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)
It’s always back to square one with this guy! What the hell? This is, after all, not the first time he’s done this to me. Crap, maybe I’m the one who should be reading He’s Just Not That Into You, because apparently Weston’s not as into me as I originally thought.
And just when I thought I might be falling in love with him.
Crash and burn is more like it, because it looks like the joke is on me.
My first impulse, of course, is to flee and get my butt out of the hallway, remove myself entirely from the whole awkward situation.
But I don’t.
Hell to the no.
I’m stronger than that.
So I do what any self-respecting girl would do: I stand there and confront the situation, watching Stacy Bingham’s victorious face over Weston’s shoulder. I want that bastard to turn his broad frame to face me, want him to look me in the eyes so he can see the hurt his careless words have caused me.
Again.
He turns, and a few moments pass as he and I just watch each other. I feel a hand on my shoulder, the comforting pull of my best friend slowly tugging me away. She moves to stand in front of me, her small frame a sizzling ball of energy as she stares Stacy down.
Jenna is beyond pissed, and for once, I don’t stop her from what she’s about to say.
“What the H do you think you’re doing, Stacy? Haven’t you ever heard of girl code? You don’t go after your friend’s boyfriend.”
Stacy laughs. “Oh, but didn’t you hear? She’s nothing to him, a nobody, and most certainly not his girlfriend—right, Weston? Isn’t that what you were just telling me?”
That bitch.
Why? Why are girls so cruel, I ask you? Just minutes ago we were all sitting at the same lunch table together, laughing—okay, so mostly just Jenna and I were laughing—and talking about what dresses everyone was wearing to the big dance. Even though I’m not going, I was still excited to hear what everyone’s plans are.
And Weston, that big lummox of an idiot, just stands there trying to come up with something to say. Now, I’ll be the first to admit he was doing pretty well there for a little bit, fending off Stacy’s subtle advances by being a complete dick, but here’s what I don’t understand: why did he get all weird and defensive when she asked if I was his girlfriend? It’s like, what the hell, dude—get over it! She was just asking a question. We’re not getting married tomorrow for Pete’s sake. We just went on a one date and we’ve been flirting for a few weeks.
Big deal.
Immediately, I’m glad to be female. How terrible would it be not to have any rational thoughts going through that thick head? I swear to you, it’s taken every ounce of self-control that I have not to whip out my cell phone and text my brother so he can come beat the crap out of Weston for embarrassing me like this.
I dig deep within myself to force out a laugh, but it comes out low and broken, which is exactly how I feel. Borrowing one of Jenna’s favorite words, I mockingly taunt, “Duh, Stacy. Do you think I want to be tied down by a guy who has no life other than hockey? Please, even I’m not that desperate.”
Apparently, that’s not enough for Jenna, and she nudges me with her elbow. When I don’t take her cue, she steps forward dramatically. “You asshole! You big, dumb asshole. I trusted you!”
Dear Lord. Seriously, Jenna?
“Who the hell do you think you are, Weston McGrath, huh? Standing there, looking all hot—er, I mean, not giving a shit about Molly’s feelings. Well, let me tell you something, pal, you are the one losing out here. And Stacy, if you’re gonna be two-faced, at least make sure one of them is pretty.”
The whole time Jenna is ranting on, I want to both laugh and cry at the same time. My eyes are locked on Weston’s, and I look for any sign that he regrets his words or is going to rescind them.
“Jenna, stop,” I say, putting my hand on her arm, because she’s acting like a dog with rabies—either that or she’s trying to win an Academy Award for Best Dramatic Scene. Because we have an audience, Weston hasn’t moved a muscle, and I shake my head gently before saying, “You know, all those times you stand up to people—those jerks you call your friends—now you won’t stand and put up a little fight for me? The worst part is, I really thought we were friends.”
Then, to really drive my point home and to piss him off, I add, “Looks like my brother was right about you.”
I turn just in time to see his eyes flash and his nostrils flare as he stares after me.