge my way out of our row, stepping around classmates, gunning for the exit.
I let out a relieved puff of air when the wind hits my face—
“Why are you walking so fast?” The voice is deep, but I don’t turn around. “Ryann.”
Oh my God, why is he still here? I refuse to turn around and acknowledge him.
“I swear I’m not following you.”
He’s most definitely following me.
My hands go up in mock defeat as I continue on my way, Dallas falling in line beside me, his long stride matching mine, step by step.
“Right. It’s a weird coincidence that you keep having to tell me that. You’re lucky I don’t have my taser or I’d zap you with it for shits and gigs.”
I can’t flip my hair because I’m wearing a damn winter hat.
I stomp off, determined to ignore him, which is impossible because…
“I have a proposal for you.”
He is like an irritating fly buzzing around my head.
I want to smack it and make it go away.