Total pages in book: 185
Estimated words: 191421 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 957(@200wpm)___ 766(@250wpm)___ 638(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 191421 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 957(@200wpm)___ 766(@250wpm)___ 638(@300wpm)
His tone makes me narrow my eyes.
Actually everything about him is making me narrow my eyes.
The fact that he sounds so amused, his voice thick and raspy — something else that I’ve come across for the first time ever; no boys at my old school or new sound like him — and that he still hasn’t turned around to face me while speaking, like he doesn’t think I’m worthy of being looked in the eye while talking.
The sheer arrogance.
The sheer conceit, haughtiness, hubris.
The egotism!
It makes me come out of hiding — it wasn’t a very good hiding spot anyway, since he’d already spotted me — and put my hands on my hips as I say, “I’m just thinking how rude it is that you’re talking to me and yet you haven’t turned around and shown me your face.”
This time I don’t think I’ve said anything remotely funny, but he still chuckles.
It’s almost a laugh, actually, and I breathe out sharply, ready to say something else, something even more stern, but he springs up to his feet so quickly and so suddenly turning around that I snap my mouth closed.
And simply stare.
And gaze, gape, goggle and gawp at his face for the first time.
A face that looks like… summer.
That’s my first and very nonsensical thought. How can anyone look like a season?
He does though.
Despite his all-black clothing, he looks like my favorite season.
Probably because his skin is so tanned.
It’s so beachy and bronzed. Like he’s been out in the sun for a long time. And that he could potentially stay out there for even longer and never ever get burned. Plus all that hair.
That I can see now that his hood has fallen off.
And even though his hair’s dark, as dark as his clothing, I still think that it’s a surfer’s look.
Probably because it’s on the long side, falling over his brows and the side of his face, skimming the neck of his hoodie, all loose, slightly wavy and messy.
So yeah, summer.
Despite being all dark and… dangerous.
“You done staring, Bubblegum?”
Startled, my eyes snap up to his.
They’re dark too.
Probably black or a very dark shade of brown; I can’t tell right now.
All I can tell is that they have a glint in them.
“I wasn’t…” I say, my hands coming off my hips and simply falling limp at my sides now. “Staring.”
Liar.
You’re a liar, Echo.
He knows that too, and so again he finds my words amusing.
But this time, he doesn’t chuckle.
He simply lets his mouth quirk up in a lopsided smile. And I think it’s worse because his smile isn’t just a smile. It’s a smirk, and it makes him look even more arrogant.
“Good,” he says. “Because then I’d have to tell you what I was just thinking.”
“What were you thinking?” I ask before I can stop myself.
His eyes glint some more. “About how rude it is that you’re staring at me and yet you haven’t told me your name.”
Your name…
His words, again all arrogant sounding, catch me up to the fact that he called me something just now, didn’t he?
Bubblegum.
He called me Bubblegum.
Just the thought of it makes things zoom and whoosh around in my belly.
Ignoring it, I ask, “What did you just call me?”
His lips stay quirked up as he shrugs. “I had two choices: bubblegum or strawberry.” Then, “I don’t like strawberries, so I picked bubblegum.”
Why would he call me that? What does that…
You know what, I don’t care.
Folding my arms across my chest, I fire back, “Well, I don’t like bubblegum.”
“Then you should tell me your name.”
“I’m never telling you my name.”
“Never is a long time, Bubblegum.”
“Stop calling me that.”
“Can’t.” He shakes his head slowly. “You’re a little too pink.”
“What?”
“Pink…” he repeats before trailing off and moving his eyes away from my face, letting them go down my body.
My belly whooshes again as I follow his gaze, looking down at myself.
Which is when I finally figure it out.
What he’s saying and why he called me Bubblegum in the first place.
“You,” he finishes his statement and my eyes spring back to his.
It’s glowing even more, his gaze.
And it makes my belly whoosh harder. Which is not helped by the fact that he’s correct.
As in, I am pink.
Or rather, my dress is.
My brand new dress with a lace overlay — the first thing my parents bought for me in celebration of their new jobs and tonight’s special occasion — that I absolutely adore.
“I’m not pink,” I tell him. “My dress is pink.”
Keeping his eyes on me, he adds, “And your toes. Your sandals.” He jerks his chin up. “Plus that ribbon in your hair. All pink. Like bubblegum.”
Okay, it’s official now.
I don’t think I like him very much.
Whoever he is.
“So I’m wearing all pink. So what? It’s not like I wear it every day. It’s a special occasion today, okay?”
“Yeah, what’s the special occasion?”