Total pages in book: 184
Estimated words: 186756 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 934(@200wpm)___ 747(@250wpm)___ 623(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 186756 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 934(@200wpm)___ 747(@250wpm)___ 623(@300wpm)
I wanted to say that I hated him.
But I’ve already said all those things a million times. So I decided to seethe in silence. I also decided to think that it’s almost… flattering.
In a way.
If you really think about it.
The way he’s obsessed with me. With having me. With ruining me.
With using me and possessing me.
The way I drive him crazy.
So much so that along with the photos of my panties and wet fingers, he also asks me for pictures of the nape of my neck; the underside of my elbows. The webbing of my toes; the hem of my dress grazing my upper thighs. My chipped nail polish; the apple of my cheeks. My two dimples and that mole on my back. One night, he asked me to show him my belly button. Another night, he wanted to see my dark hair strewn about on my white pillows. It’s like he’s trying to make a collage of me. Catalog details about me that no one has ever bothered to. I didn’t even bother to.
It makes my heart race more than I want to admit.
In any case, this will all be over soon, and if I’m looking at the clock on my nightstand right, it should happen in two days. In two days, Shepard is coming back for the home game and I’m telling him everything. To say that I’m nervous and that I want to hide away from the world is an understatement.
Not to mention, my debut’s happening tomorrow, the night before Shepard’s due back, and my heart isn’t exactly in it. Plus, I’m struggling with a couple of scenes and I just want to back out of everything.
Picking up my phone, I decide to text Shepard.
Isadora
Hey, I know this isn’t our usual time to talk and you must be busy with practice and stuff. But I wanted to text you anyway because I… I’m nervous. About the play. About a couple of scenes and I wish… I just wish you were here. That you could see my play. You’d be the only one I’d know in the audience. Since you know my biji isn’t coming.
Anyway I’m going to go practice now. Have fun out with the boys and text me when you get back!
Sighing sadly, I pick up the stapled, well-worn copy of the script, ready to run lines, when the phone I hadn’t even put down on the bed starts to ring. It’s a video call and before I’ve had a chance to think about it, I hit accept.
And I realize that I made a mistake.
I should have thought about it.
I should have waited to think about it.
Because of who is on my screen.
“Stellan,” I whisper, the phone in my hand trembling.
Something moves over his face.
His beautiful, beautiful face.
The face I haven’t seen since the charity event.
Well, I mean, I have seen it. On TV. In passing, during the games.
But not like this.
Not where I could take my time and as always, you have to take your time when staring at him. You have to give him your full attention or you could miss out on details. You could miss out on all the sharp turns and harsh terrains of his features. You could fail to notice the exact way his thick eyelashes curl or the way his dark eyes glint. You could definitely pass by on how his rose of a mouth pouts and curves at the ends.
And holy God, if I wasn’t taking my time right now, I totally would’ve missed out on seeing his usually clean-shaven jaw all stubbly and gruff. Not to mention that hair. That’s always neatly combed and pushed back, grazing his broad forehead.
Is that what he looks like at the end of the day?
In the privacy of his room?
Is that what happens to his shirt, a white button-down? Does it get wrinkled with the top three buttons open? Showing the sliver of his massive chest.
He looks like a fever dream.
A dream made of snow and thorns and pink magnolias and cigarette smoke.
“Say it again,” he commands.
I blink. “What?”
“My name,” he rasps, his eyes glinting. “Say it.”
I want to ask why. Or at least I should. That would be the prudent thing to do. But the look on that beautiful face of his makes me obey him without question.
“Stellan.”
His chest moves with a breath, that tanned skin drawing my eyes toward it once again, as he says in a raspy voice, “Yeah, that’s my name.”
Looking up, I comment on his strange tone, “Did you, uh, think that I…”
“You what?”
“Did you think that I wouldn’t”—I lick my lips, wondering if mentioning this is a good idea—“know you were… you and not… him?”
His eyes flick back and forth between mine. “No, I knew that you’d know.”
“Even if I didn’t,” I go on, “there’s a thing called caller ID.”