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)
Me: I’ll text you my address tomorrow.
Jackson: K, sounds like a plan. G’night little one.
Little one? What’s this now?
Um…
I sit and stare at that last text from him. Little one. What? I mean, he’s huge, but I’m not exactly a waif. Maybe to him I seem small?
Little one—is that weird? That must be a Southern thing, too, right? I tap open a web browser and type in Southern slang little one to see what will pop up. Maybe he calls all girls that when he can’t remember their name?
It seems oddly specific, though, and personal.
My insides flutter.
No guy has ever said anything remotely cutesy to me like that in my entire life, let alone one I just met, or one I’m not dating—and definitely not one who is a hulking beefcake of a man-boy.
A man-boy. That sounds accurate…
A man-boy who’s confusing me.
Why is he being so nice when he acted like such an asshole on the side of the road and at the union? That’s not normal behavior—why is he doing it? The whole thing is total bullshit, and I’m going to pin him down and ask him about it.
Jackson: I should have that tire back to you this week, then we’ll swap out the donut for the original. It’ll take ten minutes, tops.
Me: By donut, you mean the spare? Right?
Jackson: Yup, donut means spare. That’s fancy auto lingo.
Me: Be quiet, it is not lol
Jackson: Okay it’s not **eye roll**
Jackson: Anyway, will you be around this week if I text you and swing by? Otherwise, you can give it a go. I think you’d be fine to put it on by yourself.
Me: NO WAY AM I PUTTING THE TIRE BACK ON MYSELF. NO WAY. NUH UH. I INSIST THAT YOU HELP ME, PLEASE. I’m begging.
I’m not yelling—he’s yelling.
I have no doubt I could put the new tire on myself, but do I really want to take that chance? I definitely need the help of someone more qualified than I. Plus, the last time he helped it was really nice—and not because he smelled good. Or because his muscles bulged. Or because when he got a little sweaty from heaving the heavy tire, it turned me on a tad.
A smidge, as my grandmother would say.
Jackson: Well if you insist.
Me: I do—if you can swing it.
Jackson: All right, I’ll take care of you.
Jackson: I mean. Of the tire.
Jackson: I’ll take care of the TIRE.
Me: Know what? I can almost hear you saying tire in your Southern accent.
Jackson: Is that a good thing or a bad thing?
Me: It’s cute. I like it, I’m not making fun of you.
Jackson: Lol I didn’t think you were, I just wanted to hear you say you think it’s cute.
Me: You’re the worst.
Jackson: Hey, so—do you ever go out on the weekends?
Me: Do you mean parties and stuff?
My heart beat skips a little. Why is he asking what I do on the weekends? Is he going to ask me out? Crap, why am I getting so excited?
Relax, Charlie. It was a basic question. It means nothing.
Jackson: Yes, parties and stuff.
Me: Yeah, sometimes, depending. Why?
Jackson: I was thinking of hitting up Jock Row for a party at the baseball house this Friday.
Me: Do you usually party on the weekends? I thought there were rules about that.
Jackson: We have a 24-hour rule. No alcohol 24 hours before a game, but we can go out and be social as long as we behave and don’t break the conduct code.
Me: I see.
Me: Um. What does that have to do with me?
Jackson: Maybe you should come. If you aren’t busy.
Me: Maybe I should.
Jackson: You definitely should.
Me: All right.
Jackson: Seriously?
Me: Why do you sound surprised?
Jackson: Because you hate me lol
Me: I don’t hate you Jackson. I mean—you piss me off, but I’m sure you piss tons of people off.
Jackson: If you didn’t hate me, you wouldn’t call me Jackson.
Me: I’m NOT calling you Triple J. Or JJ, or the other nicknames they call you. That’s lame.
Jackson: Junior.
Me: Huh?
Jackson: Junior. That’s my other nickname. It’s Jackson Jennings Junior, so sometimes they call me that. My dad does.
Me: I think I might have read that somewhere.
Jackson: Were you googling me, Miss Charlie?
I roll my eyes at him even though he can’t see it. Googling him—he is so full of himself.
Me: You are so Southern sometimes…
Jackson: But were you? Googling me? You can’t lie, we’re best friends now.
I want to make a joke about breast friends but don’t want to sound like a complete pervert.
Me: My friend looked you up—it wasn’t me.
Jackson: And you were reading over her shoulder.
No, because I was driving and that would have been dangerous.
Me: I might have been listening when she read some shit out loud. Sue me for being curious. If I’m going to keep seeing you on the side of the road, I have to know you’re not a murderer.