Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 84826 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84826 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
So I just go with a casual shrug.
“I’m… sorry. I don’t mean to be rude.” My eyebrows go up as Abby emits a sigh. “I’m just frustrated. I was at the house looking for a ring.” She bites her lower lip. “It was a gift from my parents.”
Yeah, I know.
“They gave it to me when I graduated from High School…”
I figured.
“…and I lost it. I thought maybe it would be outside Tyler’s window, but…” She looks down at the sidewalk under our feet, her shoulders hunched in defeat.
I feel like the world’s biggest asshole.
“Have you searched his bedroom?” I casually suggest, trying to school my features so I don’t look like such a lying bastard.
“I asked him to look. I’d rather not have to go back up there; it’s pretty gross. I’m sure he would have mentioned finding it.” She doesn’t look very confident chewing on her thumbnail.
We continue walking, side by side, until we come to an old blue house with a small crooked porch that sags in the middle. Quickly assessing it, I determine it could use new siding, new windows, and new gutters. Abby stops at the end of its gravel driveway, gesturing over her shoulder.
“This is me.”
“This is where you live?”
I glance down the street, counting houses, making a mental catalog of the distance.
Two blocks away.
“Yup. This is where I live,” she says, smiling. “Home, sweet dilapidated home.”
“It’s very majestic,” I say with a poker face, glancing over at her off-campus rental.
Her amused snicker carries in the wind. “For a dump?”
“I was going to go with shithole,” I tease, my lips almost tipping into a smile.
Almost.
Abby laughs a light, airy laugh that hums like a twinkle and causes my insides to involuntarily flutter. Then she smiles, her pale pink lips curving slowly, causing her eyes to crinkle at the corners, and I forget all about the flutters and instead focus on her face. She observes me under long, black, mascara-less lashes, and I allow myself to think that she looks damn pretty without it. Pretty without make-up, that is. Just pretty.
A smile for me, of all people.
I draw in a breath, enchanted, and stop daydreaming like a goddamn girl, when she says, “Okay, so… thanks. For, um… walking me home, I guess. At least it wasn’t very far.” She’s babbling.
I shuffle my feet uncomfortably as Abby turns her back to me, toward the house.
“See ya.” She gives a small wave over her shoulder, glancing back shyly at me like she did in my front yard. It’s a questioning glance that I’m not quite sure how to interpret. I’ve always been total shit at these kinds of things—one of the many reasons I tend to stay away from girls.
“See ya.”
But Abby doesn’t hear my reply, nor does she see my hand raised in a retreating wave.
Because she’s already in the house.
Because I waited too long.
Because I’m a fucking idiot.
Cecelia: The suspense is killing me. Got any updates?
Abby: Sort of. I went to the Omega house, which is now the hockey house, and was caught crawling around on my hands and knees.
Cecelia: Guys LOVE that sort of thing! Just ask Jenna (wink!)
Abby: Could you be serious for one minute?
Cecelia: I can only promise that I’ll try…
CHAPTER 8
CALEB
I hate house parties.
Fucking hate them. They never end well.
What they do end with, is me fixing shit up—patching dry wall, repairing or replacing furniture, nailing, taping, or gluing something back together, and generally monitoring the landscape to keep the place in one solid piece so it doesn’t end up looking like the frat house next door.
House parties also occasionally end with me getting pissed off and holing up in my suite to spare myself the pain of socializing with my peers.
I should have pummeled Cubby when he started inviting people to the house, knowing it was going to get out of hand. But as usual, I don’t want anyone thinking that because my parents own the joint, I’m going to police everything that happens here.
Not my job. Well, not technically.
Retreating to the front porch, both to escape the crush inside and to grab a beer, I ignore the freshman rookie posted at the door. I open a large red cooler, snatch out an ice-cold bottle of beer, twist off the cap, and take a long, refreshing pull. I debate whether or not I should return to the house—privacy versus responsibility, solitude versus socializing. Responsibility wins, and I grab one more beer, double-fisting it before ambling back inside.
The house is already filling with people and buzzing with excitement; the Omega house is known for loud, entertaining parties that last all night and rarely get busted.
Florida Georgia Line blasts out of the stereo, and the last MLB Game replays on the giant high-def TV mounted above the fireplace in the spacious living room. Elbowing my way through the throng, I head toward the kitchen and, relieved to find it empty, set one beer down on the counter and lean my hip against the solid oak table.