Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 115198 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 576(@200wpm)___ 461(@250wpm)___ 384(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115198 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 576(@200wpm)___ 461(@250wpm)___ 384(@300wpm)
He peeked. He had to have. Right? He definitely peeked. Just a tiny twist of his head, chin tucked to shoulder, eyes lifting for only a beat to catch a glimpse of me in the shower.
Under the guise of brushing the hair at the nape of my neck, I turn my head, drawing the pink strands forward. I lift my eyes for the tiniest beat, but it’s long enough to completely destroy any illusion I have that West is some stuffed-shirt, uptight loser and I’ll be able to share a room with him without peeking again. His head is tilted back into the water spray, eyes closed, hands sluicing suds down his very fit torso. He looks like he’s in a bodywash commercial. My fingers ache for my sketchbook, wanting to capture every line and ridge so I can gorge myself on it later. His body is like carved stone, his legs thick and muscled. The rest of him? Goddamn.
I have a lot of faults. I drink milk from the carton, I never make my bed, I am slothful, and sometimes I’ll just set the new roll of toilet paper on top of the empty roll instead of changing it. A monster. I am also gluttonous: I don’t want a few peanut M&M’s; I want the entire bag. Why have one margarita when three is such a nice, satisfying number? Everyone knows why! And that’s why I go back for seconds right now. But karma is Team West: his eyes open just as I glance again. They widen and he reaches down to cup his Goddamn before he turns, facing away. “Anna,” he says, his voice spluttering in the water’s spray. “Are you peeking?”
“No! Sorry!” But frankly, (1) I’m not very sorry, and (2) him facing away isn’t any better, because I am a sucker for a great ass, and his is probably ranked between the Grand Canyon and the Great Barrier Reef on a list of things everyone should see at least once in their lifetime.
“I couldn’t help it!”
I roll over on the bed, clutching the towel to my chest so I don’t wind up totally naked, and press my face into the soft comforter. The water turns off, the sound of a towel being pulled from the rack reaches me, and then West’s feet pad over to the bed. I know he’s standing there, staring down at me with that increasingly familiar look of dismay on his face. I brace myself for a lecture about how I must do better than be a trash-can horn-goblin about his nakedness, about how I have to behave like a grown-up for the next ten days.
“Don’t yell at me,” I mumble into the pillow. “I’m sleep-deprived and generally incorrigible.”
The mattress dips and I crack one eye open. West has planted a knee on the bed and stares down at me, one hand clutching the towel wrapped around his narrow, muscular waist. “Calm down,” he says, smirking. “I peeked, too.”
Ten
LIAM
From the ages of six to twelve, I played Little League. I quit once I started middle school and girls or computers took over my every waking thought, and by that point I was also desperate to avoid my father’s competitive intensity whenever possible. But for those seven years, I was one of the best kids on the team.
At least when it came to fielding.
At bat, I was a distracted mess, unable to follow the golden rule: Keep your eye on the ball. No matter how often my dad ordered our nanny to pack a lunch and take me to the batting cages to practice, no matter how much he berated, threatened, or taunted me after games, I was never confident in the batter’s box. If I made contact, I’d slug it, sure. But at least half the time, I’d strike out.
“You’re pulling your head,” Dad would yell at me after every game. “Watch the ball hit the bat! For fuck’s sake, Liam, focus!”
He was right. Focus was always a challenge, and apparently it didn’t end with baseball. I came here with the knowledge that all I need to do is limp this lie to September, and I can finally exhale, but we’re less than an hour into this farce and I’m already off track: I peeked, and it was a huge mistake. It’s not that I didn’t know Anna was attractive all those years ago; it’s that we barely saw each other, and I was so driven to finish my degree and never have to work for my father again that Anna—attractive or not—was easy to overlook.
In reality, this trip should be very simple. Anna and I need to be in attendance, passably social, and not discuss our inane cover story anywhere in earshot of anyone but Jake. I realize she’s nervous about how well she’ll pull off her role, but what I told her was true: Anna could just smile on my arm and it would be fine. The fact that she’s here should be enough to get my self-obsessed father off my trail.