Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 94579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 378(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 378(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
She’s right; calling her Cock Blocker is demeaning, but suddenly I’m an eight-year-old boy on the playground who doesn’t know how to conduct himself in front of a cute girl. I’m four seconds from pulling at her hair.
Not to mention, if my mother heard me calling her Cock Blocker, she’d metaphorically kick my ass straight into next week.
“Sorry.” I swallow. “There are rules you have to follow if you’re going to stand on this porch with me, and not being a sass is one of them.”
“Then it’s going to be a really long night for both of us.” Her mouth puckers.
“You know how athletes love their rules and playbooks.”
She crosses her arms, setting her bag on the floor. “Actually, I don’t.”
My arm extends, resting on the doorjamb and creating a barricade. “We create rules as we go, and the porch-dwelling addendum is new, created special just for you.”
I sound so fucking stupid.
Her eyes are brighter tonight, a black coat of mascara on her top lashes. “Why are you doing this to me?”
Her voice is almost a whisper, and for a brief second, I feel like a real fucking prick.
But that fucking dimple makes an appearance, and all my best intentions to behave fly out the window. Shit, who am I trying to kid? I have no best intentions.
“Why are you doing this? You had to have known you weren’t coming inside—you wore a hat with your coat tonight. You literally look like you’re going skiing.”
Her arms raise, finger pointing into the living room her friends just disappeared into, exasperated. “But you let my friends inside!”
“It’s been decided by the council. You cannot come back inside.”
“Who’s the council?”
Me.
“That’s a well-guarded secret.”
“God, you are so exasperating.”
Ooh, exasperating—good word. “Thank you.”
“I can’t go back…ever?” Her eyes get wide.
A terse jerk of my head. “We’ll see.”
“You’re going to make me stand on the porch tonight while my friends stay inside?”
I cross my arms. “I can’t make you do anything, can I?”
Her lips blow out a frustrated puff of air, sending a few loose strands wisping around her face. “Be honest: don’t you think this is kind of ridiculous?”
Yeah—but I keep that shit to myself, because tonight, when I saw her, I decided to be selfish with her time, to stand out here and try to make her laugh just so I can make that dimple appear in her cheek.
Not that my friends would have been ecstatic to see her; she would have a shit time inside since Wilson and Fitzgerald are still ten shades of pissed, the fucking tit babies.
Bros before hos and all that sexist bullshit.
At least, that’s what I’ll be telling myself later when I’m staring up at the ceiling above my bed, thinking about that little dent in her cheek same as I’ve done every damn night this past week.
“Honestly, we here at the baseball house do our best to be as difficult as possible.”
“Haven’t I been punished enough?”
“Don’t consider it a punishment—consider it banishment on a case by case basis.” I snap my fingers. “Oh! Like you’ve been voted off the Island of Hornball Dudes Who Want to Get Laid.”
“Really?” She rolls her eyes, backing away a few steps. “That’s what you’d name your island?”
I laugh. “If it were my island, it would something way cooler, like Rowdy’s Tropical Hideaway.”
“So that really is your name?”
“Yes, that really is my name.”
“Your name is Rowdy?” She repeats it, and I can’t help but be slightly insulted by her tone.
I spread my arms wide. “In the flesh.”
“Huh. Interesting.” Her hands go to the hat pulled down over her forehead, giving it a little tug upward to afford herself a better view of me.
I return the favor, giving my greedy eyes permission to wander the length of the hair peeking out from beneath her knit winter beanie; it’s long—longer than it looked pulled into a ponytail last weekend, and a dark shade of chocolate brown.
When she tilts her head, catches me staring, I refocus my attention to the yard, feigning interest in the cars parked at the curb.
“What about you?”
“What about me?”
Is she being coy on purpose? “Do you have a name?”
“Of course I have a name.”
“So it’s going to be like that, huh?”
Her pretty pink lips smirk. “Yeah, it’s like that.”
“Mind if I take a guess?”
Shrug. “Be my guest.”
“Helga.”
Her brows shoot up. “That’s your guess?”
“Rudy.”
“Seriously, you’re such an asshole.” She laughs, eyes doing a sparkly little dance as she watches me. “Do I look like my name is Rudy? Rudy, jeez.”
I shrug. “Prudence?”
“I hate you so hard right now.” She laughs again. “My name is Scarlett.”
Scarlett.
Scarlett red. Scarlett fever.
“Huh. Never would have guessed.”
An ironic expression is pasted on her face. “No shit, Sherlock.”
Scarlett.
I slide the zipper of my jacket up and down to give my hands a chore, glancing at her on the sly.