Total pages in book: 206
Estimated words: 207638 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1038(@200wpm)___ 831(@250wpm)___ 692(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 207638 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1038(@200wpm)___ 831(@250wpm)___ 692(@300wpm)
His jaw clenches for a long second before he says, “I didn’t blackmail. I didn’t have to. I asked her nicely and she agreed.”
“But you —”
“Look, she had no right to kick you out, understand? What you do on your time is your fucking business. And besides, it was her loss. She lost the best ballerina she ever had or will ever have. So I just showed her the light.”
And then I have to grit my teeth and curl my toes.
I have to keep sitting in his Mustang, all still, as if nothing happened, as if he didn’t pay me a compliment and as if my stupid heart isn’t spinning in my chest.
But then the next week he comes to pick me up, things get even worse.
Because there’s something waiting for me in his Mustang.
A pale pink box with a pink satin ribbon around it.
I don’t have to open the box to know what’s inside of it.
I stare at it with my throat tight, holding on to the open door of his car. “I don’t eat those.”
From the corner of my eye, I see his chest move sharply. “Why’s that?”
I swallow, glancing at him. “Because I don’t. Because I’m a dancer and I need to watch my weight.”
His own hand on the door flexes. “I can still carry you with one hand. So I think you’re fine.”
He can.
He can carry me with one hand and I try not to shift my gaze over to his arms. His sculpted biceps. His strong, graceful fingers.
He was built before, when he was the soccer god of Bardstown High, the Wild Mustang. But he’s something else now. He’s strength itself. It drips off his body like a thick syrup. It wafts off his body like a delicious scent.
“Do they still call you that?” I ask, because I can’t stop myself. “The Wild Mustang.”
“What?”
“At your college. Do your soccer groupies still call you that? By your nickname.”
His gorgeous face is blank, inscrutable as he watches me. “Yes.”
It shouldn’t bother me.
It should not bother me at all.
He was always popular and a player. Why wouldn’t he still be the same now?
Still though something contracts in my chest and I can’t help but say, “You must be very popular then. Not that there was any doubt whatsoever. I mean, everyone knew you were going to go pro, be all famous and whatnot and —”
“Yeah, I’m a regular stud,” he says, bites out almost, cutting me off. “Are you going to get in the car or not?”
“I’m not going to eat the cupcakes,” I tell him again.
And he asks me, again, “Why?”
“Because I just told you. Because I’m watching my weight and because it was…”
Because it was our thing.
Because it was something that he brought me. And even though every time he did that, I told him not to bother because I was getting fat and yet, I waited for him to do just that.
To bring me Peanut Butter Blossoms.
I don’t say that though. And I don’t have to.
Because he gets it.
Because for some reason, he remembers everything about our time together. Even though it was inconsequential and insignificant to him.
Or rather, significant only in the sense that he used me to win against my brother.
With sharp features turned even sharper, he says, “Because I brought you cupcakes two years ago. To fool you. And you did get fooled. So now you’re punishing yourself for falling into my trap. Because that’s what you do, don’t you?”
“I don’t…” I trail off because I’m lying.
Of course I do that.
I punish myself so I can remember to never make the same mistakes again and I hate that he knows this about me.
“You do,” he says, his wolf eyes narrowed. “You lied to your brothers about coming to my party that one time and you walked on eggshells around them for the rest of the week after that.”
I did.
I did walk on eggshells after lying about going to his party, the one that started everything. Because I felt so guilty.
That for days after that, I tried to make up for it in a hundred different ways. By never being late coming back from school; by doing Ledger’s laundry without him having to pester me about it; by cooking Con’s favorite things and so on.
I purse my lips. “Yeah, I did. Because I hate lying. Especially to my brothers.”
He watches me for a few moments, the muscle on his cheek pulsing before saying, “It was me. I fucked you over. I broke my promise to you. Deliberately. Because I wanted to win. I picked soccer over you. And then broke your heart. I’m the asshole here, understand? So if you want to punish someone, punish the villain in your story. Not yourself.” His eyes rove over my face. “Being gullible is not a crime. Seeing good in people is not a crime either. Taking advantage of it is.”