Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 94579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 378(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 378(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
He’s laughing now, and the deep timbre has me pulling back in shock. Falling slack, back against the wall, my hands press against my flaming hot cheeks.
Rowdy is falling in love with me?
He loves me.
Oh my god, he’s in love with me?
Say it again, Sterling, I silently beg, greedy for the words. Just one more time.
“Have you discussed it with her?”
“God no!” He screeches. “Are you nuts?”
I have to press a palm to my mouth to stop from giggling as Mrs. Wade laughs. “Why not?”
“I’m not ready to confess that shit to her, Mother. I don’t know what she’ll say and I’m not a masochist.”
“I’m just asking, Sterling, relax. You’re so sensitive.” Mrs. Wade chuckles again. “Please stop staring at me with that look—you’re being ridiculous.”
It sounds like he’s crossing his arms, slumping in the chair. “I’m not discussing my feelings with her.”
“Why not?”
“Because.” His voice is stern, resolute. “I don’t think she feels the same way. It’s been two months.”
“Why would you say that?” she asks gently, and I imagine if I stuck my head around the corner, I’d see her hand resting on his forearm, comforting. “Two months is a long time.”
“Scarlett is…” His voice trails off. “Smart and beautiful and…she’s intimidating.”
Intimidating?
Me?
I intimidate him? Is he delusional?
I’m five foot five on a tall day, couldn’t get into my dream college even after applying and appealing the rejection twice. Half the time I’m wearing yoga pants, and the other half he’s only seen me in puffy winter jackets.
What’s so intimidating about that?
Sterling Wade is six foot two of solid muscle and tan skin. Smooth planes and masculine lines. He’s intense and funny and I’ve been dreaming about him every night since we met. Dreamed about meeting a guy like him when I was younger, imagining the perfect match for myself.
He is as close to perfect as a guy could possibly be.
And sweet Jesus, that boy loves me.
His voice, a deep baritone that never fails to send a shiver down my spine, is soft as he describes me to his mother.
“She’s independent, doesn’t really give a shit about me playing baseball or that I’m, you know—popular or whatever.”
I cringe. That part makes me sound like such an asshole. Is that what he truly thinks? That I don’t give a shit about him playing baseball?
My hands are shaking as I bring them up to my face, cool palms pressed against my flaming hot cheeks, embarrassed by that last part of his assessment.
What is he doing to me?
What do I do with myself now that I have this new information?
I can’t walk into the kitchen and act normal, as if I haven’t just overheard him emotionally unload to his mother.
I can’t.
I’m bright red from head to toe, still pressed to the wall in my hiding spot around the corner, next to the kitchen, just feet away from where they’re sitting.
Mrs. Wade hmphs, unimpressed. “She doesn’t give a shit about you playing baseball? Baseball is your future—is she supportive? What does she care about?”
“Relax, Mom, that’s not what I meant. I just meant she isn’t dating me because I play ball. She’s into marine biology. Graduating, I guess. She hates parties.”
What? I don’t hate parties!
Not much.
Fine, I do—but they’re a necessary evil if I’m determined not to become a hermit, sequestering myself inside the tiny hovel I call home.
“I thought you said you met her at a party?”
“I did.” He’s shifting in his chair. “But she was just coming off of a cold and her friends dragged her there. That whole night didn’t end well. I don’t know why she kept coming back.”
Finally, I hear a smile in his mother’s voice. “She came back for you, sweet boy.”
“Do not call me sweet boy—it makes me sound five.”
“You like her because she’s different.” Mrs. Wade sounds pleased. “This makes more sense to me now. Hmm, must be a big change from the usual.”
I know what she’s referring to: jock, jersey, cleat chasers. Gold diggers. Groupies. Women who only date men because of their status on campus.
“Yeah, it was weird at first,” Rowdy admits. “Sometimes I don’t know what to say around her anymore, or where to put my hands—like, I just want to hug her all the time and I don’t give a shit that we haven’t had sex yet.” Long pause. “Okay that’s a lie, I totally give a shit that we haven’t had sex, but I don’t want to freak her out. She’s so smart, Mom.”
“Mmhmm, mmhmm.” Now it sounds like his mother is preoccupied. “What else?”
“I mean, at first when she started coming to the house, it was casual and we just sat there playing games because we were bored. I—” He stops. “Mom! Jesus, you said you weren’t going to write any of this shit down! No taking notes!”
“What? It’s my job! It’s not like I’m using your names—this is fiction! Besides, I write regency romance, not contemporary, so no one will know it’s you.”