Total pages in book: 167
Estimated words: 164557 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 823(@200wpm)___ 658(@250wpm)___ 549(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 164557 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 823(@200wpm)___ 658(@250wpm)___ 549(@300wpm)
“Charlotte?” He sounds annoyed. “I asked how you’ve been.”
I blink out of my thoughts. “Oh, sorry. I’m great. Never been better.”
“Yeah?” He tips his head, a smirk forming. “Finally finished your exhaustive search?”
Confusion knits my brow. “Huh?”
“To find that one magical dick that can satisfy your uncontrollable needs.”
My mouth falls open. I shake my head, anger and disbelief warring inside me. “Fuck off, Mitch.”
“Jeez, relax. I was just kidding.” His arm snaps out when I try to walk away.
“Well, you’re not funny. And don’t touch me.”
I shrug his hand off me and stalk to my seat, inhaling slowly to calm myself. This is why I blocked his number after we broke up. Because of his snide little comments and total inability to accept that I hadn’t meant to hurt his fragile ego.
Sometimes I wonder if Mitch specifically wanted to date an Asian girl because he thought I’d be submissive or something. He never liked it when I argued with him or stood up for myself, and God forbid I have a high sex drive. Sex was only allowed when he was in the mood.
It must’ve really burst his tiny brain bubble when he realized I didn’t quite live up to the stereotypes.
“Hey,” I greet Nikki, taking my seat beside her.
She lifts her head from her phone. “Hey.”
After sliding my laptop out of my bag and organizing my stuff, I pull out my own phone to check it for the hundredth time this morning.
My heart races as I wait for the BioRoots app to load. I sent the message to HLS315 on Sunday, and I know he read it because there’s a little green checkmark at the corner indicating it was opened. He’ll respond today. It’s Tuesday. Clearly, he needed a couple days to let my message marinate, and now he’s going to—
Zero messages.
Disappointment lodges in my throat. Damn it. Why isn’t he responding?
My brain scrambles to reframe things. It’s only Tuesday. Some people require more than a couple days to invite a brand-new sister into their lives.
He’ll totally respond tomorrow.
I’m opening my laptop with my notes document on deck for the lecture when a disturbance in the force—otherwise known as my seatmate’s dreamy sigh—has me lifting my head from the screen. From the corner of my eye, I see Ice Boy.
He swaggers down the aisle, while Nikki practically melts into her chair.
“Oh my God. He’s like a Greek god or something.”
I roll my eyes. “More like a Greek tragedy.”
As if on cue, Mr. Too-Hot-For-His-Own-Good reaches his seat two rows below us and stops to unzip his jacket. He has a whole routine going, like he’s a magician about to reveal a rabbit from his hat. Only instead of a rabbit, he reveals a well-defined arm as he shrugs out of his coat. I swear Nikki sighs like she’s watching a scene from a romance movie.
“I want to be that coat.”
I snort.
Beckett slings the coat over the back of his chair. Then he glances over his shoulder and catches both of us staring. A slow, lazy grin spreads across his face, and he raises an eyebrow.
“Glad you’re enjoying the show, ladies,” he calls out, loud enough for half the lecture hall to hear. “Especially you, sugar puff. I can take the shirt off next if you want?”
My face flushes as a few students turn to look at us. Including Mitch, whose lips thin in a slight frown.
Nikki swivels her head toward me. “Sugar puff? Do you know him? Oh my God, have you hooked up with him?”
“Ew. No.”
I direct a glare at Beckett, hoping my expression conveys how little I care about his stupid invitation. “Keep the shirt on, thanks,” I call back.
He grins harder, unbothered by my frosty demeanor. “Suit yourself.”
Nikki gapes at me like I just turned down an all-expenses-paid vacation to Fiji. “How are you not into this?”
“Into what? The self-absorbed jock show?” I ask, genuinely curious.
She shakes her head, exasperated with my lack of enthusiasm. “Not all jocks are self-absorbed, you know.”
“Right,” I answer with a smirk. “And not all puppies are cute.”
She huffs and turns back to her phone, but not before sneaking one last longing glance at Beckett.
I’m baffled by the general Briar population’s obsession with these hockey guys. But as the lecture starts and I try to focus on the professor’s words, I can’t help but notice how broad his shoulders are. Commanding. I take a deep breath, and my fingers hover over my keyboard.
Nope. Still unimpressed.
The next time he looks back at me, I make sure to glare extra hard, just in case he needs a reminder.
To recap, I hate Tuesday mornings because of Beckett and his annoying sugar puffs.
But I hate Tuesday afternoons even more.
Normally, you’d say “cell and tissue engineering” and watch me orgasm at your feet. But this lab has been a total nightmare. In September, when I was still young and naive, I predicted this would be my favorite lab. Nearly two months later, I’m a grizzled old fool who prays for the semester to end.