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)
“Who?” My palms are sweating, making the cup in my hand slippery. “I don’t even know him.”
He rolls his eyes. “Do you want to know him—like, biblically?”
“What? No! Jeez, all I did was look in his direction. Would you stop?” What is with this dude? I try to steer the conversation. “And how do you know I was standing by the keg last weekend?”
Those bright, caramel colored brown eyes bore into me. Roll. “I saw you.”
It’s my turn to roll my eyes. “Well no shit. But why?”
“I was holding up the wall over there, and it was hard not to notice when you didn’t move the entire night. You know”—he tips his cup in my direction—“kind of like you’re doing right now.” He finally lets the hose from the keg drop to the floor. “There. Now you’re officially off duty—let them pour their own fucking beer.”
His voice has a timbre so low, my cheeks flush to the point I’m tempted to cool them with the palms of my hands. It’s deep and masculine and—
“Rule one: if you’re going to date one of these guys, you can’t be a pussy.”
I’m sorry, did he just say…the P word?
Now I’m blushing for an entirely different reason. He could have chosen any other word in the dictionary but that one. Wuss. Chicken. Wimp.
But no. He went with pussy and made my cheeks flush so fast I can feel the blood flow hit my face.
“Excuse me?”
“Don’t be a pussy,” he repeats casually, taking a deep chug of the beer inside his red cup.
“I…I… Who says I want to date one of”—my hands flail through the air helplessly as I choke on the rest of my words—“these guys?”
He takes another chug. Another swallow.
Raises a thick brow. “Don’t you?”
My hands smooth down the front pleats of my yellow skirt and when I look up, I notice his eyes tracking my fingers.
“No! I mean, not these guys specifically.” And not just any guy. A gentleman—someone smart, who can make me laugh and have a good time. Someone on a career track so I—we—never have to struggle financially—like my Mom always had to after my dad walked out on her. Us.
Someone—
“Uh…hello?”
He says it in that tone you reserve for your idiot friends who can’t take a hint or don’t have a clue.
Nice.
Our eyes connect when I look up. He’s so tall I have to stretch my neck and tilt my head back to meet his gaze.
This guy. How do I describe him?
Crude. He’s already said pussy twice, and the set of his lips is sarcastic, even if no words are coming out of them at the moment.
He’s a giant, taller than anyone else in the room—or anyone I’ve ever met for that matter. Six three? Six five?
Definitely too hairy.
My eyes rake down his chest—his shirt is actually nice, looks expensive, despite the droplets of beer soaking in beneath the logo on his right pec. His hair is dirty blond and long, pulled up into a topknot—much like the one I wear when I’m in a rush and have no time to do my hair, only his is messier.
He has a mustache and beard too—not one of those neatly groomed, manscaped ones that are so trendy right now.
No.
His is…unkempt, untrimmed, burly. Kind of pre-mountain man meets college hobo meets mass murderer in training. I’ve never seen a beard like this on a college kid. Once, in high school, there was this wrestler with one, a big, burly, farm kid who gave zero shits about what anyone thought. He did what he wanted, including sporting a beard, which I don’t think was allowed. He looked older than most of the faculty.
The thought makes me smile. Shit, what was his name…Mitch? Darren?
“Hi.” His deep voice snaps me out of my perusal. “My eyes are up here.”
Somewhere is a mouth—one I faintly detect. Somewhere, I want to sass, shadowed by one of the most ridiculous mustaches I’ve ever seen on a grown man. Can barely tell if his lips are tipped into a smile or in a straight, serious line. It’s impossible to be sure if he’s joking or not.
I lift my chin and study him. Unwavering eyes. Purposeful gaze, unflinching. Straight brows.
Oh.
Crap, he isn’t kidding—I think it’s seriously bothering him that I’m checking out his body.
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t staring.” I mean, I was, but not to be rude. Merely curious.
What was his original point? Pussy—god, that word—and something about rules and dating and the guys in this place?
Beards.
Jesus, my eyes are straying again and I swear I’m not doing it on purpose—there is just too much to see. His large brown eyes, the bushy brows. The man bun, the beard.
This guy is so freaking…
Hairy.
And intense.
I give my head a physical shake. “I’m sorry, what were you saying?”
He expels a loud sigh. “We were talking about how if you’re going to date one of the guys here, you can’t be such a goddamn pussy.”