Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 105815 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105815 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
I scrunch my nose. “Stop talking in riddles. Why am I in a safe?”
“No reason.”
“You think I’m weird,” I mutter.
“I never said that.”
“You think I’m boring.”
“You haven’t been boring a day in your life.”
“You think I’m not good enough.”
“Let that go,” he says. “You’re perfect the way you are. You are loyal though. Like me, I guess. It’s a real bitch, isn’t it?”
“You’re not nice to me. Ever. Maybe once.”
“Ever wonder why?” he drawls.
“I don’t like you!” I say.
“Liar.”
I sputter.
He takes down a cup and pours coffee in, then sends me a glance. “Lots of cream? About half?”
When has he noticed I like my coffee with fifty percent creamer?
I nod. “Pumpkin spice creamer. It’s in the fridge, on the side, near the middle.”
He turns and opens it. He’s wearing the same lavender Chucks but a different shirt, short-sleeved with his Greek letters on the back. His forearms are tightly roped and muscled as he grasps the door of the fridge, and his backside is tight and, well, magnificent. He’s got one of those bubble asses you want to put your hands on and—
“Don’t touch!” I yell, and he flips around.
“What? No creamer?”
I rub my face, pleading with myself to be straight. “No, no, creamer is fine. Just… What do you want?” I look around. “Where did Lila and Colette go?”
He smirks. “Den. From the noise, it sounds like they’re playing Fortnite.”
“Oh.” I take a seat at the table. “Hey, don’t tell Donovan I was high. He’s not a fan of Lila. Or Colette, really.” I pause. “I keep asking you to not tell him stuff. Is that against your bro code?”
“Yeah.” He brings me the coffee and sits across from me. He doesn’t get too close or touch me, his movements made intentionally to avoid contact. I might be stoned, but I haven’t stopped analyzing him. He leans back in his seat and studies me. “Why doesn’t he like them?”
“They’re misfits and rebels, I guess. Lila’s going to Hollywood to be a screenwriter when she graduates. Colette’s a sculptor. Donovan doesn’t understand being different, but it’s how I grew up. I moved all over. My parents left me with friends sometimes, mostly scholars who taught me. I mean, I learned physics from a real physicist in Switzerland and literature from a professor in London. I don’t have any siblings or grandparents. It was hard, always bouncing around, and we never had much money. Is that revealing? Yeah. Shut up, Ana. Anyway, my parents adored me. They’re just different, you know? Free spirits who care for others—like Lila and Colette. They don’t judge. Why does he have an issue with pot? It’s legal in some places. I trust my gut, and those girls are awesome. Also, there’s a homeless woman I kind of want to be my grandma. Am I talking too much?”
“Oh yes, definitely.”
I take a long sip of my coffee. “Question: is it the S or the C that’s silent in the word scent?”
His lips quirk. “I have no idea. Drink up.”
I run my finger over the rim. “You want me sober. Today, I don’t want to be. What about sand? Do you think they called it that because it’s between the sea and the land?”
He gets me a refill then sits back down. “My body wash is mangoes. You notice a lot, Anastasia.”
Gingerly, I take a sip. “You say my name weird.”
He wipes at the crumbs on the table. “How’s that?”
“You linger over it, like you’re about to take its clothes off and fuck it.”
“Weed is truth serum for you.”
“You ever been high?”
“Once by accident when I ate something at the frat house. Football is front and center. Drugs are a no-go for me. I can’t even take—” He stops.
“What?”
He spins a nacho chip around on his plate. “I have ADHD. The drugs don’t work on me.”
“That explains your energy, always twisting that ring. Honestly?”
“Mhmm.”
“Your vivacity is part of your appeal. Women see the electricity you emit and want to grab hold of it. Ride the bull. Get electrocuted.”
“I kill girls with my snake?”
“Shut up.”
“Vivacity,” he says with a smirk. “Another big word. Actually, I’m pretty chill—right now. You’re like…” He sighs. “The calm before a storm.”
“Hurricane Ana.”
“Hurricane Anastasia,” he says softly.
My breath hitches. “There it is. Sex—you’re dripping in it.”
He straightens his shoulders and gives me a deadpan look then repeats my name in a monotone. “Better?”
“No. You look like…” a walking, talking god. I wave my hands at him. “You.”
“I can’t help that you’re attracted to me.”
Oh. He went there.
My buzz flattens, and I grow silent as the tension in the room thickens. I lift my cup and drink coffee. I picture Donovan in my head. “I’m not. At all. You’re the total opposite of what I look for in a guy. I don’t do bad boys.”