Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 99545 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 498(@200wpm)___ 398(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99545 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 498(@200wpm)___ 398(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
No scars.
No cuts.
No missing teeth.
Not a hair out of place and a tad preppy, although he is huge. Strapping, some might say. Broad-chested and fit.
I’m not quite sure what to make of him, this boy sitting on the end of the couch, enthralled by the Hulk. He seems to know what it is and when it was filmed, making comments every so often about the artwork from the original comic books.
Kaylee still hasn’t emerged from her bedroom, and I wonder what on earth she could be doing in there. Changing, yes, but…what else is there? What else could she possibly be doing?
I’m not keeping track of the time, but another few minutes go by before she reappears, prancing into the living room and announcing, “I’m back!”
I glance up and over at her.
She’s removed her skintight dress and party heels (as she calls them) and replaced them with equally uncomfortable-looking leggings and a crop top workout shirt.
Still sexy.
Still constrictive.
I stuff a potato chip into my mouth from a bag I have stashed at the side of the couch.
Crunch, crunch.
The guy—Jack—looks over.
“Are those crisps?”
Crisps.
So wonderfully British.
“Yeah, those are crisps.” I crunch on another one, savoring the crunchy, salty slice. They’re a craving I get once a month, just before I get my period. Chips, chocolate.
Apples.
Apples dipped in chocolate.
I pop another one in my mouth, arm hanging off the couch, hand shoved into the crinkly bag resting on the floor beside it.
“Can I have a few?” Jack is already leaning across the couch, hand extended, palm raised. I’m to set them there then, just like that? My precious chips, of which I have only half a bag left?
I’m lazy.
The thought of running out, wanting more, and having to go to the grocery store makes me twitchy.
Still, I don’t want to be rude.
He is a guest in our country.
Reluctantly, I dig out a small but respectable handful and place them in his waiting palm.
Kaylee stands next to the sofa, watching us both then glancing at the television.
When it’s obvious her date won’t be standing to join her any time soon—his gaze is trained on the Hulk—she sighs and comes around to the front, seating herself in the center.
I grab the chip bag and hold it out to her. “Want some?”
She declines.
I knew she would; Kaylee and Lilly don’t eat the same junk food I do. They have weights to maintain for cheerleading. Lilly is a basket girl—meaning they toss her up into the air—and Kaylee is one of the team members who do all the fancy backflips and handsprings and all that dangerous stunt stuff.
“Why did you offer her the whole bag when you only offered me a few?” Jack looks around her at me, then at the potato chip bag.
Is he being serious?
It’s difficult to tell with that proper accent and the schooled expression and the polo shirt he’s wearing.
“We just met,” I say, glancing down the couch. “This is the only bag I have.” Pause. “Besides, if I let you have the entire bag, you will probably eat the entire bag.”
He considers this. “I am rather hungry, now that you mention it.”
Kaylee perks up. “We could go grab something? A burger?”
There’s no way she is going to eat a burger, especially at midnight. But she’s a sweetheart, making the offer to make this boy happy—this boy she barely knows.
I’m assuming.
I have never seen him around or heard his name, so I’m guessing they’ve only just met. Then again, what do I know?
Jack’s eyes flit between the television and Kaylee as if he can’t choose between the two. The Hulk, or food.
The Hulk, or Kaylee.
What to do, what to do…
I actually find it shocking he’s debating his options. My roommate is beautiful, cute, and a total doll. This guy would rather watch a show than spend time with her?
It makes no sense.
What is he doing here if he doesn’t want to sleep with her? Or make out with her? Or win her over in some way?
I hold the bag close to my chest; he’s not getting any more.
They’re mine—let him go get a damn burger if he’s hungry.
The television, the couch, the privacy—I thought they would all be mine tonight. I wasn’t planning on having my roommate bust through the door before bedtime with a guy in tow.
I’m practically in my pajamas for crying out loud.
…not that it matters.
It’s my house. I have no one to impress, least of all strangers who are brought here in the middle of the night.
They’re not here for me, and I don’t host any slumber parties of my own—not of the co-ed variety.
I have a few friends other than my two roommates who have been known to spend the night every so often (especially if there has been alcohol involved), but they’re from back home and don’t come here often.