Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 97767 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97767 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
I groan, dragging a hand down my face. “Can we please talk about literally anything else?” Please? I’m begging.
“Fine, we can change the subject,” Austin allows, tilting her head like she’s thinking it over. “But only because I’m generous.”
“Generous,” I repeat, deadpan. “That’s definitely the word I’d use.”
She ignores my sarcasm, adjusting herself on her bed and pushing her hair over one shoulder in a way that feels completely unintentional—yet I have a feeling it’s not. She’s sitting this way because she knows she looks hot.
And I get a clearer shot of her tits in that white tank top she has on.
“Okay, new topic: when are you taking me on this date you mentioned?”
I perk up.
This is exactly where I was hoping this conversation would lead when I called.
My mind immediately kicks into overdrive, sorting through possibilities—places, times, ways to impress her without coming off like I’m trying too hard. Casual, but not too casual. Fun, but not circus-level chaotic.
Romantic, but not painfully so.
“Depends.” I keep my tone light. Chill vibes only. “What kind of date we talkin’ about? A movie? Something more adventurous, like a tour of Area 51 so Gio can visit his cousins?”
She snorts, covering her mouth with her hand, but it’s no use—she thinks I’m hilarious. “Keep it up and Gio and I will go on the date without you.”
Keep up that sassy talk.
“Threats. I like it.” I like it a lot. “Rock climbing? Bounce house? Or dinner and drinks on a rooftop bar with a killer view—you know, so you can get all dressed up?”
Show off the boobs, maybe?
Her lips curve into a sly smile, and she props her chin on her hand. “What makes you think I even own heels?”
Such a brat.
“Oh, you own them,” I say confidently, leaning forward like I can somehow close the distance between us through the screen. “And you’re already planning which ones to wear.”
She rolls her eyes.
“And what if I don’t?”
Silly girl. She should know better than to try and verbally spar with me.
“Something tells me you’d hate missing the chance to knock me out with how good you look.” I pause. “You’re dying to try and eat me alive.”
Eat me alive.
Please do.
12
austin
I’ve changed my outfit ninety-two times.
The discarded rejects are draped across every piece of furniture in my bedroom, forming a colorful, chaotic pile that might actually be judging me. A graveyard of “almost” outfits. Too casual. Too dressy.
Too much cleavage.
Not enough cleavage.
I stand here staring at myself in the mirror in what might finally be the outfit…but suddenly I’m not sure anymore.
It’s the nerves. They’re throwing me off.
It’s weird because I don’t do nerves. As a professor I have to be self-assured and fully capable of keeping my composure. I’m cool. Sarcastic. Confident on most days.
Yet here I stand, red-faced and fidgety like a teenager getting ready for her first prom.
I’ve had to redo my makeup.
Twice.
Mostly because I still cannot figure out how to do a wing-tip at the corner of my eye, and kept smudging the liquid liner and UGH! How hard can it be?!
Apparently, hard enough.
I barely recognize myself. Can’t decide if that’s a good thing or a bad thing or if I look like a contestant on one of those reality dating shows where they’re dolled up to see the love of their life for the first time.
Not that this is that, of course. Definitely not.
Grabbing my mascara again, I lean over the counter, squinting at my reflection as I fix the lashes on my left eye. They decided to rebel at the last minute, giving me that uneven, half-hearted look that doesn’t match the flawless right side.
Rude.
I carefully swipe it through the stubborn lashes, willing them to cooperate before I accidently smudge something. One wrong move and I’ll have to start over, and at this rate, I might combust if I redo my makeup a third time.
Satisfied, I lean back, examining my handiwork. Better. Not perfect, but good enough to make it look like I didn’t spend an hour agonizing over every tiny detail.
“Good as it’s gonna get,” I reason with myself, going to the closet.
This is dinner, not the Oscars, but Gio was right; as soon as he said the words ‘date’ and ‘heels’ I immediately began mentally scanning my closet for a dress. And shoes.
The dress I landed on is bodycon—sheer in all the right places, and ombre—from deep brown at the hem fading to a lighter beige shade up top. It screams: picture me naked!
It’s the kind of dress that demands flesh tone bra and underwear, which I had to dig through a drawer of mismatched options to find.
As a sweatpants on the weekend girlie, tight dresses and high heels aren’t normally my thing. Give me oversized hoodies and sneakers any day of the week, and I am thriving. But if I’m going to commit to this, I might as well commit all the way.