Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 107803 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 539(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107803 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 539(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
To face me.
I dart out of sight, not wanting to be caught eavesdropping.
Strained silence passes until my phone stops buzzing, whoever it is hanging up.
"I'll be back for it," the man says after a moment.
"I know." Santino's voice is so quiet I can hardly hear it. "I know you will."
Footsteps start through the room again, heading my way. Panicked, I turn, trying to tread lightly as I bolt down the long hallway, turning the corner and pausing. Contemplating, I hunch against the wall, bending down to absently shift through my backpack, pretending to be occupied with something. I hear him as he makes his way down the hall toward me, toward the front doors, my heart thumping hard in my chest at the sound of his calculated footsteps.
He leisurely rounds the corner near me. My eyes shift that way, staring at his shiny black dress shoes, my stomach sinking when they slow before coming to a dead stop right in front of me.
"Yours?"
I glance up, catching a glimpse of his face for the first time. Holy fuck me, it's not what I expected, yet it's everything I ever anticipated from someone so striking. He's older—thirty, at least, maybe pushing forty—but his skin has a youthful glow. There's a dusting of hair along his jaw like he hasn't bothered to shave in a few days. His brown hair isn't short, but it isn't long either, a tangle of wayward curl pushed back on his head. He either spent a long time perfecting it, or he rolled right out of bed that way.
Either way, I'm impressed.
Despite maybe, possibly (but hopefully not) being a hell of a lot older than me, I have to admit he's drop-dead gorgeous. So good looking, in fact, that I can hardly stop myself from ogling him, my eyes meeting his bright blue ones after a long moment of practically eye-fucking him every which way imaginable.
He cocks an eyebrow at me. It would probably be comical if it weren't so goddamn sexy.
"Yours?" he says again.
It isn't until he repeats the word that I even realize he's holding something. I freeze, spotting the familiar cell phone with the pink glittery case in his palm. His hand dwarfs the phone, his fingers strong and sturdy, the tips calloused, the skin scarred. I don't know what this man does, but he uses his hands.
A lot.
"Oh, uh, yeah." I reach for my phone, hesitating before taking it from him. "How did you—?"
I don't finish my question, and he doesn't answer it. Instead, a small smirk tugs the corners of his lips, revealing a set of deep dimples as he drops his hand. He stands there for a moment, staring down as he towers over me, at least six inches taller. He's staring at me intently, as if there's going to be some kind of test he's studying for.
He might pass it, as hard as he's looking.
Shaking his head, the man turns and strides away, not saying another word.
"Hey, it's me," I sigh into the phone after the beep. My mother's probably the last person on earth with an old school tape recording answering machine. "I was just giving you a call back. So, uh, ring me when you get the chance. Love you!"
Melody laughs when I hang up. She's standing in front of the mirror, fixing her hair, already dressed for the night at Timbers I still haven't technically agreed to. She looks ridiculous, covered in neon, a headband on like she just stepped out of an Olivia Newton John music video. "How's Mama Reed?"
I shrug, tossing my phone down on my desk. She was who had been calling when my phone was in the classroom.
Melody doesn't wait for any sort of explanation, turning to me as she changes the subject. "What are you wearing?"
"Uh..." I glance down at myself. "Clothes."
"Not now. I mean tonight."
"Clothes," I repeat. What the hell else would I wear? "Probably some jeans and—"
"Jeans?" She gasps, interrupting me. "Oh no, no… that's not gonna work."
She goes straight for my closet, sliding the door open to root through my clothes. There isn't much in there—at least, not compared to her side. I have to do laundry every two weeks or I'll be naked, whereas I'm pretty sure she has enough clothes shoved in her closet to last all year.
The dirty laundry surrounding her seems to confirm it. Less than ten feet separates her bed from mine, her entire half of the room a mountain of belongings haphazardly strewn wherever there is space, whereas my half tends to be little more than an open trail leading her to the door.
It's not possible for us to be any more different. Melody's an F5 tornado, and I've easily settled into my roll of playing National Guard and cleaning up her messes.
It's hard to believe we've only known each other for a few months. We moved in the beginning of freshman year, complete strangers, acquiescing to live together in a virtual walk-in closet. Melody did it for character building, she says. I did it because I had no other choice.
Where else would I find a place to live in Manhattan for four thousand a semester? Nowhere.
"You have, like, nothing in here," Melody complains, moving from my closet to my dresser. Much to her disappointment, there's even less in there. Giving up, she retreats back to her side, opening her own closet to fight the avalanche of fabric. "Lucky for you, we wear the same size."
I have quite a bit more ass and thighs, but she scoffs when I bring that up, like I'm bragging. Melody is downright gorgeous, sleek blonde hair and unnaturally green eyes. She looks like she belongs on a Victoria's Secret catwalk.
When she doesn't look like Neon Barbie, that is.
She pulls out clothes and flings them across the room at me. I grimace. Spandex. "You're just prepared for everything, aren't you?"
"You have to be," she says, turning her focus back to the mirror again. "You never know what life with throw at you."