Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 65192 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 326(@200wpm)___ 261(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65192 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 326(@200wpm)___ 261(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
Those eyes…
I’m startled out of my list-making by a sharp tug at the back of my memory bank. A beat later, a face fills my mental screen. The face is younger and softer than Mr. Leather’s, with an innocent grin and slightly crooked teeth, but the eyes and sexy stubble are the same.
Exactly the same.
“Holy fuck,” I gasp, the beer falling from my hand to thunk against the Astroturf beside my lounge chair. I’m dimly aware of the sound of liquid glugging out onto the fake grass and my obligation to fetch paper towels to clean up the mess, but I’m primarily focused on the pulse hammering in my ears.
I know this man.
I not only know this man; I know why he’s here.
At my twenty-fourth birthday party.
Searching the crowd for the girl he made a sex promise to seven long years ago.
My computer-nerd bestie from high school is all grown-up and apparently ready to make good on our pact from summer camp. The one where we said if we were still virgins by the time we turned twenty-four, we’d hook up again and take care of our pesky V-Cards once and for all.
Which means this tall, buff, gorgeous, slightly dangerous-looking man is here to ravage my sugar-filled, mostly sedentary, never-met-a-gym-class-I-couldn’t-find-a-reason-to-skip bod. The bod I didn’t even bother properly shaving before wiggling into my party dress tonight because why bother hacking away at the forest on my legs when I’m wearing knee socks with my high-tops, and no one ever sees me naked but me?
And when’s the last time I stopped to take a look in the full-length mirror while changing into my pajamas?
Maybe seven months ago? Eight?
All I know is that the last time I looked, my skin was sallow from lack of sunlight, my itty-bitty boobs looked droopier than usual, and I had dark circles under my eyes and week-old glitter in my hair. The glitter was partly Evie’s fault for getting artistic in my general direction and partly my fault for forgetting to shower for several days while in the midst of yet another work crisis, but the rest of it was all me.
All gross, crusty, self-neglecting me…
Watching Sam pause by the refreshment table, leaning down to murmur something in Caroline’s ear—he’s so bleeping tall he makes Caroline look like she plays basketball for leprechauns—I instantly know I can’t do this.
I can’t sit here, waiting for Sam to find me and realize that I haven’t grown-up or glowed up the way he has. I’ve already quit my job and my dream of becoming the greatest game designer Brain Chill has ever employed. The last thing I need right now is to watch my former best friend’s eyes go dull and sad with disappointment when he realizes he’s promised to put his penis in a full-blown goblin.
I have to bail. Now. Before the window of escape slams shut.
Without wasting another second, I roll off my chair onto my hands and knees on the non-beer-splattered side of the Astroturf and begin crawling toward the opposite side of the roof. The exit down the east stairwell is creepier than the one by our apartment—the kind of place where a used condom or random drug paraphernalia on the steps isn’t unheard of—but that’s fine.
I’m not scared of gross things. At least not gross things that stay put in one place. A used condom with legs would be repulsively terrifying, but thankfully the universe spared us such an abomination. If it will also, in its universal mercy, see fit to spare me any interaction with Sam, I silently promise to be a better person.
Just let me make a clean getaway and I’ll shower at least once every three days, volunteer at that summer coding camp for underprivileged kids I decided I was too depressed to attend and stop eating yogurt straight out of the container.
I’m pretty sure no one likes the honey Greek yogurt except me, but on the off chance one of my roommates decides they want to slap some yogurt on top of their cereal instead of using milk, I owe it to them to keep my germs to myself. And I will.
Please, universe, spare me utter mortification on my birthday and I’ll be so tidy, sweet, and non-goblin-ish you’ll hardly recognize me!
I’m five feet from the stairwell and silently adding a promise to stop hiding Harlow’s flattening iron—even though the smell of burned hair makes me sick and her gorgeous, flowing locks look so much better with a little curl in them—when a deep voice from behind me rumbles, “Jess?”
I freeze, my stomach snarling into a cramped knot as a cold sweat breaks out over every inch of my skin. I squeeze my eyes shut, praying I’ll miraculously become invisible if I stay still and silent, but when I open them again, Sam is squatting right in front of me in all his buff and leather-wearing glory, watching me with a confused smile.