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)
I love his laugh. It’s rich and full and sincere.
I love his frown. It’s real and thoughtful.
I love…
I…
I frantically dip my paintbrush back in the water, swirl it around for a few seconds, buying time as I select my paint color. Giving him a sidelong glance, I attempt to not undress him with my eyes.
Epic fail.
My blue eyes cannot help it; they are powerless against this side of him he only reveals sparingly, and if he were a smart person, now would be the opportune time for him to try and get in my pants.
I give him a feeble smile and gingerly take the wine glass in front of me by the stem, bring it to my lips, and take a teeny tiny sip.
Setting the glass back on the table, I consider what I’m about to say next, because it truly must be said. Inhale. Exhale. “That smile of yours… phew! It could get us both into big trouble.”
He bites his lip again and his brows furrow. “What do you mean?”
I weakly smile at the ceiling, unable to look directly at him. “I mean, that was the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”
There. I said it.
I said it, it’s out there, and I can’t take it back.
When he doesn’t reply, I add, “Oh, please, don’t act so surprised. You know how irresistible that gap is.”
Nervously I slap more yellow on my canvas, aware that my painting has way too much yellow on it, dabbing it in circles like the instructor in front of the room is doing with small strokes. Only hers looks nice. My canvas is beginning to look like it’s been painted by a blind elephant at the zoo.
“It’s my kryptonite.”
Caleb’s brush hovers over his white canvas. “Huh?”
I pause and turn to face him, swiveling on my stool. Our knees knock and I lean forward so he can hear what I’m about to say, loud and clear. “I am mad for that gap. So stop hiding it.”
He props his palms on my knees and moves in. “I’m…uh…” He looks away, bites his lip with a frown, and takes a deep breath before continuing. “I’m...”
“Yes?” I breathe out the question in a whisper.
We’re interrupted then by Molly—as in Molly with the World’s Worst Timing—who stands over us, clearing her throat. “Whoa, you two are looking pretty chummy over here.” She glances at our canvases and starts a litany of questions. “Shouldn’t you be halfway done by now? What are you doing? Just sitting back here gawking at each other, or what?”
Yeah, pretty much.
“Yes,” Caleb answers her seriously.
Molly looks at my painting, eyes wide. “Umm, what’s with all the yellow? Never mind. Don’t answer that.” She shakes her pretty hair and titters. “I just got up to grab a bottle of water. You want anything while I’m up?”
We both give our heads a shake. “No, I’m good. We both have something to drink.” I point to my wine and Caleb’s beer.
Molly stalls a few more seconds. “Okay, just thought I’d ask. Hey. You guys wanna come out with us when we’re done, or…” Her question trails off.
“Any idea where you’re going?” Caleb wants to know.
“Best guess: Lone Rangers. You know, loud music, bad food, too many drunk undergrads with too little clothing.”
Lone Rangers is a college bar down on State Street, and is the establishment most frequented by the Wisconsin Badger Hockey team. In other words, it’s always packed. From regular students hoping to rub shoulders with the college athletic elite, to the athletes themselves, Lone Rangers is the off-campus place to be.
It’s also a complete dive.
The floors are so full of old and spilled beer that one cannot walk through the bar without putting effort into every step. It’s much like trying to lift your feet to walk through a floor full of sticky, liquid honey. My best guess for the last time they scrubbed down or mopped the floors? Over three years ago.
The lighting in this place is dim and a tad—fine, I’ll say it: rapey.
The place is rapey.
A young lady can’t actually see who she’s talking to without squinting in the faint haze wafting through the air, and the hallway to the restrooms are dark and damp—hence, a great place for pervy lurkers and rapists.
And let’s not forget to mention none of the stall doors in the woman’s bathroom actually lock, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Think about it. Not having the bathroom stalls lock actually forces girls to hover over the disgusting toilet if you want to take a pee, because you have to hold the door closed if you want privacy.
So if you’re going to spin that into a positive, this means you can’t actually sit on the toilet, because you’re leaning on the door. The toilet seats are dirty, unsanitary, and riddled with who knows how many STDs. Gross.