Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 99282 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 496(@200wpm)___ 397(@250wpm)___ 331(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99282 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 496(@200wpm)___ 397(@250wpm)___ 331(@300wpm)
“Honestly, you’re so good all the time,” Kat continues. “You never leave your dirty dishes in the sink like the rest of us, and you always empty the rubbish bin.”
“Yes, but I’ve broken the rules, haven’t I? Canoodling with Logan in the pool like that.”
“Oh, sod off. You can’t be serious. So the two of you sort of flirted a bit. Surely your headmistress can’t take issue with that?”
I suppose I’ll find out.
First thing tomorrow morning.
I have plans to go round to Mrs. Halliday’s office and give it to her straight as soon as I arrive. She’ll admire my bravery and tact. She’ll think I’m a wonderful representation of her staff. Maybe she’ll even use me as an example in front of the rest of the teachers. If only you lot were half as wonderful as Candace.
Except I don’t get the chance because of Yasmine and her insistence that we try out a new sushi place on the way back from church.
I should have known from its location that we were in for it. A dimly lit alley—really?
To me, the restaurant looked like it’d serve you something one step above food you’d find behind a dumpster soaking in street juice, but Yasmine insisted all the best haunts look like this. Real hole-in-the-wall is what she said. Now it’s Sunday night and we’re all sick. Worse, we’ve only got the one bathroom.
“This is the absolute pits!” Yasmine groans from her post on the floor in front of the fridge. She’s been relegated to the kitchen sink and trash can. I’ve got the toilet, and Kat’s in the shower with the curtain drawn, crying into a bucket.
My mobile rings and I answer it with my eyes closed, expecting it to be my mum. She likes to check in on me on Sunday nights, but instead of Mum’s chipper accent, I hear a familiar masculine voice that sends me into a panic.
“Candace? You there?”
LOGAN!
“Who is it?! The hospital?!” Yasmine shouts. “Tell them to send round an ambulance.”
“Three ambulances!” Kat adds.
“What are your roommates shouting about?”
“Oh! Err…”
I try to muster up enough energy to sit up and talk to him like a proper human being, but I can’t do it. After losing the contents of my stomach and probably 95% of my body weight down the toilet, I am bone-weary and weak. I close my eyes and drop back down to the floor. My mobile sits on my chest, on speakerphone, so I don’t have to use my arm muscles trying to hold it against my ear.
“Oh, it’s nothing. They think we’re dying.”
“And are you?”
“Maybe.”
“You do sound like death.”
“It’s because of Yaz,” I say, massaging my temples. “She’s poisoned me with dumpster fish.”
“It was supposed to be good! It had loads of good reviews on Yelp!” she argues.
“No, YAZ!” Kat shouts back brusquely. “The other restaurant had good reviews. Yours had no reviews, remember?!”
“Oh shit,” Logan cuts in. “You guys had bad fish?”
“Loads of it. It was just so cheap, and once you got over the sewer smell, it wasn’t so bad.”
“Oh stop. Stop talking about it,” Yasmine says, audibly gagging on her words.
“And now you all have food poisoning,” he posits.
“Bingo.”
“I’ll come over and bring sustenance.”
“You can’t!” I moan.
“Then you come here and I’ll nurse you back to health.”
“I couldn’t walk two feet, let alone make it all the way to your flat.”
“Send me your address and I’ll be there in a second.”
“No! You can’t—”
I’m cut off by Kat reaching out of the shower to yank my mobile off my chest. She’s the one who gives him our address, thus it’s her fault he shows up twenty minutes later and walks right in without even so much as knocking. None of us has moved positions. What’s the point? There’s nothing I could do to improve my appearance at this rate. And besides, I couldn’t summon the energy even if I wanted to.
His shadow falls over my supine body, and I blink one eye open. He’s there in jeans and a white t-shirt with a cool forest green jacket layered on top. His hair looks freshly washed and his skin glows with a healthy, warm tan.
“Hey champ,” he quips, looking down at me.
“Even upside down you’re bloody gorgeous.”
He grins and reaches over to set a bag on the bathroom vanity.
“Don’t look at me too closely,” I warn. “And don’t breathe through your nose or you might pass out.”
The amount of bodily waste that has passed through our plumbing system in the last four hours is alarming, to say the least.
He bends down and brushes my sweaty hair off my forehead, assuring me, “It’s nothing compared to our locker room after a game. Don’t worry.”
“Do you have to be so nice all the time?”
He frowns. “I’m not that nice.”
I think I understand his reaction. Nice is his cute. He doesn’t want to be called nice just like I don’t want to be called cute. It irks him, and that only makes him seem even nicer.