Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 128069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
“How do you do it? How do you take me for everything I’m worth in Monopoly?” she’d ask when she’d land on Park Place and I’d ask her to fork over so much rent.
I’d just smile and say, “I’m good at following the rules.”
“The rules aren’t why you win. The strategy is,” she’d say with a twinkle in her eye like she was sharing a secret. A secret just for me. “And you’ve got that, baby.”
Baby. I was always baby. But it was said like baby was a Broadway star. That’s how I felt with her—like the star.
I picture the list, tucked safely away inside a blank book in my canvas bag back in my room.
As I walk past the Victorians in pretty shades of yellow, lavender, and mint, I check the time. It’s late afternoon on a Saturday. What does Wesley do on Saturday nights? Will it be weird for me to punch in the passcode on the door, wander in and say, “Hey, what are you up to on a Saturday night?”
I haven’t had a roommate since my freshman year of college, and we were totally out of sync. Staying with Maeve was different. Besties don’t have boundaries that can’t be crossed. My stomach flip-flops with worry. I don’t want to encroach on his space any more than I already have.
But that’s what books and book nooks are for. That’s what I’ll do—escape into a book.
With that resolved, I walk up and down the blocks around Alamo Square, getting to know my new temporary home and settling into a plan for the evening. I’ll make a cheese sandwich, slice an apple, and return to my room to enjoy the spine-tingling thriller about a suburban mom who becomes convinced her neighbors across the street are murderers.
But that settled feeling disappears when I head up the steps to Wesley’s place. Returning this morning from my fruit and grocery errand was different. It was daylight. It’s dusk now and nighttime is, well, its own mood.
Maybe I should call first? What if he just got out of the shower and is slinging on a towel? My chest goes hot. I stop mid-stairs, grabbing the railing. Not a helpful thought, girl.
I take a beat to let that tempting image subside, then reach the door, poised to tap in the code. But I can’t shake the feeling that I’m an interloper. With a wince, I knock instead, offering a cheery, “Knock, knock.”
I listen for noise. It’s quiet. Then peer into the slim, rectangular window right next to the front door. Nothing.
I start to punch in the code when my breath catches.
Oh god.
This is not a drill. Repeat after me. This is not a drill. Wesley’s in gray sweats and nothing else.
The man is shirtless, and I’m just dead.
16
A LITTLE NOSEY
Josie
I’m gawking. I really need to stop. I do my best to pick up my jaw right as he swings open the door, tilting his head.
“Um, you don’t have to knock,” he says.
I don’t have to stare either but I’m doing that too. That carved chest. The smattering of dark hair across his ripped pecs. The ladder of his abs, with muscles stacked on top of muscles. I can’t stop cataloging all the spots on the map of his body. That blue bruise I traced lightly last Sunday on the side of his stomach is gone now, but there’s a fresh one on his right bicep.
And then there’s the scar on his wrist. White and faded—a marker. Yeah, it’s definitely not from a bike. “It’s from a skate,” I say, entering the conversation in medias res.
His brow knits as he motions for me to come inside. “What do you mean?” He asks it like I’m the weirdo he regrets inviting to live with him.
Because I am. I try to collect my thoughts. “The scar. On your right wrist. It’s from a skate blade, right?”
He gives a small smile of resignation. Then a nod. One that says he didn’t want to tell me he played hockey the night I met him. “Happened my first season.”
I toe off my canvas sneakers as he shuts the door. “What happened? Did it hurt?”
“I got stitches and returned to the game to get an assist.”
I roll my eyes but in admiration of his mettle. “Such a hockey player move.”
He just shrugs. “It was the only thing to do.” He tips his forehead to my chin. “Also, pot, kettle. You got back on your bike after you cut your chin.”
My heart rate spikes. He remembers every detail. “I did.” I pause then get out my conversational backhoe and fill in the rest of the story. “I was chasing my brother. So I had to get back on my bike. I was determined to stay on. But I’m not athletic. Like, whatsoever. I tried soccer once, and I stood in the corner of the field wondering if Katniss was going to save Peeta or not.”