Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 100523 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100523 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
“They’re jackasses,” I say to Rachel, apologizing in the crowded corner of the kitchen, by a tray of edible eyeballs.
Her smile says it’s no big deal. “It’s okay. They’re your teammates. It doesn’t bother me.” She nibbles on the corner of her lips then raises her chin and takes a breath. “But why does it bother you so much?”
The question comes out like she’s feeling me out. Like it’s hard to ask, but like she really wants to know.
And after tonight and the way we crashed into each other with such need and desire, then the way I said I’ll always be early, I’m starting to entertain new ideas.
Ideas that make me want to say something.
To tell her—I am so infatuated with you, and I can’t stand the thought of anyone else looking at you the way I do.
But at a party? With loud music reverberating through speakers? And spiderweb nacho-spread and mummy jalapeño poppers and a hundred of our friends? A party where we’re, for all intents and purposes, working? Where I have to make the second to last video in a contract that’s been chasing me?
No. Now’s not the time. You don’t make a big play on first down. You just…move the ball.
So I answer her question with a question. “Did it bother you when I kissed you outside the car?”
Pretty sure it didn’t. But I want to hear it in words, not just deeds. I was so caught up in the moment that I didn’t think. I did something that could radically fuck with this whole just friends thing we’ve built at Date Night.
Something that Zena and app users and anyone could have a field day with.
But I loved kissing her freely. I want to know her toes were curling too.
She pins me with a heady gaze. “Couldn’t you tell how much I didn’t mind it?”
My dumb heart thumps.
Then my head does.
“Ouch!”
It’s Hamlin smacking me. “Payback, bro,” he says.
I roll my eyes. The moment is over, and I’d better focus on what we came to do. I whip out my phone and hit record.
After we capture some footage of us at the party meeting new friends, saying hi again to old friends, talking to the camera, and even dragging my brother and Hazel into the shot—much to Axel’s chagrin—I finally hit end.
This series is fun, I suppose.
But what I like most are the moments when the cameras don’t roll. When Rachel and I can be ourselves with each other and with friends.
Like when Hazel turns to Rachel and waggles a bottle of chardonnay at her. “Want to hang in the backyard, drink wine, and look at the stars as we debate who had the most clever costume?”
“I’m so there,” Rachel says.
Is this some of what she’s missed out on for the last five years too? A chance to be herself, the girl who likes cheap wine and fun costumes rather than pearls and snooty sommeliers?
Seems so, since she grabs her wine mug and shoves it Hazel’s way. “But pour now. Don’t wait another second.”
I’ve seen Rachel hang out with friends before. But I’m staring at her holding a mug of white wine like it’s fucking enchanting.
I don’t even know why, except everything she does is.
And every time I see her, it’s harder and harder for me to just be okay with the way things were.
When I want this.
I want all these guys to know they can’t even pretend to hit on my girl. I want everyone in San Francisco to see me kiss her. I want her to feel what it’s like when a man makes a declaration for you in public.
But what the fuck am I supposed to do with all these emotions bubbling up inside me? In a flash, that enchantment turns to irritation. To utter frustration.
“Fuck,” I mutter to myself, then turn away from her to grab a beer from the cooler in the kitchen. After I open it, Axel joins me, clapping a hand on my shoulder as Hazel and Rachel motion that they’re going to the backyard.
“Hey, just wondering if you wanted me to write your emotions on your sleeve,” he deadpans as he surveys my open lab coat.
I turn to him in his cop uniform—with Grammar Police embroidered on the pocket—and sigh. “They already are,” I admit.
“Yeah, no shit,” he says, then lifts his beer and tips some back. “Here’s a crazy idea. You could tell her how you feel.”
I glance around the party. It’s loud and hot and everyone’s here. “Now’s hardly the time.”
“That’s probably true, but you could, I dunno, find a time.” Despite his joking words, he stares at me seriously. “Think about it, Carter. You don’t have to do it tonight. But it’s eating you up inside. And I know what that’s like.”
“What’s it like?” I ask, sounding miserable and needing the corroboration.