Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 116362 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 582(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 388(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116362 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 582(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 388(@300wpm)
“If I come, will you promise to never call me peach again?”
“No,” he says, “but that’s only because I’m nothing but honest.”
“I’m still not sure that’s true.”
“Trust me.”
“Not helping.”
“See you in thirty minutes.”
And he quickly hangs up before I can protest again.
“Is he coming here?” Ana asks excitedly. I’m not surprised to see her wine has been gulped down.
“No, we’re going to Spinnakers again,” I tell her, quickly marching into my bedroom to find myself something suitable to wear. I know my Lululemon pants and “Bazinga!” tank top should suffice, but I’m strangely compelled to make myself look better.
Ana follows me. “A date?” she asks with cautious optimism.
“No,” I tell her, adding a glare. “Not a date. I don’t date guys like Blake, and he doesn’t date girls like me. We’ve been over this.”
“Not even if he’s your fuckboy?”
I pause, rifling through my closet, and give her a look. “Where did you learn the term fuckboy?”
“Your friend, Rio,” she says. “She talks a lot. I learned a lot.”
I turn away from her and whip off my tank top, sliding on a mustard-colored flutter sleeve blouse that I know looks banging with my hair. Speaking of hair, I pull my elastic out and attempt to fluff it around my shoulders.
“It’s so pretty. You should wear it like that,” she says, coming up behind me and petting my head like I’m an exotic bird.
“On second thought, no,” I tell her. I remember what he said to me about my hair. He would know it was for him. I pull it back into a loose topknot, slip on white capris and rose gold sandals, and I’m almost ready to go.
Oh, this part is going to be awkward.
I slowly turn around to see Ana staring at me, hopeful as all hell.
“I could just give you a light makeup. A dusting.”
I manage a smile and nod. “Okay,” I tell her, hoping I don’t sound as scared as I feel. I mean, she’s come a long way. Just because she was totally pumped to make me look like Groot a few minutes ago doesn’t mean I’m going to walk out of here looking like I belong in a Marvel film.
I sit down at the kitchen table, and she spends a good three minutes just staring at her makeup and then my face. Back and forth. I’ve never seen her look so determined before—I don’t think the “natural look” is even in her vocabulary.
Then she gets to work. I drink the wine.
She’s still finishing my face with blush when there’s a knock at the door and I’m having severe déjà vu from the last time Blake came over. But luckily she kept her Krazy Glued eyelashes at bay, and when she hands me the mirror, lo and behold I actually look pretty foxy. The peach eyeshadow and winged eyeliner really make my blue eyes pop, and the blush blends naturally with my lightly freckled skin.
“Do you like it?” she asks, hands clasped by her chest, face already cringing at my potential reply.
“I love it,” I tell her. And it’s not a lie.
I give her a quick, albeit awkward, hug—maybe the first hug I’ve ever given her—and I quickly grab my purse and head out the door.
Blake is waiting in the garden that takes up the whole backyard of the house, one that the landlords have been toiling over ever since the first shoots started sprouting in March. Though they say we have free use of the yard and the quaint iron table and chair set situated among the lilacs, Ana and I are often intruding on their gardening whenever we use it. Ah, the joys of not having your own place.
“What are you doing?” I ask him, shielding my eyes to the sun while I bring out my sunglasses.
He looks up from a well-groomed patch of bluebells and grins at me, those dimples deepening in his cheeks.
With a ray of golden sunshine hitting him just so, he looks good. Really good. I know it’s only been three days since I saw him last but I don’t know. Maybe something has changed in those last few days. I’m noticing muscles I’ve never noticed before (which I know have always been there), the way he holds himself, the glint in his eyes when he’s looking at me.
Fuck. Don’t pull a Phenelope. If she can’t have Luthwen, you definitely cannot have Blake.
“Honeybees,” he says, gesturing to the bluebells. “I’ve been watching them.”
“Okay. Why?”
He walks over to me, hands jammed in his pockets. “Because they’re fascinating. Ever learn about them? Study them?”
Do I unleash more of my nerdiness or not? “When I was younger I knew a lot more. I’d read the National Geographics my dad had in the basement. There had to be a thousand copies. I read them all. I’m sure a few of them were about bees.”