Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 85267 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 426(@200wpm)___ 341(@250wpm)___ 284(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85267 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 426(@200wpm)___ 341(@250wpm)___ 284(@300wpm)
Even in this light, I can tell her eyes are widening. “What the heck does that mean?”
“I just mean you’re the kind of girl a guy takes one look at and assumes you’re already in a relationship—or fuckin’ someone.”
“Fucking someone—gee, thanks.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Okay, but what does that mean?”
I have to think for a second. “It means…you look…nice. You’re cute and…” Shit, how do I say this without pissing her off? Not possible. I take a breath, exhale, and let her have it. “It means you don’t look like you put out. Someone might have to put actual work in if they want to get in your pants, and most guys ain’t lookin’ to put in the effort. That’s all I’m sayin’.”
I don’t call her the girl next door or a goody two-shoes, but I think she gets the drift. She’s picking up what I’m throwing down.
Silence follows.
I expect an argument—or at least some outrage from her as she defends her look, sound, and demeanor.
“Well. I guess…” Her voice trails off. “So what you’re saying is I look like I’m someone’s girlfriend already?”
Yeah, that’s about right. “Sure, if that’s how you want to put it.”
“I’m asking you. Is that what guys see when they look at me? Does that mean I don’t look fun? I’m fun, goddammit! I got drunk once!”
Once.
Jesus Christ, who is this girl?
I choke down a laugh, covering my mouth so she doesn’t get mad or offended—or smack me in the stomach to shut me up. I’ve never met a single person on this campus who has only been drunk once; most of them get drunk every weekend, multiple times.
There’s been so much puke on the carpet and floors in our house over the past few years I’ve completely stopped walking through it with bare feet.
The thought of how dirty our fucking floors are makes me want to gag. It’s probably worse than a hotel that rents rooms by the hour.
Anyway. Moving on.
We walk on, comforted by the sound of traffic and the wind blowing through the trees. Charlie shrinks down when a gust sweeps through the street, her shoulders slouching, arms wrapping around her middle, giving herself a hug.
I war with myself—I don’t have a jacket to offer her, but I do have arms, and my body is warm. I’m a hotbox, sleeping only in a pair of boxer briefs, usually waking with my sheets wrapped around my legs.
Tempted to throw an arm around her shoulders and pull her in closer, I stuff my hands in the pockets of my jeans, shrinking down a few inches myself.
Misery loves company.
I’m not cold, but if I don’t occupy my hands, they’ll end up on her body to commiserate about the cold, and the last thing I want to do is send the wrong signal.
Although.
Touching a pretty girl wouldn’t be the worst way to end my Friday night. She’s beautiful and seems to like me, but would Charlie accept my arm around her, or would she nail me in the gut with her pointy elbow?
“You cold?” I roll my own eyes because the question is so fucking dumb; the answer obvious.
“Yeah.”
“I’d offer you my jacket if I had one.” Instead I’m wearing a long-sleeved cotton t-shirt with the Iowa logo on my chest. Worn with jeans, it’s not dressy, but for once, what I have on coordinates somewhat. Sort of.
Not that I wanted to impress Charlie or anything.
Pfft. Whatever.
Why would I?
Suddenly I feel like a goddamn teenager. Unsure and insecure, as if she can read my mind and is going to judge me for pussing out on her.
“It’s all right. We’re almost to my house anyway, but thank you for saying so.”
So polite. Shit, almost painfully so—she’s measuring her words carefully.
“Uh. You’re welcome.” For nothing.
I can feel her sidelong glance. “Jackson, it’s not a big deal. It’s not your job to keep me warm.”
No. Maybe not, but I want it to be.
Wow.
Holy shit—wow. No.
Just no. I did not just utter that shit to myself inside my own head.
I do not want to. I fucking don’t.
Liar.
I am not having this conversation. Jesus, get out of your own head. She’s just a girl—one you only just met.
Fuck that, it’s been four weeks.
Wait, five? Or six Fridays—get it straight, dipshit, can’t you count?
Still. You don’t actually know anything about her.
Stop talking to yourself, psychopath.
“I’m sorry, did you just say, ‘Stop talking to yourself, psychopath’?”
Yes. “No.” I punctuate the lie with a snort then groan.
“It definitely sounded like you said something.”
“Hmm. Nope.”
Another sidelong glance, the corner of her mouth tipping up into a smirk. The brat.
“You’re so full of…” She hesitates. Pauses before, “Shit. You’re full of total crap, Jackson Jennings.”
“I really wish you’d stop using my full name.” It sounds ridiculous.
“Why? It’s your name.”
“Right, but…it sounds stupid when you say it like that. Can’t you call me Triple J like everyone else?”