Total pages in book: 18
Estimated words: 16488 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 82(@200wpm)___ 66(@250wpm)___ 55(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 16488 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 82(@200wpm)___ 66(@250wpm)___ 55(@300wpm)
“I know when prom is, Gray.”
“Okay, so what’s your point?”
At this point, I feel like I’m watching a tennis match.
“Tucker Nichols is fucking douchebag,” Ryder says indignantly. He also stands, tossing his napkin on the table. I look at my parents. Dad just keeps eating, and Mom nonchalantly drinks her wine. I’m in the middle of a telenovela that has nothing to do with me, for once.
When Heather stands, I grab my plate because I’m afraid she’s about to flip the table Real Housewives style.
“Why do you care if he’s a douchebag, Ryder? If, and that’s a big freaking if I decide to go to prom with Tucker, there’s nothing you can do about it.”
“You’re not going to prom with him. That’s final.”
“I’m going to prom with him so hard,” she replies, then scratches her head. “Ugh, you know what I mean.”
“You drive me crazy, Gray. You’re going to prom with me.”
“Fine. I’ll go to prom with you,” she says before storming from the table. Her bedroom door slams two seconds later, and we all stare at Ryder.
“You better go after her, son,” Dad says. “Take the bread. You’ll need it.”
“Right,” he says, grabbing the basket of bread in the center of the table, and he goes after her.
“I mean, finally, right?” Mom says.
“Yeah,” Dad and I say at the same time.
We finish our meal like that didn’t just happen.
chapter nine
Gwendolyn
Two Days Later
I am starving, finally. I get up, stretch my arms, and groan when I feel how wet I am between my legs. I have been having non-stop sex dreams about Hunter since he touched me in the hallway a couple of days ago, and it is making me famished and flushed. Hell, I can’t pass him the hallway without whimpering in the back of my throat. It has been so hard not grabbing him by the arm and demanding he fuck me in the bathroom. Yeah, it’s that serious.
I walk downstairs, my robe tied around my waist, happy that both of my parents are gone, and get some time to myself. I walk past the living room and then into the kitchen, and there goes my Zen moment. “Mom. What are you doing here?” She looks at me like I have lost my mind and puts her espresso down. My mouth waters looking at her cup of caffeine, and I just add it to another thing this baby has robbed me of. In the best way possible, of course.
“That’s rich. Last I checked this is my house, no?” I feel like such a bitch. Instead of answering her, I go right to the fridge. “Besides, I haven’t seen you since you dropped that prom bomb on me, and you know what?” I look at her waiting on her to tell me. Rolling my eyes at her attempt at drama, I shove a scone in my mouth and give her my best-annoyed look. “I am not taking no for an answer. So, you are going to finish your breakfast, march your frustrating self up those stairs, put on some clothes and get in the car. We are going to go dress shopping.” My mouth falls open at her voice because I know her no-nonsense voice. I want to argue with her, but when my mom is like this, there is no getting out of it.
Breakfast finished, I walk into my bedroom, and immediately panic begins to suffocate me. I have not planned for this moment. I mean, she is going to want to watch me try on dresses. That is what mothers do, right? Besides that, what the hell am I going to wear? I go into my closet and see an oversized short-sleeved shirt from our Flashdance-themed homecoming dance, and then I remember I had some of the pants like what they wore in Just One of the Guys. Determined, I grab a sports bra with a thick strap on account of my boobs growing exponentially in the last month. I pull on a tank top over it and then the shirt. Grabbing the pants, I button them and then slide on my gym shoes.
I go into the bathroom and braid my hair to the side, pulling some bangs over my face. I add some highlighter to my eyes to pretend I am smiling and some gloss, and I am out of the door, praying that this hides my bump enough. The car ride is quiet and tense. She doesn’t try to engage me in conversation because she also knows that I am not particularly chatty when I am being forced into a situation.
We pull up her favorite boutique and when the woman greets us, it is clear she made an appointment in advance. “Aww, the graduate. Are you excited?” The sweet, chubby woman, Iris, asks.
“Yep. Excited.” I answer, trying to smile but failing. She ignores it, of course, and smiles, leading us to the dress rack. My mom, however, is not filled and gives me her death glare.