Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 76303 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76303 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
“This is too much.” She’s swatting at the air between us. “You’re making this up.”
“They took my card away, Hollis! You don’t joke about this shit. I’m no longer welcome at any library within the tri-state area, thanks to my shoddy handwriting.”
“Oh my god Buzz, you deserved it!”
I act like the innocent party here. “It’s not like I was looking at porn on one of the free computers! I gave her a note. I was complimenting her!”
“On her BOOBS!”
“No, on her books!” I push some shredded lettuce around on my plate. “It wasn’t her, by the way.”
“Stop.”
“Nope. Wasn’t her. Just some random lady listing all her weekly coupons in a spreadsheet.”
“How do you know?”
“I could see it when I walked past the window.”
“Sooo…you were creeping on her through the window?”
“I was walking past the window! What was I supposed to do, not look?”
“Yes! You could have simply not looked.” Hollis is shaking her head like she’s disappointed in me. “Were you trying to get another glimpse at her tatas?”
“Dear god. No. Don’t even suggest such a thing—I’m lonely, but not desperate.”
Shit, did those words just come out of my mouth? I can’t take them back, but I can pray she doesn’t latch onto them beca—
“Lonely?”
Ugh, she would mention that. Why is she like this? Why does she have to be so nosey?
“So you’re an editor?” I do my best to deflect.
“Don’t change the subject.” She pins me with a pointed stare, biting into a taco and crunching at the same time. Her eyes narrow.
“Did I say lonely? I meant busy.”
“You said lonely—what did you mean by that?”
8
Hollis
This entire dinner has been so fun. His sharing, his goofy stories, his sense of humor, even when it’s self-deprecating.
He pokes fun at himself easily.
He loves reading.
I mean—he mentioned as much at the barbeque over the weekend, but to hear him talk about it with such passion seriously gets me turned on.
I’m folding like a greeting card and hate myself for it.
“You said lonely—what did you mean by that?”
I’m lonely too, but I would never admit it to anyone other than Madison, or any of my other friends. Buzz does not seem to have that problem, except when he’s called out on it.
“Are you talking about the fact that you’re single?”
He lifts one of his broad shoulders in reply, which answers the question for me: Buzz Wallace is lonely. Does that mean he hates being single or is just lonely because of it? Is he looking? Does he want a serious relationship, or only to fuck around?
“When was your last serious relationship?”
Another shrug. “I’ve never had one.”
Red flag, red flag! “Why?”
I know, I know—it’s so rude to ask. In fact, I read a magazine article online once that put it in the top five things not to ask on a first date, and here I am, blurting it out. Correction: this is not a date, so it doesn’t count as being rude.
“Are you serious?” He sets down the fork he’s been plowing through the refried beans with. “What self-respecting, nice, honest, wholesome girl would want to date me?” He holds a hand up to halt any reply I’m about to give him. “Trust me, I’ve tried. I took a kindergarten teacher out once—she couldn’t deal with the fans.”
I glance around; people are watching us, but no one has come over to ask for autographs or photos, which has been really nice.
“So she dumped me after three dates, even though I thought things were great. And let’s not forget the fact that it took me years to make it to the pros—I wasn’t drafted out of college like most of the guys on the team. I redshirted in college, busted my balls in the farm teams. Practiced nonstop—and when I say nonstop, I mean I don’t even know how many hours a week. I was piss-ass broke, had no contract and no money, and almost had to move back home and live with my parents.” He shudders.
My mouth almost falls open at this admission, but I clamp it shut.
He’s on a roll now, verbal diarrhea spewing out of him like some confessional at church. “And now? I can’t seem to get away from gold diggers—they’re at every club, hanging out at the stadium, every bar we try to escape to just for a relaxing drink. Fake tits and Botox and injected lips and why can’t I just find someone decent to like me for who I am?”
I stare.
No, I’m actually gaping at him. Wide-eyed, slack-jawed disbelief. What is he saying? That he wants someone normal? Not a trophy wife with giant boobs and extensions? Not that there is anything wrong with that—those women are beautiful. It just sounds more to me like he wants wholesome and…sweet.
“Hollis?”
“Mm?” I mutter, barely able to compose a sentence.
“I have something to ask you.”