Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 98485 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 394(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98485 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 394(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Stassi,
No roses are red in this message. But last night was a shock.
Anyway, here’s the number of someone who can fix your lock.
Sorry, couldn’t help myself.
Yours Cruelly,
A
P.S. Had to go to work—see you later?
The tension death gripping my middle softens, and I exhale softly.
That was … refreshingly kind.
And damn it, it’s even charming.
I was wrong about him bouncing as soon as the sun came up—because at least he took the time to find me a number for a locksmith. If he were just using me, I don’t think he’d go to that kind of effort—unless he just wanted to get me out of his apartment.
That’s the thing with Alec—you never freaking know what he’s thinking.
Before I can give the man too much credit for turning over a new leaf, I get dressed and call the locksmith. Then, as I wait—I convince myself it’s because I have nothing better to do, but I’d probably do it even if I was pressed for time—I stroll casually around his apartment, peeking in opened boxes and checking out the things he’s already unpacked.
It's been a decade since I saw him last, and I’m curious to see the kind of person Alec Mansfield has become in that time.
By the time I’m finished, I determine Alec is … a typical guy. He’s been in town four days, and yet the only things he’s unpacked is a few articles of clothing, some toiletries, his laptop, and his television set. And yes, that is a tire in the corner of his room—God only knows why—and he does have a hockey puck collection. I bet he uses them as coasters, like my brothers do. He clearly hasn’t used the kitchen yet—his fridge is empty save for a couple of Chinese takeout containers and a bottle of coffee creamer. His trash is full of junk mail.
A couple of framed pictures are propped up next to the sofa, one of which is a photograph of him on some white-sand beach, tanned, muscles rippling. I return it to its place and glance at the next—his diploma, from Wake Forest Medical School.
Never in a million years did I expect Alec to be a doctor of all things.
I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t sexy—the idea of this handsome, muscled guy saving lives.
Though whether he’s doing it for his ego or out of the kindness of his heart remains to be known.
Moving on, there’s one box open, full of books. I pull on a flap and notice his high school yearbook. My brothers have the same copy, all the Alec pages probably wrinkled in places from all the time I spent drooling over him in secret.
The spine cracks when I open it, as if Alec has rarely taken the time to reminisce about his good old days. But I know this book by heart. Almost every page has him on it—captain of the hockey and rugby teams, homecoming king, prom king, class president, voted most likely to succeed …
The smile in his senior photograph is so confident it practically leaps off the page, all while those emerald eyes grab you and pull you in.
Everyone loved him.
Everyone wanted to be him—or at least bask in his limelight.
Even now, I can’t understand how it was possible to feel two entirely different emotions about a person. I adored him like all of his groupies, though I’d never let on. Knowing he was the one sending me those messages … it both thrilled me and made me despise him more and more.
That’s probably why I have a multitude of stomach-turning emotions swirling in my gut—disgust and raw, carnal, animalistic need.
Maybe it’s because I’m a grown woman now.
I feel like I can stand up for myself to anyone, which makes a dalliance with him easier to stomach no matter which way it goes. Then again, maybe I’m making excuses for myself, trying to justify last night’s piss-poor, beer-driven decision.
I came back to Sapphire Shores to avoid drama or interpersonal conflict of any kind.
The last man drained me of every last damn I had to give … except for one, apparently.
And I gave it to Alec the first chance I got.
I turn to the underclassmen section and look at the photograph of myself, cringing as I recall those old glasses that took up most of my face. I used to think they made me look serious, intelligent. Then there was my metal-mouth. While most kids got their braces off after two years, I had the privilege of having mine for three and a half years to the day. And what was with those bangs and that triangle-shaped hair? Why didn’t anyone tell me how ridiculous I looked?
Oh, wait—Yours Cruelly told me.
I got my act together by sophomore year, which was when I started dating Jonathan.
But I still can’t believe my mother let me out of the house looking like that.