Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 102683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 411(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 411(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
He raises his brows—both of them.
“There was a poster on the back of the bathroom stall for a contest. The prize was a trip to Las Vegas.”
“Let me guess,” he says at last, drolly. “You entered to win.”
“Duh! It was easy—all I had to do was click to enter and fill out some information.”
“You realize you’re never going to win, right?”
Why would he say such a thing? “Think positive! It could happen.”
He’s right though; it most likely won’t—I never win anything, and the probability of a trip to Vegas, which is my DREAM?
Statistically very unlikely.
“When have you ever heard of anyone winning a trip to anywhere?” the party pooper asks me, chugging from his glass and wiping the foam from his upper lip.
“Never, but miracles happen. Stop being such a downer.” I got a beer too, but it’s not my favorite, and now I’m no longer in the mood to drink.
I raise my finger at the bartender, and she comes over. “Can I get an iced tea—and a water, please.”
Scowling at my roommate, I push my beer forward glumly.
Ashley laughs. “Fine. You’ll probably win.”
I glare at him. “I don’t appreciate your sarcasm. It has no place at this table.”
“We’re not at a table, we’re at a—”
“Stop being so literal. Just stop.”
He’s being so annoyingly realistic right now, even with the hot British accent.
“What did I say wrong?”
“Nothing.”
He studies me for a few seconds, disbelieving. “When girls say nothing is wrong, it means something is wrong.”
That’s a stereotype, but in my case it’s true.
I’m irrationally irritated because he doesn’t think I can win a trip I probably will not win.
“You’re the expert on girls now?”
“No, not at all, but don’t lie and say nothing is wrong.”
I glance over at him, taking a sip from the cold glass in front of me, just a baby sip.
“Have you ever had a girlfriend?” I blurt out the question, honestly curious since I brought up the subject of girls.
“No.”
I’m on a roll now being crabby, so I might as well ask, “Is there a reason why?”
“Not particularly. Just haven’t found a girl I want to turn into a girlfriend—not that Mum hasn’t tried to set me up.”
“How would you date someone from England when you’re halfway around the world?”
“Video chats? Plus…” He fiddles with the napkin under his glass, tearing it apart tiny piece by tiny piece. “I won’t be halfway around the world for long. I move home at the year end.”
“That’s right—I keep forgetting you’re not from here.” I laugh. “I mean, the accent is a good reminder…and so is the fact that you’re so proper.”
A bit stiff and rigid at times, but not unbearable.
“I don’t think anyone has called me proper before. Dodgy, yes—proper, no.”
“Not to your face, but I reckon there are plenty of people who think you sound like Queen Elizabeth when you’re speaking.”
“I do not sound like Queen Elizabeth.”
He sounds so offended.
“Prince Charles then?”
“Stop it.”
I sigh, content, and pick up a mozzarella stick, breaking it in half. “I’m glad we’re doing roommatey things together.”
“Roommatey things.” That gets him grinning. “Like two chums, eh?”
“Exactly like two chums. Two bros.”
“Hey, hey, not so fast.” Ashley makes a gagging sound. “Don’t be comparing us to bros.”
“Why are you being such a party pooper? I was teasing.” I put the cheesy stick in my mouth and bite down. “I didn’t even ask you to fist-bump me or anything.”
“What’s a party pooper?”
Is he being serious right now, or do they not use that expression in Britain?
“A party pooper is you—i.e., someone who doesn’t want to have fun. A Debbie Downer.” I do my best to explain, but even my explanation sounds lame. “Someone who doesn’t think I’ll win a trip to Vegas.”
Plus, he doesn’t seem to give a shit what the definition is; he only knows he doesn’t like being called a name.
His face contorts when I pull the end of the mozzarella stick from my mouth and an ooey-gooey string of cheese follows.
“Did you just use i.e. in a spoken sentence?”
I continue chewing, conscious of the fact that he probably has better table manners than I do. “Can you not change the subject? I’m being serious.”
“Wait—why am I a party pooper because I’m telling you not to get your hopes up about winning a vacation to Las Vegas? A vacation, by the by, that is mid-semester. You”—he points to me—“can’t go anywhere. You”—points again—“are on scholarship. You can’t jet off willy-nilly whenever you please.”
I toss my hair, affronted. “I can if it’s over the weekend and we’re not traveling.”
Ashley snorts. “And who are you going to take? How many people is it for?”
“Um. Two.”
Another snort so indignant I take offense.
“I should take you if I win just to torture you.”
“Deal.” He nods. “I’m so utterly confident you won’t win the trip that if you do, I’ll gladly go and let you drag me around—we’ll see and do whatever you wish.”