Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 66865 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 334(@200wpm)___ 267(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66865 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 334(@200wpm)___ 267(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Everyone knew our family, and Ronnie and I hated it.
The fact that I call my sister Ronnie? My mom hates that more.
“Are you listening to anything I say?”
“Huh?”
“You do that a lot you know—zone out.” Teddy is back to picking at the food on her plate with the tines of her fork, pushing the scrambled eggs to one side, wry smile plastered to her face. “Sorry I’m so boring.”
Shit.
“You’re not boring.”
“I kind of am.”
“Would you stop?”
“Next you’re going to tell me you have a lot on your mind.”
“That’s not what I was going to say because it’s not even remotely true. There is nothing on my mind.” I laugh, grabbing a hunk of toast, folding it in half, and stuff it in my gullet. I can’t very well say I zone out when you talk because I’m reminded of all the secrets I don’t want anyone finding out, and you just discovered the second biggest one I have.
The first being my family’s ridiculous wealth.
The other is my giant, fancy fucking house off campus with its Egyptian cotton sheets and granite countertops no twenty-two-year-old on the planet should already own, because what the actual fuck.
Thanks Mom and Dad for making it impossible to have a normal life, or a relationship with a girl who doesn’t care about that shit.
Whatever. I’m over it.
Still. My nostrils flare as I rip the paper napkin in two, balling up the pieces and tossing them to the far end of the table.
“So,” I clip out. “When a guy comes up to you and says he likes your shirt, what do you say?”
A well-manicured brow shoots up into Teddy’s hairline. “No guy is going to tell me he likes my shirt. My boobs, maybe.”
“Your dress?”
Teddy heaves a sigh. “Kip, do we have to do this right now? I’m trying to eat my free breakfast.”
“My coach always says practice makes perfect, Ted.”
“Please don’t call me that.”
“Why? It’s an awesome nickname.”
“Because Mariah calls me Farmer Ted and I hate it.”
“Mariah calls you Farmer Ted to be an asshole and to put you in your place. I’m calling you Ted because I think it’s adorable.”
“It’s a man’s name.”
“So is Teddy.”
“No it’s not.”
So argumentative, this one. “Uh, Teddy Roosevelt?”
“Fine.” She sighs again. “It’s a man’s name, but don’t call me Ted.”
“Fine.” My hand moves across the table, toward her plate. “Are you going to eat that?” Fingers grapple for her toast.
She slaps my hand away. “I will stab you with this fork if you touch my carbs.”
Shit. Hangry Teddy is savage. “What about the sausage?”
“I came here specifically for the sausage.”
“Here for the sausage,” I repeat, leaning back in the plastic booth seat, not even trying to conceal my snicker. “Good one.”
Never has there been a bigger eye-roll from someone so tiny. “Shut up, you moron.”
Teddy spears one of the brown links of meat, jiggling it in my direction. It wobbles on the end of her fork, up and down between us.
“Is that an offer?”
“You can’t have it—I’m just torturing you because I know you’re still hungry. You only ate one plate of food, you lightweight.”
“Whatever. I can just get another side order if you’re going to be greedy with your meat,” I whine.
“You would have already ordered more meat if you wanted it. Admit it—you just want to take this because it’s mine, and you’re a spoiled brat.”
“But food tastes so much better when it doesn’t belong to you. Just like so many other things that aren’t yours taste good.”
Christ, that came out sounding so perverted…or maybe it didn’t and I’m just a pervert?
Other things taste good, like…
Dessert. Sweets.
Pussy.
Pussy? Where the hell did that come from? Jesus Christ, Kipling, you’re in the middle of eating breakfast.
But, now that it’s on my mind…
My eyes travel south. Even though I can’t see under the table to Theodora’s lap, I imagine what her pussy looks like. Bet she keeps it nice and tidy too. Bare? Nah, she doesn’t seem like the type to wax—plus, she can’t afford it. Doubt she shaves it either, but I imagine she trims.
When I glance back up, Teddy is slowly shaking her head at me, emitting a little tsk, tsk sound.
“What?”
“I can totally read your mind.”
Somehow, I doubt that.
“Trust me, no you cannot.”
“Pfft, please—you might think I’m naïve, but I’m not.” She mirrors my pose, leaning back in the booth, right arm draped over the back. “I know you’re sitting there thinking about eating my breakfast. But you can’t have it.”
“Eating your…” The sentence trails off because I choke on the last word.
Breakfast—is that what we’re calling it now?
Breakfast is not the only thing I’m thinking about eating right now.
Because I’m immature as fuck, a pervy asshole who didn’t realize until now how perverted he actually was.
Now I do.
And it’s because of her.
Shit.
“I’m not thinking about eating your food. It’s safe.”