Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 123435 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 617(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 411(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123435 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 617(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 411(@300wpm)
“Yes. I go to Briar University.”
“An Ivy girl, huh?”
We fall into step with each other, headed in the direction of the party. It’s not a discussed course of action, just instinctive.
“I’m going into my senior year,” I add.
“Cool. What are you studying?”
“English Lit.” I glance over wryly. “I know. Totally useless unless I want to be a teacher.”
“Do you want to be a teacher?”
“Nope.”
He grins, and I catch a glimpse of straight white teeth in the moonlight. His smile is perfection. A girl could get lost in it.
I force myself to look forward, shoving my hands in my pockets as we walk. “You know what pisses me off, Tate?”
“What pisses you off, Cassie?” I can still feel him smiling at me.
“Everyone says you find yourself when you’re in college, right? But from what I’ve seen, it’s just a bunch of lame parties and all-night study sessions and listening to some blowhard drone on and on in a lecture hall. And meanwhile you sit there pretending you enjoyed the boring-ass book you were assigned to read, when in reality it’s more enjoyable watching water boil than reading most classic literature. There—I said it. The classics suck, okay? And college is boring.”
Tate chuckles. “Maybe you’re not going to the right parties.”
He’s right. I’m not. Because I’ve never, ever attended a party where I’ve spoken at length with a guy who looks like Tate.
As we near the bonfire, our path is now clearly illuminated. Music continues to blast, a slow reggae song that has several couples wrapped around each other, moving to the sultry beat. The crowd seems to be comprised entirely of locals. At least, if there’s anyone here from the country club, I don’t recognize them. The summer set doesn’t typically socialize with the year-round folks. Joy thinks the only reason she was invited tonight was because that Luke guy was hoping to hook up. “Those local boys get a kick out of seducing the rich girls,” she’d laughed over lunch earlier.
Not that I would know. I’ve never been seduced by a local. I also don’t consider myself a rich girl, although I suppose I am one. My mother’s side of the family has money. A fair amount of it. But I’ll always view myself as the girl who grew up on Sycamore Way, in a cozy house in the suburbs not far from this section of the Bay.
With the light of the bonfire making it easier to see each other, Tate eyes the ponytail I’m fiddling with and lets out a groan. “You’re a ginger,” he accuses, his eyes twinkling. They’re a light blue, just as I suspected.
“Don’t paint me with that ginger brush,” I protest. “I’m a copper.”
“That’s not a real thing.”
“I’m a copper,” I insist. I grip my ponytail and hold it closer to his face. “See? Dark red. It’s practically brown!”
“Mmm-hmm. Keep telling yourself that, ginger.”
He seems distracted now. His gaze drifts across the fire and my gaze follows, coming to rest on a girl with bright red hair. A true ginger. Unlike me, who is a copper, thank you very much.
The ginger is chatting with two other young women, and all three are drop-dead gorgeous. Shiny hair and pretty faces. Skimpy clothes. And they’ve got those perfect beach bodies that trigger a pang of insecurity in me. I’ve always wondered what it’s like to have normal proportions. It’s probably awesome.
Tate’s expression grows pained for a moment before he wrenches his eyes off the girl.
Understanding dawns on me. “Oh my God. Is that her? The dumper?”
He slides out a laugh. “It wasn’t a dumping. And we’re still friends—that’s not going to change. She just caught me off guard, is all. I’m usually the one who ends those types of things.”
“Do you want me to go beat her up for you?” I offer.
Pursing his lips, he assesses my frame. I’m five-three and kind of scrawny. Slender, except for my huge chest. Really, my boobs are probably more effective weapons than my fists.
“Nah,” he answers, lips twitching. “I don’t think I’d feel right being responsible for your death.”
“That’s really sweet.”
He snorts.
“Tate!” someone calls, and we both turn toward the shout.
A very tall guy with a reddish beard stands nearby, holding up a joint. He waves it enticingly at Tate and arches a brow. An invitation. Tate nods at the guy, indicating with his hand that he’ll be right there.
“Why are there so many redheads here?” I demand. “Is this a convention?”
“You tell me. These are your people, after all.”
I growl at him, and he just laughs again. I like the sound of his laughter.
“Want me to introduce you around?” Tate offers.
Hesitation grips me. I’m torn. On one hand, it would be fun to stay and hang out. But the redheaded girl is watching us now, a slightly bemused look on her gorgeous face. In fact, a lot of eyes are on us, I realize. I get the feeling a guy like Tate invites this kind of attention, and I suddenly wish we were still shrouded in the darkness of the beach, just he and I. I hate being the center of attention. And I can’t imagine how much nervous babbling I’ll do with each new person I meet.