Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 66865 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 334(@200wpm)___ 267(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66865 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 334(@200wpm)___ 267(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
If any of them found out, I’d probably catch a rash of shit for it.
Girls, on the other hand…
The less they know, the better. And the only way to keep someone at arm’s length is to not get involved.
Easy.
I’ve managed for the past two years, and I’ll manage until I graduate in the winter.
Speaking of girls…
I can’t believe what I’m seeing: the chick from last weekend is down by the keg—again—and has been filling beer cups in the middle of the room for the past hour. Every so often that dark-haired friend of hers wanders over, flirting and talking to whatever guy the girl is chatting with—then walk off with him.
Cockblocking harpie.
I watch as Phil Blaser, a rookie hooker on the rugby team, saunters off, confident that the girl has the whole thing handled—a job he’s supposed to perform the entire night.
Why the fuck is Phil leaving, and what the actual fuck does she think she’s doing filling beer cups?
Wow. This girl.
She is way too polite—it’s almost painful to watch. Jesus, she needs help, and not the kind a shrink can provide; no dude, she needs a reality check. This is the second weekend in a row I watch her get taken advantage of—not an attractive quality. First by her friends—a trio of jock-strap-pursuing jersey chasers—then tonight by Phil, a member of my team.
I make a mental note to find him, wring his scrawny neck, and lecture him about treating women with more respect. This is our house—it’s his goddamn job to stand rooted in that spot and keep our guests happy, not hers. We fucking assigned him that spot. Then he hands the hose off to some girl?
What the actual fuck, Phil?
Not only that, it’s the same girl as last weekend—a girl who obviously needs to be taught how to say, Go screw yourselves and stop walking all over me.
That’s a bit of brutal honesty she’ll only get from someone who couldn’t care less about her feelings.
Someone like me.
***
TEDDY
I’ve been standing in this same spot for over an hour.
At first, it was because I had to get in line for the keg, then, when they kid at the tap finally handed me the hose to fill my own glass…
Somehow, I never let it go.
Or. No one took it from me?
Somehow, without my noticing, a giant of a man-child sidles up to me, shadow looming from above, almost blocking the light.
That’s how large he is.
That’s how large he seems, anyway.
Gingerly, without speaking, he plucks the tap hose out of my grip, grasping the nozzle in a giant hand, pinching it between two fingers and holding it over his cup. The hose hisses from having air in the line, so the big dude reaches down and gives the barrel a few pumps.
Holds the nozzle down again. Fills his cup without speaking to me.
Then, “Where’s your tip jar?” He’s still not looking at me, intent on watching the foam building over his beer. Flicks the top off onto the rug beneath the keg before meeting my eyes.
His are big, brown, and framed by arched bushy brows, a hair-covered face, neck, and head.
His whole appearance is startling. He’s kind of a mix between Wolverine, Teen Wolf, and Bigfoot—if Bigfoot were real. And now he’s pinning me to the floor with his question.
“Excuse me?”
“Don’t all bartenders have a tip jar?”
“I’m not the bartender.” Did he really think I was? I can’t for the life of me read his expression under that bush.
“I know that. I was fucking with you.”
“Oh.” Yeah, I said Oh, as if it was the best response I could come up with. Then, because I’m a genius, I follow it up with, “Why?”
“Because you’re just standing here filling everyone’s cups like a fucking bartender, that’s why.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to squeak out a loud, I am not!
My lips part to protest, but the words won’t come out because…my god, he’s right—I have been standing here filling cups. I don’t even know for how long. How did that happen? It’s kind of like holding a door for someone at the store. You do it for one person then more come, and before you know it, you’re stuck standing there.
I wasn’t doing it on purpose, and this guy?
He noticed.
I glance around, wondering if anyone else did too.
Shit. How embarrassing.
“Why do you keep coming back if you’re just going to stand here all night?”
“What do you mean, keep coming back?”
“Last weekend you did the same thing—walked over to the keg and stood there.”
“I did?”
“Yes.”
Who the hell is this guy?
“How do you know? Were you watching me?”
His broad shoulders shrug—no, not broad. Mammoth. Wide. Expansive. All better words to describe the width of this guy’s amazing upper body.
I avert my curious gaze.
This guy is freaking huge, his intelligent, intense gaze following mine across the room curiously when they land on some guy with shocking red hair near the kitchen wearing a bright blue polo shirt. “You like Jasper Winters?”