Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 100612 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100612 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
“Exactly.”
My bestie smiles at me knowingly. “Next question: If he promposes, does that number go up?”
I hesitate, then sigh. “Probably.”
“How high?”
Skyrockets. To the moon.
I press my lips together, trying not to grin. “If he were here, I’d probably already be making out with him again.”
Macy screeches. “Oh my god, who are you?!”
Before I can respond, my phone vibrates in my hand. I glance down—
My heart stops. “Oh my god, Easton is trying to FaceTime me.”
“Then answer it!” Macy squeals loudly, ending our chat before I can, a girl’s girl pushing me out of my comfort zone.
This is the most. Exciting. Night. Ever.
With a deep breath and a blissful sigh, I swipe to answer, doing my best to act completely normal. Key word: trying.
Then Easton appears on my screen.
And I have to remind myself how to breathe.
He’s lying in bed, broad shoulders bare, the sharp lines of his collarbone disappearing beneath his sheets. Oh my god—he’s not wearing a shirt! His hair is a mess, like he’s been running his hands through it, and his expression is lazy.
Handsome.
Behind him, hockey trophies line a dark wooden shelf, proof of accolades and achievements from all his hard work. Blue-and-green-plaid wallpaper covers the wall behind his head, giving his room a Scottish tartan vibe.
I would never have guessed he was a plaid wallpaper kind of guy.
My belly flip-flops at the sight of him.
Suddenly, I’m hyperaware of my tank top and pajama bottoms, wishing I were wearing something cuter. Newer. Less…
Basic.
“How ya doin’?” he begins, putting a hand behind his head.
I wonder if he’s actively trying to ruin my life. He lifts his arm, biceps contracting with the motion.
Drool threatens to trickle down the corner of my mouth.
“I’m good—how are you?” I resist the urge to roll my eyes at my own comment. I’m good, how are you? Ugh! That’s the best I can come up with? I want to pull the covers over my head and disappear.
But Easton doesn’t seem to mind. He adjusts his position on his bed, biceps flexing again in the process—not that I notice or anything.
“Good.” He pauses, rubbing his jaw like he’s considering something. “I was just thinking…”
About the kiss?
About me?
About prom? Maybe this is the moment—maybe he’s going to ask me to be his date now, instead of later.
My stomach does an actual somersault, and I hold my breath, waiting, internally begging him to finish that sentence in a way that will not send me spiraling into an overanalyzing mess.
Instead, he says, “Are we almost done with the decorations?”
Oh.
I blink. Why is he asking me this? He’s literally seen our progress with his own two blue eyes. He knows how much work is left to complete the knights.
This a question he could have texted.
But he didn’t.
He FaceTimed me.
Which means he wanted to see my face. Hear my voice. Right? That’s a good sign? It must be a good sign.
I force my brain to chill out and answer casually. “Almost done. Just a few more things for us to finish.”
He knows this.
Easton nods. “I was wondering how many afternoons I have to spend covered in glitter.” He laughs.
“You don’t love being covered in glitter?” I suppress a flirty giggle. “Gee, I wonder why.”
He tilts his head, presenting me with the side of his thick neck. “I actually don’t.” He laughs. “The other things aren’t so bad.”
My breath catches. Other things?
What other things?
The memory of his lips assails me: his hands gripping my waist, the way he breathed against my neck—
“You said ‘the other things aren’t so bad.’ ” I gently nudge his train of thought along. “What other things?”
I realize I sound thirsty. He studies me through the phone, staring at me with those unreadable blue eyes.
My breath gets caught somewhere between my lungs and my throat.
“You, probably,” he says at last.
“Me?” Is he joking? Hard to tell.
My gaze fixates on his tongue when he swipes it over his bottom lip, and he shifts, like he already regrets saying it. “Yeah.”
I swallow. Hard.
Because I don’t know what that comment means. And I don’t have the courage to ask for clarification.
“I should sleep.” He yawns. “My parents have been checking on me; they hate when I’m on my phone when I should be sleeping.”
“You’re the one who called me,” I remind him, cheek resting against my pillow.
“Well, I thought I had more to say.” He laughs quietly. “My dad has been up my ass lately about…everything. So I don’t want them to hear me—he would lose his shit if he heard me talking to a girl.”
“Ahh.” I nod in understanding, even though I don’t understand all that well. “Do they not want you to date?”
“I think he’d rather I didn’t. Not that that’s what this is, but—you get what I mean. It wouldn’t matter. He wants me to stay focused.”
I nod some more. “I get that.”