Total pages in book: 160
Estimated words: 153268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 766(@200wpm)___ 613(@250wpm)___ 511(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 153268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 766(@200wpm)___ 613(@250wpm)___ 511(@300wpm)
“Asshole?” I let loose a snarky smile. I knew what would happen if I didn’t say the word.
He exhaled somberly, like a disappointed teacher. “Not the first hole I have in mind, but I’ll take it. Two more shots.”
“Banana?” I remembered it was some type of fruit. Or maybe a vegetable? It was definitely food related.
He shook his head again. “Nope, but I see where your mind is going, and I’m not mad about it.” His dick twitched between my legs. Okay. Yeah. This was definitely one hell of a welcome back.
Also—I wasn’t half as freaked out about what was happening right now as I should have been.
“Give me a clue,” I demanded, wriggling. “Is it a fruit or a vegetable?”
“Fruit,” he said stoically.
Pear? Passionfruit? Guava?
“Give me another clue.” The weight of him was delicious. To the point my mouth watered, my nipples puckered, and I was ninety-nine percent sure I was on the verge of a mini-orgasm.
“Nice try. You didn’t deserve the first one.”
Fair point. Too bad we were chafing everywhere and an insistent, tingly pressure mounted in my core. Something that horrifyingly resembled the Big O. And I’m not talking about Queen Oprah.
“One more chance to get it right, Dot. What’s our magic word?”
“Mango!” I tossed the word in his face, flustered.
“Wrong answer.” His voice was calm, flat, and resolute. “The word you were looking for was tomato.”
“You said it was a fruit!”
“Tomato is a fruit.”
“How can it be a fruit if you put it in salads? Fruits are fun.”
“So is payback,” Row deadpanned. “Enjoy.”
He used his free hand to tickle my armpits and neck, feathery fingers skimming all my delicate areas, and my writhing became violent, frantic thrashing. I was the most ticklish person on planet Earth. It was a medical condition. I could pee myself. I swung upward, trying to bite him in retaliation. “Let go of me!”
I was squirming, laughing, and begging, tears prickling my eyes as I tried to escape his fingers, but they were everywhere. My ribs, my neck, and behind my ears. I was horrified and delighted that the grumpiest human alive had managed to put a smile on my face on the saddest day of my life.
I was dangerously close to peeing my pants and coming, and needed Mom to come down right now before I did something I would never recover from. Desperate, I sent a silent prayer to the universe.
Dear God,
I know I’m not much of a devout Christian. I also know I only gave up something for Lent once, and it was Skittles (and even that was because I’m allergic to Red Dye 40), but I really need a solid right now.
Please make Row stop tickling me. I really can’t handle another humiliation, and I have a feeling beginning my stay in Staindrop with a pee stain the shape of Nebraska on my dress and convulsing with an orgasm while he wrestles me into submission is going to make my time here challenging to say the least.
I promise to be good. To donate what little I have to charity. And to not shut the door in Jehovah’s Witnesses’ faces when they tell me You want me to do something special with my life.*
*Is starting a true crime podcast special enough? Just being pragmatic here. Your girl has bills to pay and has a scented-candle addiction to subsidize.
Faithfully, Cal
P.S.
Please send my regards to Jesus and tell him I’m sorry he died for my sins just so I could sleep with my bestie’s brother, then borderline assault him in my mom’s kitchen the day of my dad’s funeral. He deserved better.
—C. x
God must’ve had a slow day because he heard me. Suddenly—eureka!—Row’s front pocket began vibrating. His phone flashed through his dark pants, and we both stopped, staring at it.
Fine, I was staring at his baseball bat-sized hard-on. His zipper looked so strained it was a wonder it didn’t dislocate to a parallel universe.
Row leaned backward on his shins, releasing me from his grip as he pulled out his phone and swiped the screen, scowling. “Now what?”
Dude made the Grinch look like Phoebe Buffay.
His jaw clenched, and he straightened his back, running a hand through his floppy, shiny hair. His shirt rode up, offering me a glimpse of his rock-hard, bronzed abs. “You’re shitting me,” he bit out.
“That explains the smell,” I quipped, smoothing my dress down and patting my wild hair into submission. Row ignored me. The person on the other line continued talking. My archenemy rose to his feet, letting out a puff of air as his frown deepened.
“I’m going to make a nutcracker out of their bone cartilage.” Oof. “On my way.”
“Hey, where are you going?” I growled. “You didn’t even apologi—”
He grabbed his jacket from the back of a dining chair, not even bothering to put it on. The door slammed abruptly, shaking on its hinges. Leaving me to pant on the floor, feeling empty, confused, and with two brand-new pieces of information to digest: 1) Tomato is a fruit, and 2) Row Casablancas was hotter than ever and burning with hatred for me.