Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 98023 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98023 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
“Are you scared of me?”
“Yes.” Her expression falters for just a fraction of a second, caught between shock and confusion, but I don’t give it time to settle. I can’t. After tonight, more than ever, I’m determined to make Lexi Winslow mine. “But unlike most people, I like to face my fears head on.”
Lexi
Blake Boden is an interesting case of data. Women follow him around in droves, offering fornication in exchange for very little, and it makes me wonder if there’s more to him than a single glance could discern.
He’s muscular and over six feet tall in the way a lot of women prefer in their potential mate, conventionally attractive, talented, athletic, and packs an easy smile I know puts everyone in his vicinity at ease, but what if there’s more to it?
What if there’s a science to the amount of attention he gets—an evidence-based reasoning for why he’s so popular with women and men alike, and why his confidence isn’t deterred by repeated rejection.
Dopamine is chemical and reactionary. Does something about him trigger it? A scent, perhaps?
My stomach has churned at least three times tonight, two-thirds of which occurred before the pizza. There has to be a reason, and I can’t help but wonder what it is.
Normally, I wouldn’t even consider the possibility of dating a football player, but after the haranguing from my family last night, I clearly need to shake things up. Maybe a good old scientific experiment with Blake Boden at the center of it is the answer.
All I’d need is a hypothesis to get started.
If I date Blake Boden, I’ll be chemically happier.
Not exactly testable. I try again.
Prolonged periods of time spent with Blake Boden make a marked difference in happiness.
Again, Lex, what’s the unit of measurement for happiness?
I shake my head to clear it and surreptitiously glance at Blake’s carved cheekbones and freakishly charming floppy ginger-blond hair. I always suspected I’d be attracted to men with dark eyes and dark hair—but something about the combination of Blake’s unsuspecting, innocent look and undeniably fascinating charisma has a way of setting me straight.
As we climb the steps in front of the Beckley Theater to take a seat in the pedestrian court, ice cream procured from Brower Center for dessert after eating our slices of pizza on the walk there, Blake slows his steps and reaches out for my arm, gently forcing me to face him. “So? What’s your conclusion on the pizza? Was it really as bad as you thought?”
“Honestly?” I ask, my normal blunt delivery faltering a little in deference to his feelings.
“Yes. Of course. Tell me how you really feel.”
“Okay,” I agree with a nod, taking a deep breath and visualizing the smell and feel of room 517 of Graham Hall. Dirty gym socks and damp laundry, I’m convinced, hold more appeal. “It was worse.”
“What?” he scoffs, a growing smile settling a small dimple into his cheek. “Worse than a New York Department of Health violation?”
I nod, taking a lick of my ice cream cone before it can melt all over my hand. Blake’s eyes are locked on the motion. I swallow quickly, wincing slightly at the frigid feel in my throat, and explain. “Sanitation was nonexistent, and the ingredients were sitting in bowls on his nightstand next to a pack of cigarettes and two condoms. Overall taste of the pizza was good, but I’m pretty sure we’re both in for a night of violent consequences.”
“Aha.” His smile looks like victory. “So, you admit…it tasted good.”
I roll my eyes. “Yes…it tasted fine.”
“You didn’t say fine before. You said good. And you don’t strike me as the type of girl who isn’t precise with her words.”
“Here’s something precise—smug isn’t a good look on you.”
“Not possible.” He chuckles. “Everything is a good look on me.”
“Oh, wow. Okay. Smug and cocky.”
Blake sits down on the top step in front of the theater and rubs the air atop the spot next to him to entice me to join him, unaffected, at least outwardly, by my analysis of his personality.
I have to suspect his confidence is part of his mysterious, scientific appeal.
“Come on,” he insists at my lack of compliance. “Sit down. Just for a little while. At least long enough to eat the rest of your ice cream.”
I do as he says with a roll of my eyes and a deep, beleaguered sigh that makes him laugh. Surprisingly, though, the real reason I sit down is because I want to.
Under normal circumstances, spending time with a football player—the football player, arguably—from Dickson would be out of the question. But now that I’ve given in, Blake’s mystique raises too many questions to short-cut the evening.
“What made you choose Dickson? Given that you grew up in Southern California, I can’t imagine this was a school on your initial short list.”
I take a lick of ice cream, and he smiles. “Ah, see, I guess you don’t know all my stats. My grandfather went here. Played quarterback on one of the first Dickson teams to make it to the play-offs. In fact, he was a part of the graduating class you mentioned just tonight, at Double C.”