Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 129110 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 646(@200wpm)___ 516(@250wpm)___ 430(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129110 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 646(@200wpm)___ 516(@250wpm)___ 430(@300wpm)
“What’s yours?” he clears his throat, and holy shit, I think I've made him uncomfortable.
Good!
“My what?” I realize I’m clenching my fists.
Am I waiting to punch someone?
“Your favorite color?” he lifts an eyebrow.
Oh yeah, duh.
“Pink,” I force myself to relax.
“How old are you?” his abrupt questioning catches me off guard, and he raises his stupid, perfect eyebrows again, waiting for me to reply. I brush a strand of hair behind my ear, wondering if I should lie, because what if he thinks I’m too young?
Why does it even matter? Jesus Elle, on what planet are you on that you’re suddenly so confident that he was definitely flirting and actually interested in you?
I think about it for another few seconds. It’s only a five-year difference anyway.
Eye roll. Majorly eye rolling myself right now.
“Twenty-three,” I mumble, and he returns to the magazine, saying nothing.
What the hell is happening?
We sit in silence, and it’s this exact moment I realize I have officially lost control of this interview.
After another few minutes I open my mouth to say something, but only air comes out. I sit back frustrated, staring at the questions, none of which are being asked or answered.
Do something, Elle!
I take another deep breath, my voice airy.
“Okay, so we’re starting to work on our February issue, so, um, my next questions is based on that.”
Silence.
I try to catch his eye, but he’s so engrossed in the magazine that I’m not sure he even hears me, except I see the corner of his mouth rise a little.
Was it what I said or something he read?
I loudly clear my throat, which finally gets his attention. I know he's looking at me now, but I can no longer look at him, especially as I ask this next part. We're not some magazine that asks interesting things, like about motivation or the driving force behind success, rather we sell the teen equivalent of... gossip. I focus on the balcony door just behind him as I muster the words. “What do you look for in a girl?”
More silence.
A minute later I sneak a peak. I still have his attention, and it's clear he enjoys seeing me flustered. "I-" I start to say something, unsure of what, when surprisingly his expression changes.
“I like someone who’s into the same things as me. Isn’t that what I’m supposed to say? Then you're gonna not so subtly list all those favorite foods and movies to get girls knickers in a twist and sell this," he holds up the magazine. "Leaving them thinking we have so much in common that we could actually be together."
"I-"
"If she likes scary movies I'm good. There. You can use that,” he sighs. "Is that one-dimensional enough for you?"
"It's, uh, fine," I croak, looking away until I hear his intake of air and glance up. His eyes soften in a way I wasn't expecting.
“Truthfully I find the exact opposite completely intriguing. I want to argue; otherwise, life’s a bore. Good looks don’t hurt either,” he clears his throat. “Wait, scratch that last part. It makes me sound like an arse.”
“Got it,” I let out a sigh of relief. At least I got something. Our eyes meet again. I know I’ll never get another chance with him like this ever again, especially after this disastrous interview, and my heart suddenly plummets, realizing this is probably my last time meeting Asher Montgomery.
Life suddenly seems a lot more boring.
“What about you?” his eyes widen.
"Me?" I gasp.
"Yeah," he chuckles. "What do you look for in a guy?"
“Do you do this to everyone who interviews you?”
"Do what?"
"Question them."
"It's only fair, is it not? You get to know about me, so I get to know about you? And no. I don't do this to anyone actually," his answer is matter of fact, like I’m supposed to just get it, only I'm feeling even more confused than before.
Embrace the crazy, right?
“Um... I guess I like a guy who’s nice?” it comes out as a question. I hate people who talk like that.
“Nice?” he makes a face, finally closing the magazine. He looks over, like my answer isn't good enough.
What the hell.
Over these past few seconds I’ve come to terms with enjoying this bizarre moment, which will never ever happen again, and instead of stifling it I let my attraction to him remain a light buzz in the room. The way he’s looking at me has me feeling alive, and even if it’s not genuine or real it's easy enough to pretend that it is.
"So you have a problem with my answer?" I argue. "Over what I like?"
“My grandfather is nice, but you’re not going to go after an eighty year old man,” he laughs. "Or are you?"
“Ah,” I joke, and we both laugh a carefree sound, almost like we're friends, like we're both enjoying ourselves and having a good time.