Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 76693 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76693 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
“What about the semester project?” a girl with fiery red hair asks. “This says it’s worth seventy-five percent of our grade. When do we choose partners? When is it due? When do we start?”
Mr. Pederson waves her off. “We’ll get to that. First, I want you to look at your table partner. This will be your seat for the entire semester and your partner for the semester project. I want you to take the next five minutes to get to know the other person.”
My heart sinks. I have to partner up with the guy who almost ran me over? As if this day couldn’t get any worse. Ugh.
The classroom breaks out into a hum of chatter. Reluctantly, I turn to look over at Two. He’s swiping rapidly through his phone. I try to peek at what he’s doing, but it looks like he’s just scrolling through his camera roll.
I know his type.
I’m going to be stuck doing this whole stupid project alone and he’ll pop in at the end to get half the credit. Maybe I should go down to Administration and drop this class.
Dad would be disappointed.
“You got lucky, miss,” Mr. Pederson says as he walks by our table, rapping his knuckles on the wood surface. “Mr. Sheridan, for the love of God, let her do some of the work.”
Two grunts but continues his rapid-fire scrolling. He pauses long enough to dig around in his bag. Once he pulls out a butterscotch candy, he unwraps it, pops it into his mouth, repeats the process with another, and then continues his scrolling.
Right.
So lucky.
I suck in a deep breath and slowly exhale to settle the irritation burning in my gut. While I wait for him to finish whatever the hell he’s doing, I skim through the syllabus again.
Seventy-five percent of my grade depends on this whack job.
“So,” I utter, forcing myself to look over at Two. “Tell me about yourself.”
He runs the candies along his teeth, making a clanking sound that has my eye twitching. I arch an eyebrow, waiting for his answer.
Nothing.
When he finally finds whatever he’s looking for, he lets out a sharp whistle that has everyone looking his way. Mr. Pederson chuckles and saunters over to us.
“Cedarwood,” Two says, thrusting his phone at the professor.
Again with this Cedarwood.
Mr. Pederson’s eyes widen. “Wow, Mr. Sheridan. You’ve got quite the gift for this.”
“Yeah, I know.”
Arrogant much?
“Thanks for sharing,” Mr. Pederson says as he returns the phone. “Now get to know your partner, please.”
Finally, Two pockets his electronic distraction and turns his critical stare my way. “Why do girls wear fake eyelashes?”
I blink at him in confusion. “What?”
He points a long arm my way, his bony finger inches from my eyeball. “Fake.”
Though he’s talking about my eyelashes, I can’t help but flinch at the word. Some of my harshest critics in the social media world accuse me of being fake. I’m not fake. I just don’t share all the imperfect parts of me.
“Why are you so dismissive and rude?” I snap back, cheeks growing hot.
His brows knit together. “It was just a question. Why are you so sensitive?”
The gall of this guy.
It takes a lot to get me riled up, but Two has managed to boil my blood since the second he nearly took me out with his car. And I’m supposed to deal with this all semester? Yeah, right.
“Tell me about yourself,” I grit out. “What’s Cedarwood?”
His pale eyes glimmer with excitement and he flashes a shockingly handsome smile my way complete with dimples and all. “Cedarwood Mansion. I’m working on a miniature restored replica. It’s all hypothetical and based off historical photographs since those bastards won’t fix her up to her original beauty.”
Okaaaaay.
Not at all what I was expecting.
It makes sense now why he’s apparently besties with our professor.
Two is still grinning at me, and it’s a bit disarming. Maybe this terrible day is because of my mood, not his. He’s an oddball but an attractive one.
“Can we start over?” I ask with a tentative smile as I thrust my hand at him. “I’m Gemma Park. Nice to meet you.”
The dimples fade and his full lips tug into a frown. “Are you fucking for real?”
Oh great. What did my family do now?
“Excuse me?” I ask, the heat once again burning at my cheeks.
“Is your mom named Jamie?”
I stiffen and gape at him in confusion. Usually, it’s my dad or one of my brothers or Spencer who earns the shocked gasps or pissed-off snarls. Never Mom.
“Yeah. Do you know her?”
He sneers at me, “Nah, Golden, and I hope I never have to.”
What the actual hell?
Two
It’s her.
Numero Uno.
Prime choice for a prime couple.
The golden child.
Of all the luck.
Gemma, perfection personified, continues to gape at me like a goldfish gasping for air. Her long, dark hair is sleek and silky, not a strand out of place. The lips that remain parted are glossed in a pinky hue that reminds me of strawberry Starburst. Freakishly long and thick eyelashes continue to blink at me.