Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 99736 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 499(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99736 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 499(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
I tip my head in way of greeting because I don’t trust my voice.
“We’re going to hit the dance floor,” Law says, dragging Reed away. Probably from Brody.
Reed and Brody are childhood friends or whatever, but Law says they had something going on at one point and Brody might not be over it.
Friends with an ex. Nope. Sorry. Brain does not compute. Who does that?
“You want a drink?” Brody asks.
I clear my throat and hold up my beer. “Got this one. Thanks.”
“It’s almost empty. I’ll be back in a sec.” Brody walks away before I can stop him.
Noooooo.
Deep breaths, Anders.
He’s just a guy. It’s just a drink.
I mentally beg Law and Reed to come back so I’m not alone with Brody, but that whole twin psychic connection thing is a total myth. Or Law and I just don’t have it.
Brody takes all of one minute to buy drinks, and I have no doubt it’s because the bartender beelined for his gorgeousness and got his flirt on.
He stalks back towards me from the end of the bar, and I can’t help admiring how his long, muscular body moves.
The club is dark, but his baby blue eyes still shine.
His brown hair is as it always is—stylistically messy and framing his chiselled face perfectly.
Old me would’ve been salivating over being the object of this guy’s advances.
This me? I’m torn between running away and trying to find an ugly stick to beat the shit out of him.
Not that I’d ever actually do that, because one, ugly sticks don’t exist, and two, I’m not a violent person.
But why does he have to be so hot?
He holds out my new beer, and I tell my mouth to say, “Thank you,” but all that comes out is something that sounds like “Ah. Eh.”
This is the problem with me. Put me in a group of people, I can generally hold my own. One on one? It’s like I need instructions on how to construct a conversation and my manual is in Swedish.
My life is the equivalent of an IKEA flatpack.
As soon as the beer is in my hands, Brody asks, “Gonna go on that date with me yet?”
“Nope.” I take the drink and swig a huge gulp.
He’s been trying to get me to go out with him ever since the night we met, and every time he asks, a little piece of me dies because I can’t bring myself to say yes no matter how much I want to.
“You know, I’m starting to think you don’t like me.”
“What gave you that impression?” I ask dryly.
“The whole saying no thing is a big tip-off.” Even in rejection, he’s calm and cool.
He has to be a psycho. No matter what Reed says about him being a stand-up guy.
“Yet, you keep asking.” I stare out at the dance floor, watching the bodies of different size grind up on one another.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Brody doing the same, but when I follow his gaze, I notice his is locked on two people. Or maybe just one. Reed.
He must sense me watching because he averts his eyes and trains them on me. “Gotta go with the odds. The more I ask, the more chance of the answer changing, right?”
“That logic is flawed. Majorly.”
Brody laughs. “Fair enough. Worth the shot.”
Even his persistence is charming. On any other guy, I probably would’ve filed a pre-emptive restraining order. I think deep down I know Brody’s harmless, but that’s not the point.
The point is I can’t control my trigger symptoms around him, and that’s why I say no every time. It’s also why I hate being around him.
“How’s the apartment hunting going?” he asks. “Reed said you’re looking for a place.”
I hope my groan isn’t out loud. “Fine.” Lie.
Every time I open the real estate app, my hands shake and my vision blurs, so I close it again and tell future me to deal with it. Then I get hit with my rent due notice and I cringe at spending money I can’t afford for a two-bedroom apartment I don’t need. But it’s a comfort. I don’t deal well with change.
I don’t deal with much of anything.
Law deciding to move out of our place and in with Reed is the most recent thing I can’t let go of. When I found out, I smiled and managed to act cool about it, but in all truth, I hate living by myself. And the idea of getting a roommate terrifies me even more because sharing close space with a stranger? No, thanks.
“Oh, so you got a place?” Brody asks.
“Nope. I’m good where I am.” It’s my bank account that has the issue with it. “Future me can deal with debt.”
“That doesn’t always work out well. Putting everything on your future self.”
“I know. Past me is a dickhead.”