Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 95340 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 477(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95340 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 477(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
“Yeah. Besides an orgasm.”
Lizzy stares at me, shocked those words came out of my mouth.
I surprised myself, really.
But hey, maybe this is a new me!
I notice that Lizzy is blushing, but she doesn’t address it. Instead, she’s picking at the game chip in her fingers.
“Best thing… hmm. When I was twelve, my parents gave me a kitten, and I named him Marty.”
“Is Marty still alive?”
“Totally. Alive and thriving. I didn’t think bringing him to school was a good idea, so he’s living his best life at my parents’ house. When I graduate and get my own place I’ll force the little bastard to live with me.”
I know nothing about cats, so I have no follow-up questions and don’t want to point out the fact that cats will eat you if you die.
Allegedly.
Lizzy puts her piece into the yellow grid beginning her ladder pattern over again, glancing up at me. “Same question. What’s the best gift you’ve ever received?”
“The generic answer is the hockey stick I got when I was nine—a really expensive, official one because my parents knew at that point I was serious about it, I was good, and it wasn’t just a hobby.” It’s a lame answer, the kind you’d expect from an athlete. A piece of sporting equipment? Gee, how original.
“So my official answer is for my birthday when I was…” I scrunch up my face as I try to think of how old I was. “When I was fourteen, my grandpa and I went on a road trip. He took me to the Grand Canyon and we hiked to the bottom and camped out for the night. It was scary and awesome.”
It was the only thing he and I have ever done ourselves, without anyone else in the family, and I can remember it as if it happened yesterday.
“Aw,” she coos. “That’s awesome.”
I add my chip to the grid, a question ready to fire off. “If you won the lottery, what would you do with the money?”
“Oh good one,” she enthuses. “Shoot, I feel like that should be an easy one to answer but like, there are a million things I would do with a lot of money.”
“Would you donate it?”
Lizzy shrugs. “Some of it, for sure. But again, there are a million organizations I’d want to help. So many people need help.” She rolls to her back to stare at the ceiling, stretching her arms out in front of her before rolling back to her stomach. “I’d buy a house, I think. Depending on where I end up when I graduate. Maybe a vacation house?”
“Would you work?”
She cocks a brow. “That was two questions.” Pause. “Actually, that was three.”
Shit.
She’s right.
“Your move,” she says. “What’s one of your biggest pet peeves?”
I snort. “God, where do I start? Uh. I hate the sound of people chewing.”
“Same,” she says.
“Especially if someone is digging into a bag. Chips are the worst—take a damn chip already, what are you doing, mining for gold?” I’m getting fired up about the subject, but Lizzy seems mildly amused if her expression is any indication. “My dad makes sounds when he eats—like moaning and groaning if something tastes good. It’s so annoying.”
“Wow. Eating is a trigger for you, I take it.”
It can be, yeah.
“Anything else, or is that it?”
“People who cut in line. The worst. Uh. Slow walkers—if I have to crawl along behind you because you’re not only walking slow but hogging the sidewalk, I’m going to lose my shit.”
Lizzy laughs, her breasts moving up and down.
Nice.
“Go on,” she tells me, but I shake my head.
I’ve already said too much, and if I add more shit to the list, I’m going to start raving like a lunatic, and that’s not what we’re doing here.
I take my turn, then rack my brain for something to ask her.
“How would you describe me?”
“Hmm.” She taps her fingers together. “Confusing. Broody. Shy.”
I gawk at her, for there are no words.
She thinks I’m confusing? How?
She thinks I’m broody? I’m not broody!
Am I?
Shy?
Eh, if that’s how you want to interpret introverted, I supposed she can slap a shy label on it.
Now I have a thousand questions but can’t ask them until it’s my turn, and even then, do I want to know her answers? Clearly she’s into me or she wouldn’t be laying on the bed in front of me in only her bra and pajama bottoms. Nor would she have invited me over to her place; we could have remained in mine, as obnoxious as my roommates may have been.
Speaking of which, my phone pings with a notification and it’s then that I notice the time.
Dang.
The time has flown.
Sully: We’re back. Where the hell are you?
Brodie: Where do you THINK I am??
Sully: If we knew, we wouldn’t be asking.
Brodie: Use your best guess.
I’m grinning when I type it, wishing I could see the look on that idiot’s face when he discovers I’m at the house next door. So unlike me.