Total pages in book: 213
Estimated words: 201920 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1010(@200wpm)___ 808(@250wpm)___ 673(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 201920 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1010(@200wpm)___ 808(@250wpm)___ 673(@300wpm)
“First a game and now a party?” I ask him, taking another swig from the bottle and fiddling with the plastic cap in my left hand. “You like asking me on dates, don’t you?”
He shrugs and glances at the guys on the field, but I keep my eyes on him. “I think you’ll like the party better. I’ll be able to give you a little more attention.”
I roll my eyes and almost turn back to the field, but I stop myself. I don’t want to look that way right now.
“You think if you get a little alcohol in me, you’ll have a better chance?” I ask him, although I keep glancing behind him to the right side of the field to see if any of the guys are watching us.
Dean makes a show of looking over his shoulder in the direction I keep checking out before shifting to block my view and standing a little closer. His broad shoulders tower over me. This is the second time he’s been this close to me, and it only makes me want to be closer.
I can smell his unique, sexy scent and feel the heat in his eyes when I meet his gaze. It’s a heady combination. To have someone you’re innately drawn to so close. To know they want something you also want. But to also know with complete certainty it’s the last thing you should do. The temptation heats the air around us and turns everything to a blur of white noise.
“I don’t need a better chance,” he finally answers me, his eyes narrowing. “I already told you, I want you and I’m not going to stop until you’re screaming my name just how I want to hear it.”
“So confident,” I say, although it comes out differently than I’d planned. It was supposed to be sarcastic but instead, there’s a hint of reverence.
“Come to the party,” he tells me like it’s a command and ignores the voices on the field. The ones calling out for him to head back. I use that as my excuse to leave.
“You go play, and I’ll see you this weekend,” I answer him without thinking.
“You’re leaving already?” he asks me and I nod.
“I’ve got shit to do now that I have plans for tomorrow.” He likes that; I can tell by the way he smiles, and it does something to me. Something it shouldn’t.
“Twenty sixteen Broom Street,” he tells me, but I already know the address.
DEAN
“So, what do you think about college?” Dr. Robinson asks me. He lowers his thick, horn-rimmed glasses and sets them down on the notepad in his lap. “Is it a good change?”
My right ankle rests on my left knee as I sit back, running both my hands through my hair. “Yeah, it’s different. It’s good.”
“Talk to me about it,” he says, prodding me for more. He’s good at that.
“I don’t want to disappoint Jack, and I’m grateful. I still don’t know what I want to do, though.”
“Well, it’s only been a week and I’m sure Mr. Henderson wouldn’t have sponsored you if he thought you’d disappoint him.”
“We all know it was a favor to my uncle. I live off favors,” I say flatly, although I don’t look him in the eye. My gaze is on the ceiling fan in the center of the room. When I close my eyes, I can just barely feel the soft breeze. I wonder if anyone else in college feels as lost as I do. Like this is their last chance. I’ve been on my last chance for years now, so maybe this is my version of normal.
“Do you think you don’t deserve it?” he asks me and I lower my gaze so I can meet his eyes. His expression is one of curiosity.
“A free ride to college isn’t something I ever thought I’d get.”
“And anger management? How about that?” he says, shifting in the seat of his dark brown leather chair. “Is that something you thought you’d get?”
A low chuckle makes my shoulders shake. “Yeah, that makes sense to me,” I say with a grin.
“How do you think this is working for you?”
“I feel good,” I answer him and hope the gratitude comes through. “It’s nice to just say the shit I’m thinking.”
“Have you thought more about my last suggestion?” he asks me and I shake my head.
“Well, yeah, I’ve thought about it,” I say, correcting myself, realizing I was answering no to the wrong question. “I’m not doing it, though.”
I left my mother’s house six years ago. From there I survived by hopping from friend to friend. Crashing at my uncle’s when he’d let me. I haven’t gone back to that hellhole my mother calls home and I don’t plan on it.
She doesn’t want me there, so why would I?
“You don’t think your mother would be interested in seeing your progress?” he asks.