Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 117574 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 588(@200wpm)___ 470(@250wpm)___ 392(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117574 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 588(@200wpm)___ 470(@250wpm)___ 392(@300wpm)
I take a deep breath, swing my car door open, and march out of my diagonally parked car with my head held high, and the man I’ve come to despise jumps back to accommodate me, his piercing, blue eyes wide.
“What are you doing?” he gasps out.
I slam my car door. “Going to my job interview.” Without further explanation, I march away. But after a couple steps, I can’t resist throwing over my shoulder, “I hope you’re late for your interview and you tank it when you get there.”
“Yeah, back at you,” he calls out. “Chin up, though, if your interviewer is an old, skeevy guy without an ounce of character, all you have to do is call him ‘smoking hot’ and ‘man candy,’ and I’m sure the job will be yours.”
“Fuck you,” I shout, raising both arms to double-flip him off, right before swinging open the door to the coffee place and waltzing inside.
Thankfully, the line inside the coffee place is short. Bonus points, the barista who serves me is a sweetheart who puts a rush on my order when I tell her the situation. As she makes the drink, I race to the bathroom to pee and check my hair and makeup—and, lucky me, by the time I’m exiting the restroom, the barista is calling my name with perfect timing.
I wouldn’t have believed it possible, but I’m now on course to make it to my interview at 7:58, coffee in hand, provided I sprint to the guy’s office at full speed now. I’m talking I’ve got to haul ass. Yes, I’ll be there three minutes later than Ryan recommended, but it’s also two minutes early for the interview, so all things considered, I’m pretty impressed with myself.
“You’re an angel on earth!” I shout to the barista as I sprint toward the front door of the coffee place. Once outside, I run like the wind up the sidewalk toward the guy’s office building a block away . . .
Crash.
The coffee cup goes flying. My body goes tilting. And, suddenly, I’m thudding onto my ass on the hard sidewalk. I look up in shock from my landing spot and discover I’ve collided with him. The boy bander. The asshole. My nemesis. I look down at my chest and discover—oh, shit—the front of my white outfit is now splattered with dark, brown coffee. I look like a dairy cow. The kind in cartoons that are always white with black splotches.
“Are you okay?” the asshole gasps out. “Oh my god. I’m so sorry. Are you hurt? Did the coffee burn you?”
In a heartbeat, my shock gives way to fury. “You did that on purpose!”
“W-what? No. I was running because I’m late for my interview, and—”
“You ran straight into me!”
“Not on purpose, though. I was high-tailing it because I’m super late.”
I’m stuffing down tears now. “It was a blind corner, and you ran around it without slowing down?”
He runs his hand through his light-brown hair. “Yeah, I-I had to park several b-blocks away, so I was running at top speed. I-I should have been more careful. Are you hurt?”
I look down at my splattered chest again, hoping it’s not as bad as I’d initially surmised, but it is. Oh, fuck. My brain suddenly registers cold wetness against my ass cheeks. On top of everything else, I think I’m sitting in a mud puddle left over from last night’s rain. Fucking Seattle.
“I’m not physically hurt, I don’t think,” I mutter. “But in all other ways, I’m totally fucked.”
The guy reaches for me, apparently trying to help me up, but I bat his hand away and shout, “Don’t you dare touch me!”
“You seriously think I did this to you on p-purpose?” he says. “It was a blind corner. You said so yourself.”
“You followed me here? I asked your daddy to help me, instead of you, and now you’re hell-bent on making me pay for that unthinkable crime?”
“Are you insane? I was already sitting there when you drove up, remember? I couldn’t p-possibly have followed you here.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose and murmur, “Please, stop talking.” I take a moment to breathe in and out, so I won’t burst into tears in front of this asshole, and when I’m in full control of myself, I get up and twist around to try to peek at my ass. “Is my butt covered in mud?”
“Does it matter? I think the coffee on your chest has already ruined the outfit.”
I hang my head. He’s right.
What would be the point in heading to that interview now, when I’m late, coffee-less, and my formerly crisp, white outfit now looks like a series of Rorschach ink blots?
The boy bander looks anxious. He glances at his phone and exhales. “Um, so . . . If you’re not hurt, then why don’t you give me your Venmo, and I’ll send you money for dry cleaning. Or a new outfit, maybe. Whatever.” He looks at his phone again. “I-I really have to go.” His blue eyes are begging me to accept his solution and set him free. Clearly, he’s freaking out about his interview. In fact, he looks on the cusp of physically combusting. And I like it. Good. Let him suffer. If this little run-in of ours is going to cost me the perfect job, then it’s only fair for him to suffer the same fate.