Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 66865 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 334(@200wpm)___ 267(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66865 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 334(@200wpm)___ 267(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Guy.
He weirds me out, not because he’s creepy or perverted, but because he’s way too honest, and it makes me uncomfortable. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t need to have things sugarcoated, but he did bring up a subject that’s been on my mind a lot lately and that I’ve been a bit salty about.
Mariah taking advantage of our friendship. Of me.
The fact that a complete stranger picked up on it is embarrassing. I’d like to avoid him if humanly possible. Tonight, I want to have fun, not have it thrown in my face that my friends keep throwing me over for boys.
I move along the perimeter of the room, putting up the pretense that I’m not scanning the room for him.
Him.
That guy—whatever his name is.
I wonder about that as I grip the cold red cup in my hand. Try to picture what a guy like that could possibly be named.
What would I name a lumberjack baby if I had one?
Billy Ray. John Boy? Duane.
Cooter—that one makes me laugh, and I choke on the foam rimming my cup. The name Woody makes me laugh too, and by the time I look up and meet his eyes, I’m almost stupid giddy.
He’s scowling at me, of course, and wearing a plaid flannel shirt, sleeves rolled and pushed to the elbow.
His hair is up, twisted into a messy mop, long strands escaping at his temples, curling up and around his ears. It’s a gorgeous dirty blond, naturally streaked from the sun, a hue any girl would kill for and few could recreate.
Skin tan, high cheekbones pink. Not ruddy, but close.
The beard still long, although from here, it does look like he might have cleaned it up a bit? I have no interest in finding out—the last thing I want is for him to come over.
God no.
I rotate my body, presenting him with my back, and come face to face with the keg.
Dammit.
Move to the side a few feet, creating more distance between us, not sure what to do with myself because once again, I’m standing in the middle of a party alone.
I should be pissed at my friends, but the truth is, I’m relieved; standing with them is too much pressure. Too many people coming up to chat, too many guys coming up to flirt. Drunk guys make me nervous. Guys who are hitting on us make me nervous.
Drunk guys who are hitting on us make me nervous.
Unfortunately, that’s what I’m surrounded by, and unfortunately, I’ve been left to fend for myself.
The party is packed—third weekend in a row. I make a silent vow not to return for a fourth, not if I can help it. I’m bored and, stifling a yawn, take a drag of my beer for lack of anything better to do.
Stop watching me, I implore the hairy guy, still feeling his eyes on the back of my head.
The skin on my neck prickles.
Stop it. I’m not turning around.
My nose twitches despite itself, my head gives a little shake.
No.
Jeez. Doesn’t he have anything better to do other than stand there and creep on people who want to be left alone? I mean, not that I’m alone, alone. We are, after all, in a room full of people.
My gaze wanders.
Is he still looking? I’m dying to look over my shoulder but square them instead, standing taller on the heels of my tall, brown boots. Tap a toe impatiently, craning my head to survey the room.
If I tilt it just so, maybe I can catch a glimpse of him out of the corner of my eye without actually having to turn my head? I test the theory, adding a hand to the column of my neck, faux-massaging it, lifting my cup to my lips.
So smooth.
Shift my eyes to the right.
Heart plummeting to my stomach because those sullen brown eyes of his are indeed locked on my short frame. I’m not facing him, but they’re so bright and striking I can make them out nonetheless. Even shrouded amongst all that hair.
Is he judging me? He must be—why else would he be attempting to telekinetically drill holes into the back of my skull? No doubt he thinks I’m a loser with no friends.
No—he thinks I’m a loser with shitty friends.
Big difference.
He doesn’t like them and doesn’t even know them. Or me, for that matter.
Judgy, arrogant asshole.
My throat hmphs indignantly.
A noise from the kitchen has my head jerking in that general direction. Two huge guys spill through the narrow door and into the living room. It looks like they’re fighting—or wrestling?
I recognize one of the moves as a half nelson, and the entire scene suddenly escalates when one of the guys maneuvers his meaty right arm, hooks it around the others guy’s neck, and pulls the guy down. Down onto the dirty, disgusting shag carpet.
Gross.
They’re both grunting, feet smashing into end tables. The wall.