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)
I do it again. Because I can, and I can’t really help myself.
“Hey,” I puff out, touching her elbow, wanting the contact. Wanting to put my hands on her. Anywhere. God, I missed her so fucking much, and I don’t even care if that makes me sound whipped.
It’s freezing; temperatures having dropped over the weekend, and as we get closer to winter and the end of the semester, they continue to plummet in the Midwest—one of the few regrets I have about taking the scholarship in Iowa.
Let’s face it, I’m from Florida and my blood is thinner, so my nuts tend to shrivel up in these frigid temperatures, and occasionally, I’m a big fucking tit baby about it.
Yanking at my jacket, hating the wind, I pull it higher up my throat like a cold, little pussy.
For Scarlett’s part, she doesn’t seem bothered by it at all, the weather agreeing with her, cute black hat pulled down over her long hair, furry ball bopping at its top.
She’s dressed in a jacket I haven’t seen on before; it’s black and stylish—not that I give a shit about fashion—but every Friday night on the porch, she’s been dressed for function.
This coat isn’t puffy; it’s fitted, with a gray, faux fur collar brushing against her skin.
“Hi.” Her breath comes out in white wisps.
“I saw you from over there.” I point across the yard. “I’ve been waiting to plant you with a facer since you ditched me to go home last weekend,” I tease. But it’s the truth. Texting while she was home helped, but nothing beats being with her in person. Except maybe beating myself off, haha.
“A facer? Doesn’t that mean ‘punch someone in the face’?” I can’t tell if she’s teasing me or serious.
“Does it?” I thought it meant kiss.
She giggles. “I think so. Maybe don’t repeat that one too loud? Unless you want to get arrested for threatening someone with assault.”
I heft my backpack. “Where you headed?”
“I was heading home.”
“Me too.”
We stand in the middle of the sidewalk, on the far side of campus, staring one another down, and in the broad light of day, I can see how clear her skin is. How long her lashes are, the defined arches of her dark eyebrows playing peekaboo with her black hat. The pert tip of her candy-colored nose.
Running into her on campus like this feels intimate, more so than having my hand up her shirt or my tongue in her mouth. Her being out of context has me out of my element.
“Can I take you for coffee?”
Her dimple pops. “I could do a coffee.”
“Or lunch?” Damn I’m hungry.
Hungry for lunch and her company.
I’m so fucking desperate for her company.
I rack my brain for a cause; she isn’t dazzled by the attention I get from my peers, has no desire to be part of my fan club. She doesn’t seem to give a shit about baseball, though it’s kind of cool her dad does. Doesn’t care that I’m the team captain, or one of the nation’s best shortstops. Has no interest in finding out what my prospects are to play professional baseball—hasn’t even asked.
“You want to grab something on campus?” Scarlett asks.
“No—let’s get the hell out of here.” I want to be alone with you, uninterrupted. “I’m craving something from that sub shop down on Tenth Street. Have you been?”
“Once or twice.”
“You cool with that?”
“Sure, why not.” Her feet are still rooted to the ground. “Want to walk?”
“Hell no.” I laugh. “I’m freezing my balls off. I can drive if you’re okay with that. First we have to walk and pick up my truck.”
“Sure.”
Our feet move in tandem toward my house and without thinking twice, I reach for her hand.
Her mitten-covered hand is soft. I give it a squeeze before directing my gaze forward, and if she’s not into PDA, she isn’t saying anything.
The fuzzy little fur ball on top of her hat bobs as she trudges along beside me, makes me smile. Her black leather boots click on the concrete alongside me.
Scarlett’s backpack is a generic black, like mine, with gray accents, matching her jacket with its shiny silver zipper.
We make quick work of the short walk to my place, and I open the door to my truck, waiting to close it until she clambers up and buckles herself in. Brush my fingers over her, unnecessarily checking to make sure she’s secure as an excuse to touch her.
“What?” She catches me staring at the sight of her in the passenger side, like she belongs there.
“Nothing. You just look good in my truck, that’s all.”
Good enough to eat, the rest of her face turning the same shade as the pink button of her nose as she fights back a smile—and loses.
I step onto the running board, grab the handle above the window, and kiss her again. “God you’re cute.”