Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 113923 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 570(@200wpm)___ 456(@250wpm)___ 380(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113923 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 570(@200wpm)___ 456(@250wpm)___ 380(@300wpm)
Delete him, a strict voice orders.
I click on the chat thread. Maybe a friendship with this guy is a terrible idea, but I can’t help myself. I cave.
Me: I’ll bring donuts.
CHAPTER SEVEN
MACKENZIE
Only two weeks into the semester and I’m already over it. It wouldn’t be so bad if I could dig into some business and finance courses. Marketing and mass communications law. Even some basic web coding. Instead, I’m stuck in a lecture hall staring at an illustration of some hairy, naked pre-human ape-man that, frankly, varies little from the current iteration sitting three rows over.
Freshman gen-eds are bullshit. Even psychology or sociology could have had some application to my work, but those courses were full. So I got stuck in anthropology, which so far today has been ten minutes of swarthy protohuman slides and forty minutes of arguments over evolution. None of which benefits my bank account. My parents pushed college on me, but I was hoping I could at least be productive while I was here. Optimizing BoyfriendFails and its sister site, targeting keywords, looking at ad impressions. Instead, I’m taking notes because our professor is one of those an A is perfection, so no one is getting an A in this class assholes. And if I’m forced to entertain this exhaustive waste of time, I’m not going to walk around with a C average.
It isn’t until I step outside into the blazing sunshine that I realize I can’t feel my fingertips. The lecture hall was freezing. I head over to the student union for a coffee and sit on a hot concrete bench under a magnolia tree to thaw out. I’m supposed to meet Preston in thirty minutes, so I still have some time to kill.
I sip my coffee and scroll through some business emails, forcing myself not to dwell on the fact that I haven’t heard from Cooper yet today.
And I say yet, because he’s messaged me every day since Saturday night. So I know I’ll hear from him at some point today, it’s only a matter of when. The first time he texted, I’d hesitated to open the message, afraid a picture of his junk might pop up on the screen. Or maybe hopeful it would? I’ve never been one for dick pics, but—
But nothing! a sharp voice shouts in my head.
Right. There’s no but. I don’t want to see Cooper Hartley’s penis. Period, end of sentence. I mean, why would I want to see the penis of the hot, tattooed bad boy I stayed up an entire night talking to? That’s just ludicrous.
Welp, I’m not cold anymore. I’m burning up now.
I need a distraction. ASAP.
When my mom’s number lights up the screen, I think about ignoring the call, because that’s definitely not the distraction I’d hoped for. But past experience has taught me that ignoring her only encourages her to send increasingly demanding texts to answer her. Then calls to the FBI insisting I’ve been kidnapped for ransom.
“Hi, Mom,” I answer, hoping she can’t hear my lack of enthusiasm.
“Mackenzie, sweetheart, hello.”
There’s a long pause, during which I can’t tell if she’s distracted or waiting for me to say something. You called me, Mom.
“What’s up?” I ask to get the ball rolling.
“I wanted to check in. You promised to call after you got settled, but we haven’t heard from you.”
Ugh. She always does this. Turns everything into a guilt trip. “I called the house last weekend, but Stacey said you were out, or busy or something.”
I spend more time on the phone with my mother’s personal assistant than I do with anyone in the family.
“Yes, well, I have a lot on my plate at the moment. The historical society is sponsoring a new exhibit at the State House, and we’re already planning the fall gala fundraiser for the children’s hospital. Still, persistence is everything, Mackenzie. You know that. You should have called again later that day.”
Of course. My mother has a personal staff and still can’t manage to return a call to her only child, but sure, that’s my fault. Ah well. It’s something I’ve learned to live with. Annabeth Cabot simply can’t be wrong about anything. I inherited that trait, at least when it comes to pointless arguments about donuts or whatnot. Those, I must always win. But unlike my mom, I’m fully capable of admitting when I’ve made a mistake.
“How is school?” she inquires. “Do you like your professors? Are you finding your classes challenging?”
“School’s great.”
Lie.
“My professors are so engaging, and the course content is really interesting so far.”
Lie. Lie.
“I love it here.”
Lie.
But there’s nothing to gain from telling her the truth. That half the professors seem to regard teaching freshmen as an act of spite, and the other half only show up to hand their TAs a thumb drive of PowerPoint slides. That my time would be better spent anywhere else, but especially on my thriving business. She doesn’t want to hear it.