Total pages in book: 55
Estimated words: 51959 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 260(@200wpm)___ 208(@250wpm)___ 173(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 51959 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 260(@200wpm)___ 208(@250wpm)___ 173(@300wpm)
“You were really, really drunk,” he says.
Now that my eyes are fully adjusted, I can see more of his features— the sharp arcs of his cheeks, the way his brows shadow his eyes. The room is so gray that it looks like we’re in a black and white picture, which serves to make Finn look like some old Hollywood star.
“I don’t get hung over,” I say.
“Must be your superpower,” Finn says.
“Wasted on me, then. I hardly ever drink.”
Finn nods, then says, “I never drink.”
I frown at him. “Really?”
“Really.”
“Liar. I saw you with a beer.”
“You saw me holding a beer. Easier to fake it than to explain why I don’t.”
I pause, but the near darkness and our proximity gives me courage to prod further. “Why don’t you?”
“Ah, well…” he says, glancing down, smiling a little— though it’s a defense mechanism, not a real smile, I’m sure. “My dad drank. He sucked.”
“What did he… I mean, um, did he – ”
“He just drank a lot. Cleaning your drunk ass father’s vomit off the floor a few dozen times will make drinking seem a lot less glamorous.”
“Oh,” I say, then realize something. “Oh, and you had to take care of me drunk@ Wow. I’m sorry.”
“Taking care of you was much different,” he says, and the low, sexy tone in his voice gives me goose bumps.
“Well. Still.” I clear my throat nervously.
“Still what?”
I glance at him and his strong, intense stare makes my breath catch a little in my throat. “Still, I feel bad that you had to leave the party on my account.”
He shrugs. “It wasn’t a big sacrifice, Kenley.”
I like the way he says my name. But then I suddenly flash on a memory of Finn in a corner hitting on some giggling beautiful woman at the party last night.
“It wasn’t a sacrifice to leave that girl behind?” I challenge him.
He looks confused. “Which girl?”
I laugh and shake my head. “Exactly.”
Finn leans forward a little and cocks his head at me. “You sound jealous.”
“I’m not jealous.”
“Are you sure?” he teases.
“There’s no point in being jealous,” I say, catching myself before I say anything more incriminating. And then I wave in his general direction, feigning indifference. “This conversation is silly. Your conquests are none of my business.”
Finn rolls his eyes at me. “My conquests? You’ve really got something against football players, don’t you?”
I shrug a little. “In my experience, you’re all more or less the same, if we’re being honest.”
“Come on. You really think Stewart Adams and I have a lot in common?”
I paused. “Okay. There are exceptions. You and Adams are nothing alike. That guy is such an asshole.”
“And I’m not.”
“No, you aren’t. Even though it was a pretty asshole move to be in the shower when I showed up that first day, you know. Were you trying to scare me off? Tell me honestly.”
“Even if I was, you didn’t look particularly scared.” I give him an exacerbated look and he sighs. “I forgot you were coming over. I wanted to use the shower. It has a steam setting.”
“Seriously? I want to try it,” I say, wondering what the point of a steam setting is. Just another way for a rich person to spend his money, I wager.
“Well, let’s go try it right now,” Finn says, and his voice is a little lower than before, a little more scandalous, a little less…
“Don’t do that,” I say hurriedly, looking at my hands. I pull my knees up to my chest.
“Do what?” he asks, startled.
I take a breath, consider my words carefully. “Act like you want to get in a fancy shower with me. It’s mean.”
“I’m not acting,” Finn says seriously.
“Okay, fine, but even if you aren’t, you know that I’m not—I’m not like those girls at Football House, okay? I mean, obviously I’m not, they were like models, but my point is just that I’m not going to be a random hookup and then it’s done. We have to work together, remember? So don’t act like something can happen and then we can pretend like it didn’t because that isn’t going to work—“
“Kenley,” Finn says once, twice, a third time, growing in volume until I fall silent. He looks like he might laugh at me, and it’s suddenly infuriating. This, this right here, is the way that all football players are the same—they all think they can have what they want, when they want it, and don’t think about how it might make someone else feel. It’s all a big game to them, even largely decent guys like Finn.
Forget this, I think, swallowing the hurt that’s welling up in my chest. I kick my feet over the edge of the bed and move toward my clothes. The fact that I’m not wearing pants hits me right as cool air licks at the tops of my thighs, but whatever; it’s a testament to how frustrated I am that being without pants is less embarrassing to me than staying in this room a moment longer. I stuff my dress in my purse and sit down, sliding into my shoes and stooping to do the straps. Heels and a Harton t-shirt. I look like some kind of college-themed stripper-gram. I rise.