Total pages in book: 241
Estimated words: 234779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1174(@200wpm)___ 939(@250wpm)___ 783(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 234779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1174(@200wpm)___ 939(@250wpm)___ 783(@300wpm)
“Anything for my girls,” he says.
Mom grins and they start kissing again. I bite back a smile and turn back to grab the bread out of the toaster.
Just as I put the toast on the table and go to sit down, the doorbell rings again.
Since we’re all here, I frown. Mom does, too, but since she’s busy I go answer it.
My eyes widen as I open the door to a flower delivery guy. He’s holding a huge bouquet of white roses and a small brown gift bag.
At first I think it’s another stunt in Ray’s mission to win Mom back, but then the delivery guy says, “I have a delivery for Riley Bishop.”
“I’m Riley Bishop,” I say, looking at the flowers in confusion.
He flashes me a smile. “Well, then, these are for you.”
I’m no less confused as he passes me the huge bouquet and then hands me the gift bag. After telling me to have a good day, he turns to leave, so I call out to stop him. “Wait, am I supposed to tip you?”
“Nah, it’s already taken care of,” he assures me. With that, he heads back to his car.
Mom and Ray come to the door to see what all the fuss is about. Their gazes drift to my delivery, both scowling mildly.
“What’s this?” Mom asks.
“I don’t know.” I turn around and carry the flowers to the kitchen so I can put them down. Thankfully, they came in a vase, so I don’t have to try to find one.
“Did that Anderson kid send you these?” Ray asks, sounding none too impressed.
My brow furrows. I guess they have to be from him, but it seems way premature for Anderson to be sending me flowers.
Anderson Milner is… I guess the closest thing I’ve ever had to a boyfriend.
When Hunter informed the whole 8th grade male population that I put out, one of the many things I worried about was that even though I don’t believe it was his intention, he was opening me up to a lot of unwanted advances from guys who believed him and also wanted an easy lay—even if it was with some nerd they had never spoken to before. Especially with him leaving the country and no longer around to even police his territory, I thought things might get bad for me for a while.
They did, I guess, but not in the way I expected. While I am still periodically remembered and made a social pariah, I’m mostly invisible—especially to males. Literally every guy at our school treats me like the plague. Not only did none of them push unwanted advances on me after Hunter’s pronouncement, they treated it like a “no touch” policy. Senior year begins today, and not one guy at our school has ever so much as asked me to a school dance, let alone out on any kind of date.
Until Anderson. He didn’t go to our school when Hunter did, so I guess he missed the memo about me being persona non grata. It also helped that we met over the summer, so there was no school environment to contend with.
Hanging out with him has been nice, but we haven’t even kissed yet, so I’m confused as to why he would send me roses.
There’s a card in the flowers, so I pluck it out to see what it says.
First day of senior year.
Let’s make it memorable.
Huh. Weird. Thoughtful, but weird.
I set the card aside and lean in to smell the roses. I’m still not sure how I feel about him sending me flowers, but they do smell nice. I guess it was a nice thing to do. I should be appreciative, not wary.
“What’s in the bag?” Mom asks.
I turn my attention from the flowers to the little brown bag. It’s really thick, high-quality paper with “Made in Assisi” stamped on the front and handles as sturdy as shoe laces. There’s a brown satin bow tied on top to keep the bag closed, so I grab a ribbon and pull it loose.
“Where’s Assisi?” Ray asks.
“I don’t know,” Mom murmurs, still frowning.
There’s a little brown jewelry box inside with a note on top. I pull out the note first, and as I read it, my eyes narrow and my ire builds.
Wear this to school today. I want everyone to know who you belong to.
“What’s it say?” Mom asks, ever curious.
This time instead of dutiful gratitude, I fill up with blind rage.
“It says Anderson has lost his damn fool mind, that’s what it says,” I mutter, dropping the note and opening the jewelry box. Who I belong to. What the hell is he thinking?
I sort of glare at the box as I open it up. I don’t know what I expect it to be, but it’s not what’s there. Resting on a bed of soft black velvet is a silver necklace. The chain is delicate, and the pendant dangling from it is an “M” with a… devil tail?