Total pages in book: 164
Estimated words: 157308 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 629(@250wpm)___ 524(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 157308 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 629(@250wpm)___ 524(@300wpm)
“Oooh. How quickly we skidded over to threats. You really don’t want me to marry Victor and now I have to find out the real reason why. Maybe my future hubby will have some ideas.” I pulled out my phone. “I’ll ask him now.”
“Don’t!” She made a grab for my phone and smacked Cato’s palm. His hand shot out, blocking her. “This isn’t funny, Sinclair.”
“You’re telling me. I’m tired of you four getting in my face. Back off and stay out of my business, or Mrs. Wilson hears about this conversation too.”
Stiffly, Saylor lifted her chin, staring down her nose at me. I didn’t have to be a mind reader to know the thoughts running through her head weren’t pleasant.
“Never let it be said I’m a vindictive person,” Saylor said, swiping her hair over her shoulder. “I’ll give you to the end of the week to make your decision. By then, you should have a better understanding of the consequences for refusing me.” She put her mouth to my ear, dropping her voice. “If you thought the last couple of weeks were bad, you have no idea the hell you’re in for.”
Stepping back, Saylor turned to leave and— “Whoops.”
Her latte launched out of her grip, flying at my face. I opened my mouth to scream as Cato flashed out of the corner of my eye.
Whacking the cup, he sent the latte spiraling, spilling its treat on everyone in a two-foot radius—including Saylor, Piper, Gabriella, and Everleigh.
“Ahh!” Saylor flipped out, smacking her hopelessly ruined white lace top. “You freak! Look what you did!”
“Hey,” the guard shouted, running toward us. “What’s going on over there?”
Cato grabbed my hand and we sprinted off. I was laughing so hard, he had to tug me wheezing behind him. The guard shouted for us to come back. We didn’t stop till we arrived inside the English building.
I doubled over, grabbing my knees and laughing myself breathless. “Cato, that was amazing. I take back what I said. If your daily stalking means I get to see that look on Saylor’s face again, you can come with me anywhere I go.”
“Yes.” Cato tipped my chin up, silencing my giggles. I sobered under the intensity in the only part of his face I needed to see. “Mine.”
With that, he crouched down and took off growling and snapping at two guys from my class, standing near the entrance to the hall. I left them to their fate, stumbling inside.
Professor Anthony stopped mid-lecture. “Nice of you to join us, Miss Sinclair.”
“Sorry I’m late.”
“You’re in college now. You can show up late and throw away this expensive education all you want.”
I gritted my teeth as not-so-hushed snickers echoed his reply. Once again, the nice, understanding guy I spoke to when we were alone, was replaced with the asshole that showed up in public.
“It won’t happen again,” I said.
Humming, he lifted a paper off his desk. “Take this. We’re going over the common issues I found in last week’s writing assignment and discussing how to improve.”
I reached for my paper—glad mine wasn’t one of the assignments with issues. Professor Anthony gave us the paper before Owen attacked me. I did it while I was recovering at Katie’s house, because a prompt discussing how a writer’s pain transforms into deep, relatable storytelling was spot-on. I had a lot to say about pain. With the weekly papers now graded pass/fail, I was open, honest, and more vulnerable than I ever was in an essay I turned in to a teacher.
Excited, I grabbed my sheet, flipping it over. My hopes burst like a blimp.
Average. You’ve moved past empty, overused metaphors to make way for saccharine tales of trauma making you stronger. A message we’ve heard many times and in every way. If you don’t have something new to say, don’t bother putting pen to paper.
“Take your seat, Miss Sinclair.” My head snapped up, paper crinkling in my fist. “We were just about to get into communicating a message in a way that feels new to the reader. In other words, originality.”
I trudged to the top row. The pass written across the top of my page was hollow when compared to the words beneath it. I couldn’t look any deeper into why. I wasn’t failing the class—that’s all that should matter. I wasn’t upset about falling over in Professor Anthony’s estimation.
Of course not. I threw my bag at the chair next to me. This paper was good and he knows it. The man has ridiculous expectations. I bet he shredded everyone’s assignment. That’s why we’re devoting an entire class to reviewing it. He’s incapable of giving anyone a break.
I clenched my teeth all through class, feeling each comment on “originality,” “tired similes,” and “shallow as a spoonful of milk” like a dart through the chest. By the time the clock ticked nine thirty, I was bursting to tell him what I thought too.