Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 65192 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 326(@200wpm)___ 261(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65192 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 326(@200wpm)___ 261(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
I’m glad the two single guys from Harlow’s new study group—the ones she tried to lure to our rooftop with promises of free beer and gourmet cake baked by Cam’s new fiancée—had to work tonight. Who needs that kind of pressure? I’d much rather let my freak flag fly on the dance floor than pretend to be normal for two future forensic accountants.
So why aren’t I dancing?
Why am I lying here with a warm beer in hand, wishing I was back in bed with the covers pulled over my head?
Is it just dread about meeting up with Mom and Dad on Sunday and confessing that I’m a jobless disappointment? Or is it the fact that all my best friends are now blissfully coupled up and banging happily ever after, while I’m alone with no love or fuckery in sight?
Or maybe I’m just annoyed that DJ Keith is playing Shania Twain after I specifically told him not to play country because I am from New Jersey, not Alabama, and country always makes me irritable or sad.
I’m a dry-eyed badass from way back but force me to listen to a song about a broken young woman with a baby in the backseat begging Jesus to take the wheel, and I will have to fight off a big sloppy cry. Conversely, blast a cheesy song about a guy in love with his truck, and I become so actively murderous I have to grab a cutting board and aggressively chop celery until the need to throw the speaker through the window passes.
People shouldn’t write songs about loving machinery. I mean, I love my computer, but I’m not going to write a fucking song about it. And I sure as hell wouldn’t write an anthem about wearing men’s shirts and short skirts and “feeling like a woman.”
Gag.
I don’t feel like a woman.
I feel like the kid picked last for gym class.
Except instead of dodgeball, it’s now the world of love, romance, and pleasure that I’m missing out on. And unlike gym class, there are no rules in place to ensure I’ll get my time on the court. I could spend the rest of my life on the sidelines, watching the people I love couple up and build lives that have less and less space in them for me.
It won’t be personal or cruel.
They won’t mean to leave me behind, it’s just what happens when some people move forward, and another remains stuck.
Soon, I’ll be like Peter Pan, alone in Neverland after the lost boys and Wendy have grown-up and flown away. Except I won’t even have Captain Hook to fight with or mermaid friends to distract me from my abandonment.
I will just be…alone.
“But you like being alone,” I mutter aloud. It’s the truth, but for some reason the words sound like a lie and my next swig of beer tastes sour on my tongue.
I’m about to ditch the beer and grab another macaron—surely, I can digest one more cookie without going into sugar shock—when I catch sight of a party crasher circling the edge of the dance floor.
I instantly know that the dude is here without an invite because—
None of my friends or my friends’ friends dress like motorcycle club thugs. We’re good gamer boys and girls—or good at pretending we’ve never snuck weed gummies into the dorm sophomore year in advance of a binge-watch of the Bill & Ted’s Excellent Adventure franchise—and collectively, we’re about as intimidating as a burrow full of baby bunnies. Even Caroline, my basketball-playing roomie from freshman year, is a gentle giant. When she’s not dominating the court, she enjoys knitting, decoupage, gardening podcasts, and speaking softly in an inside voice, even when picnicking in Central Park. Which can make understanding her difficult at times, but that’s what “leaning in” is for, right?
As he prowls the perimeter of the party, Mr. Stranger in Leather is slowly but surely shifting the vibe from easy-breezy nerd fest to midnight at the watering hole on the savanna. My Vintage Video Game Club girls have stopped dancing to watch him with the wide, half-terrified, half-intrigued eyes of eager prey and Cam and my other guy friends are clenching their jaws in his direction, silently warning him that they won’t allow any women to be gobbled up in one sexy bite on their watch.
If I’d ever been in this man’s presence before, I would remember it. He’s not only massive—easily a foot taller than my five foot two—he’s also offensively gorgeous. I am seriously and earnestly offended by his deliciously square jaw, bulging biceps, and that rakish swoop of hair that somehow manages to look styled and effortless at the same time. And I won’t even get started on his eyes, those devilishly clever, dark brown eyes that sparkle so bright they flash in the near darkness.