Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 131821 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 659(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131821 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 659(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
Oh my god. A blush heats my cheeks instantly, and when Mason spots it, his grin grows, so I drop my gaze to the sand.
“Lemme steal your girl for a minute.” Mason motions to the band taking the small stage. “Promise I’ll give her back. I just want all the credit for this one.”
“Maybe you should back off a bit, Mason.” Chase frowns, the others shooting looks his way.
His best friend glares at him, but he dismisses him quickly when Deaton’s arm drops from my shoulder.
“Nah, man. It’s cool.” His soft hand folds into mine, and he pulls it to his lips, kissing my knuckles. “If she wants to, she can, obviously. But I appreciate you not being a dick for once.”
I smile at Deaton, knowing I’m the only person aware he’s so far from the possessive type it’s not even funny. He’s enjoying playing with Mason, and I think it’s adorable.
My brother’s little friend group is kind of intimidating, even for me. They’re all super close and from what I can tell, in each other’s business but not in a shitty, judgy way. In fact, it seems to be the opposite, but who knows? Maybe they all talk shit about each other behind one another’s backs.
Yeah, that seems more realistic…or maybe you’re just so used to shitty people you don’t know how to spot good ones?
I swallow, refocusing.
Deaton looks to me when I remain silent, so I plaster a fake smile on my face, hating how my thoughts and experiences always slacken the rope I’m forever climbing, putting even more distance between me and the rest of the world no matter how desperately I try to climb to its top.
Thankfully, Deaton is on the same side of that wall as I am. It’s why he and I work so well. It’s how we connected, alone and searching for a way out.
Pushing onto my toes, I kiss his cheek, muscles tensing as his fingers skim over the exposed skin of my stomach. Baby.
There’s a baby in there.
Our baby.
Oh my god, I’m sixteen and pregnant.
Our eyes lock, and a softness falls over his, one that has panic rising in my throat, but then Mason’s hand slides into view. Slowly, I tear my gaze from Deaton’s to meet his.
Mason lets out a low chuckle, tipping his head with a grin that draws a small smile to my own lips. “You with me?” he asks, and I get the sense he can see it, my need for an escape.
I sweep a hand toward the band, and the two of us fall in step together.
“Hey, Mason!” Deaton calls not five seconds after we break from the others. We glance back, and Deaton’s eyes lock with mine. “You got my family in your hands.”
My lips part, my heart pounding wildly. That burning sensation I hate pricks at the backs of my eyes, so I slowly face forward, breaking the connection, and after a silent moment, Mason does the same.
I don’t know what he’s thinking, but I don’t care enough to ask, and we don’t speak as we move closer to the giant circle of string lights and laughter. The band members have taken their spots behind the mics, and as the song playing ends, the DJ welcomes them back to the makeshift stage.
They waste no time before strumming on their guitars, playing an acoustic version of “Feels” by Kiiara.
My lips curve, and then a wide chest is blocking my view.
I look up to find a grinning Mason, his arms outstretched as if he’s midwaltz, minus the dance partner. “Dance with me.”
With a spirited sigh, I take his hand and place the other on his shoulder, his other gently landing on my waist. We step to the music, at least a dozen others around us doing the same thing, though not separated like they’re at a middle school dance the way we are.
My eyes keep going back to the band, and I watch the lead singer’s fingers as they drift across the strings of his guitar in fluid motions. Up and down, ring finger to pointer to middle, and too many other various versions to track.
“So you’ve got a thing for musicians, do you?” Mason follows my line of sight. “I’m telling Richie Rich.”
My chuckle is low, and I shake my head, looking up into Mason’s brown eyes. “No, I don’t have a thing for musicians, and sorry to burst your bubble, but Deaton isn’t the jealous type.”
“Clearly,” he scoffs, and I roll my eyes playfully.
He’s not being an ass, just teasing, so I ignore his Richie Rich comment.
He’s not wrong, though. At first glance, Deaton screams money. He looks like the typical private school kid with khaki shorts and a Hollywood smile. His skin is flawless and his eyes the color of dark chocolate. His family has more zeros in their bank account than all the James Bond movies combined, but none of that matters to him. In fact, he hates it. Hates his family.