Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 70152 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 351(@200wpm)___ 281(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70152 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 351(@200wpm)___ 281(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
Classic Jenna, always with a dance on the brain.
Before school even starts each year, she starts shopping for formal dresses—in like, June. I’m every bit of a girly-girl as she is, but come on—June?
I am able to make it home, change, and get back on the freeway in less than a half hour. Headed south to Random Lake’s public shoreline with the top down on the Jeep, my hair is flying in a million different directions.
I’d decided to scrap the idea of getting homework done on the beach, knowing that realistically no one is going to let me actually study. Instead, they’ll chatter nonstop, probably harass me to play sand volleyball (which I suck at)—stuff like that. According to Jenna, I am the only senior she’s actually seen read a textbook this year and I need to “give it a rest, already, god…”
I’m clipping down the highway at a good pace, loving the way the wind makes me feel.
Free.
Alive.
Young.
I’ve got on my jean skirt, a plain aqua ribbed tank top from American Eagle over my suit, and flip-flops, nothing fancy, and driving with the top down on the Jeep feels amazing. If you’ve never been in a convertible, it’s like standing on the top of a hill on a gorgeous day and letting the wind dance itself around you.
Pushing my sunglasses to the bridge of my nose, I adjust the adapter on my iPod and crank up the radio. I find my favorite tune, “Gone, Gone, Gone” by Phillip Phillips, and start belting out the lyrics to the up-tempo love song.
“And I would do it for youuuu, for youu oohhh. Baby I’m not moving on, I’ll love you long after you’re gone…”
Is that my voice? Gosh, I sound incredible…
I’m tapping the steering wheel with both palms and can see a red pickup truck in my rearview mirror approaching to pass. Whoever it is, he’s hell-bent on a mission to get somewhere and is past me within seconds.
The windows on the red truck are tinted, but I see the shadow of a large figure in the passenger seat crane around once it’s passed. On the back bumper, there’s a sticker that reads Puck Off, so I can only presume it’s guys from school and that they’re on the hockey team.
Confession: I think you and I both know that when you pass a Jeep on the road, it’s almost impossible to resist checking out the driver. Have you ever passed a Jeep and not looked? In fact, have you ever seen a Jeep coming down the road and gotten all excited, and then when it drives by you, you’re all bummed out because the driver was ewww? Or taken one look at the driver and thought, Damn, that dude is ugly! They have no business owning that sweet ride! and been completely disappointed? I’d even go so far as to say it should be a law that all Jeep drivers be pleasant to look at. I mean it, seriously.
The current laws of attraction state that an attractive girl driving a Jeep is even more irresistible to the opposite sex than any other vehicle—especially one with their hair down.
It’s a scientific fact, er…something.
It’s coded in guy DNA.
Anyway, like I said, best feeling in the world.
I will even admit to an air of a smugness about myself when I’m driving. What can I say? I can’t help it.
Soon I’m squeezing into a small parking spot, and I groan at the sight of myself in the mirror. What a disaster. Grabbing my bag, I hop out the window without actually opening the door, à la Dukes of Hazzard. Before I go any farther, I lean over to give my head and hair a good shake, running my fingers through it to get out any knots. When I flip my hair back up, my eyes immediate connect with Weston McGrath.
Well, well, well, what are the odds?
He’s openly staring. Again.
Leaning his shoulder against the passenger side door of the red truck that passed me earlier, it’s obvious Weston is waiting for its driver, who’s still inside. Knowing he was checking me out on the highway sends an excited shiver up my spine. I can’t see his eyes because he’s wearing really dark sunglasses, but this time he isn’t wearing a ball cap. Messy hair blowing in the breeze, he’s changed his shirt (another cutoff T-shirt) and is wearing Hawaiian print board shorts that hang low on his hips. For a brief second, I wonder if he has chest hair.
Ugh, get a grip, Molly! I give myself a mental slap.
He’s just so…so… What’s the word for it?
Intense.
What is wrong with me today? These thoughts are so unlike me!
I can hardly even focus.
The driver-side door opens, and Rick Stevens—he’s a senior too—walks around to the tailgate and opens it up. I actually have Rick in my marketing class. For such an asshole, he’s pretty smart. Shocking, right?