Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 67801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
Read Online Books/Novels: | The Professor's Date (The Script Club #5) |
|---|---|
Author/Writer of Book/Novel: | Lane Hayes |
| Language: | English |
| ISBN/ ASIN: | B0B5FJZM81 |
| Book Information: | |
The professor, the hair stylist, and a wedding date… Tommy Help! My sister is getting married and according to her, I need a date. And a makeover. I’m a busy man, though. I don’t have time to meet eligible bachelors, and the tape holding my glasses together works just fine. Until my hair stylist steps on them. Yes, Noah, my dazzling dreamboat of a hair guru created a mini disaster, but I don’t mind at all. He’s a sweet, funny, kind jock who— Screech! No jocks. I have nothing in common with sporty people. Except…Noah is different. Noah I don’t date. However, I’m not opposed to offering fashion advice to a sexy professor in need. A haircut, a quick shopping expedition... Boom! Mission accomplished. Not so fast. I’ve misjudged the situation and my attraction to the geek with the tragic sense of style. Sure, Thomas is too smart for me by a long shot, but there’s something about him that makes it easy to forget my past. It might be his quietly commanding nature or his movie-star good looks. Or maybe it’s just him. All I know is that I’m very tempted to be the professor’s date. The Professor’s Date is an MM geek/jock romance featuring a nerdy professor, a soccer-playing hair stylist, and a quest for the perfect date! | |
| Books in Series: | The Script Club Series by Lane Hayes |
| Books by Author: | Lane Hayes |
1
TOMMY
“We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.” —Oscar Wilde, Lady Windermere’s Fan
“There’s no nice way to put this. You need a makeover, Tommy.”
Mom gasped. “Tabitha Jane Hartwell!”
“Soon to be Mrs. Tabitha Jane Hartwell Remington,” my sister replied, primly lifting her nose as she flashed her five-carat diamond engagement ring before flinging her long brown hair over her shoulder. “Thomas is an important representative of our family. He’s not just my brother. He’s my twin. And no one in the universe would ever in a million years suspect that we’re even related with him looking like—that.”
I set my sandwich on my plate and glanced down at my “I don’t talk about science all the time…just periodically” tee and jeans ensemble. “Like what?”
“Like…you!” she screeched, stomping her feet. “What does that shirt even mean?”
I pointed at the design on my chest and regarded her patiently through my fingerprint-smudged glasses.
“This is a periodic table of elements, Tabby. It’s widely used in chemistry, physics, and other sciences. Contextually, it infers a pun…a form of wordplay where multiple meanings of a term or audibly similar words are employed for humorous or rhetorical purposes.”
Tabitha blinked, her ultra-long eyelashes fanning her high cheekbones like feather dusters. I took advantage of the blessed silence to dig into my turkey on rye with a light spread of Dijon mustard, mild cheddar cheese, and a single slice of tomato—cut at a precise one-quarter-inch thickness. Just the way I liked it.
I hummed happily into the bite, smiling my thanks to my mom, who returned the gesture with a somewhat wobblier version. Uh-oh.
Mom’s strained smile and forced cheer usually hinted at a missed social cue on my part, though I wasn’t sure what I’d done. I’d been invited to my parents’ house for lunch and had dutifully accepted. I’d said a stilted hello to my father as he’d left for the golf course, chatted amicably with Mom about my astrophysics students at Caltech, and had managed not to groan at my sister’s unexpected arrival.
Except, it just occurred to me that Mom might have been waiting for Tabby to join us. To what? Tell me I needed a makeover? That seemed harsh. But very Tabby.
My sister was very… Hmm, how can I put this nicely? Self-absorbed, vain, petulant, and narcissistic.
Don’t get me wrong—I love her. However, other than a shared birthday and familial traits, like brown hair, blue eyes, and dimples, we were polar opposites. It hadn’t always been that way. When we were little, we were inseparable. That changed in our preteen years.
Tabby was the one with dozens of friends who went to sleepovers every weekend and got invited to countless birthday parties while I hung out at home, watching Dr. Who reruns and memorizing pi with one or two math club buddies. Or alone. In high school, she was a cheerleader and prom queen. And I was still watching Dr. Who.
Whatever. The point was that sharing a womb for nine months hadn’t made us close. And I didn’t see that changing anytime soon.
Especially now that she was engaged to marry Sterling Remington the third, the heir to a luxury department store chain. He was nice enough—in an upper-crust, private jets, private schools, and annual ski trips to the family’s multimillion-dollar “cabin” kind of way. Our conversations tended to be awkward and overly polite, but that was okay by me. I preferred that to unchecked animosity any day of the week.
I smiled at my mom and my sister and took a huge bite of my sandwich.
Tabby threw her hands in the air and growled in frustration. “I give up.”
“Oh, honey. Don’t be like that,” Mom pleaded, wringing her hands.
“Like what, Mom? It’s my wedding! Don’t you understand how important this day is to me?” She pivoted on her fancy-looking heels and pointed at me. “I’m begging you to not embarrass me, Tommy. Begging. If you need a stylist, I’ll help. If you need money for new glasses, I’ll buy them. I would obvs prefer that you step up and take care of yourself, but I’m willing to sacrifice my time, my money, and my sanity if it means fixing…you.”
She broke off on a squeak of horror and covered her mouth. I couldn’t tell if she was mortified that she’d insulted me aloud or if she was just a woman on the verge of a nervous collapse.
Hear me out for a moment. In space, a gravitational collapse was the contraction of an object under its own gravity. I had this theory that in life we sometimes experienced a human version of this phenomenon, and my sister was a perfect example. Her heavy focus on her impending nuptials was all-consuming to the point of being, well…psycho.
I chewed and swallowed, then pushed my plate aside, dabbing the corner of my mouth while I formulated a response. “Why would I need a stylist? It’s not my wedding.”