Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 56169 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 281(@200wpm)___ 225(@250wpm)___ 187(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56169 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 281(@200wpm)___ 225(@250wpm)___ 187(@300wpm)
Asher’s grin is far too easy and comfortable. Like he’s at home wearing it, and gosh, does it ever look incredible on him. “I’ll amend what I said then. That shirt looks good on you.” His eyes focus on my chest, and for a second, I’m sure a nip slip has happened after all.
I self-consciously crank my head down, but nope. Everything’s well covered.
“Shall we go? I can drive us if that’s alright.”
I don’t know if it is, but I grab my purse from beside the door anyway. I feel frumpy next to all that godliness walking beside me, but Asher doesn’t even notice. He opens the car door for me like I’m a princess and even shuts it too.
No one has ever done that for me before.
Between the silence that doesn’t get filled, Asher’s delicious smelling cologne, and his nearness taking up the entire car, which is a good-sized sedan, and he’s technically not that close, I’m so nervous that my shirt is damp by the time we get to the theatre.
Yuck. Nothing like being an un-hot mess.
Asher buys the tickets and gets us two popcorns and drinks like he read my mind or magically knew the unspoken rules about sharing. Because sharing means that our hands might accidentally brush, which would be devastating because the fewer accidental touches we have, the better. I think. I mean, yes, yes, I’m certain about that.
The theatre is packed, and we have to squeeze down a row of people to get to our seats. Asher is right beside me, but I take care to lean as far to the right as possible, over to a big sweaty guy who is wheezing with every breath and smells like a cross between old cheese and motor oil. He has a huge black beard, and I think I can see something moving around in there. As in, some kind of insect or something.
Still, I swallow down my revulsion at the beard of horror and lean in his direction because it’s better than leaning into Asher. By better, I mean safer because then, my hormones are less tempted to riot and pitch a full-on revolt that ends with me frantically kissing him again.
My nipples are now so hard that they’re practically piercing through the bag of popcorn I have cradled against my chest, and the movie hasn’t even started yet.
Thank fuck, it finally does after a few excruciating minutes, and the theatre is also full by the time the lights go down.
I throw myself into devouring popcorn, which isn’t hard because I haven’t had dinner yet, and I’m starving and also watching the world’s most cheesy action-packed D-grade movie. I honestly think the guy’s beard beside me is more interesting, though interesting in an incredibly nasty sort of way. There’s more action going on in there than on the screen.
The movie is about twenty minutes in, and I’m wondering how the heck I’m going to get through the rest because it is bad with a big sheep-like sounding ‘baaaaa-d,’ when Asher makes a strange noise. It sounds like he’s choking on a popcorn kernel, and I turn so rapidly that I nearly spill mine all over Mr. Crawly Beard’s Lap. I apologize in whispered tones and maneuver myself more carefully.
It’s pretty dark in the theatre, but I can see that Asher’s face is purple. As in choking, I can’t breathe, and I’m near death kind of purple.
“Holy god,” I hiss. “Are you okay?”
His jaw clenches, and I swear his right eyeball ticks. “Yeah.”
At least he can talk. If he can talk, then he’s not choking, and he’s not going to die. But why is he such a horrible color? It’s not hot in the place. In fact, it’s nicely air-conditioned. “Are you sick?”
He shakes his head, but it’s too fast.
“Oh my god, are you allergic to popcorn? Or…or soda?”
“No.”
“Maybe they put peanuts into the butter or something. Are you allergic to nuts?”
“No.”
“Strange oils?”
“No.”
“Butter that’s not really butter?”
“No.”
“Are you allergic to anything? Maybe someone’s wearing something in here that’s doing it.”
“No.”
He doesn’t shrug. Or smile. And that’s probably a bad sign. Also, his face brightens and turns into a deeper shade of plum, which is seriously not good.
“Are you sure you’re not sick? Is your tummy okay?” I can’t believe I just asked him if his tummy is okay. Jesus. Mark that one down on the list of humiliating questions not to ask someone you barely even know. If this were a real date, I’m sure I wouldn’t have a second one.
Maybe that’s what I need to do. But as tempting as it is, no, I can’t do that. I can’t purposely drive him away. His grandmother will come down on me like a ton of bricks and freaking fire my ass, which would then really suck. So, for now, I have to ride this out.