Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 117872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
Trouble is, there’s also the minor issue of our insane travel schedules, full of curfews and practice and media and games. But I’m going to figure it the fuck out.
I return to his room, padding quietly to his side of the bed. God, he’s sexy in the morning, his hair a rumpled mess, the sheet riding low across his strong ass, his entire muscular back on display. I itch to slide my palm along all that smooth, golden skin.
Instead, I indulge in the view for several seconds, watching his shoulders rise and fall with each slow, sleepy breath.
But I can’t go all Edward Cullen on him, so I whisper a quiet goodbye. On my way out, I spot the purple Seductive hat on the coffee table in the living room. I grab it and tug it down low, doing my best to hide my face.
I slide on my shoes by the door and slip out, glancing from left to right, casing the ’hood. Like a cat, I move along the stone path and then scan the sidewalk. It’s the dead hour of five, so I’m alone as I head down the street to my car. Once I’m inside, I breathe easily, then click over to my texts. Time to start planning.
I’m going to the gym this morning around eight-thirty. If you happen to be there around the same time, that won’t look suspicious. I could even grab a boba with you after the gym like I would with anyone else. That place in Hayes Valley has a sister shop nearby. If anyone wondered what we were doing together, I bet we’d probably be plotting a new segment for the show. No one would think twice. I could even make a social post about it. Fans would eat it up. Well, my fans would since you’re not on social, Mister Anti-Social.
I hit send, then I’m about to take off when I glimpse myself in the mirror wearing his hat. This hat drove Beck to my door that night, fueled by bravado and white-hot desire.
I snap a quick pic of me in it and send it to Beck. Guess I’m feeling all sorts of warm and fuzzy today.
By the way, I took our disguise this morning. How do I look? As sexy as you looked when you showed up wearing this? Fuck, I love this hat.
I hit send before I lose the nerve. Might as well stand under his window with a boombox and shout I’m so into you.
But fuck it.
If my feelings weren’t apparent last night in the way I kissed him, touched him, and talked to him, one bold text proclaiming I dig his cap isn’t going to clue him in. He’s either figured it out, or he hasn’t.
Before I pump the gas, I steal one more glance at his home and spot a woman on the second floor, curly brown hair falling past her shoulders. She’s drinking a cup of coffee at a sink, staring out the glass. Chimes hang in her window.
For a second, it seems like she’s looking at me.
But my windows are tinted, it’s dark, and surely, she’s just an early riser, listening for birds.
At home, I toss the hat on the entryway table, crash for two hours, then get ready for the gym and—I hope—a secret date. As I tug on workout shorts, my phone chirps, and I grab it from the bed.
I read the text from Beck and snort. In a nod to my recent note, he says I should call him Mister Anti-Social.
Fair enough. I change his profile name and thumb back to the continuing thread, then flinch at what I see.
Mister Anti-Social: Your middle name is Finley.
I don’t use my mom’s maiden name anywhere. Before I can ask how he knows it, another text pops up.
Mister Anti-Social: This is so unfair.
What the hell is he talking about?
Mister Anti-Social: You’re already ridiculously handsome. You have that dimple. That magic smile. And now I learn you’re the only person in the world with a good driver’s license photo.
I relax. In our up-against-the-door-frenzy last night, he tossed my wallet on the floor. My license must have skidded out. I bound downstairs and grab my wallet from the table in my foyer. Flicking through it, I confirm my license is indeed missing. So’s a condom.
Hmm. That must have landed on his floor too.
I’ll take that as an opening, thank you very much. But first, I need a new text name too. I settle on one quickly, a perfect contrast to Beck. Maybe it’ll show him that we fit together. By the way. I’ll be Mister Social.
Then I return to the good stuff.
Mister Social: Looks like my license isn’t the only thing I left behind.
Mister Anti-Social: Gee, were you trying to leave me a subtle message after our convo last night?