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)
Harper: Wow. We’re good at this.
Easton: Rule 7: I’ll agree to this decorating business but I’m not actually going to decorate.
Harper: That isn’t fair.
Easton: Forcing me to be your prom date under threat of jail time isn’t fair.
Harper: Rule 8: You cannot keep constantly bringing up the fact that our agreement might not be aboveboard.
Easton: Why not?
Harper: It makes me feel like a shitty person and a crappy human.
Easton: Rule 8: I won’t constantly keep bringing up the fact that our agreement isn’t aboveboard…if you help me learn how to…you know. Talk to girls.
Harper: What do you mean you want to learn how to talk to girls? You talk to me just fine.
Easton: You know—actual girls I’m interested in who aren’t blackmailing me.
Harper: Wow. Ouch.
Easton: That came out all wrong.
Harper: You don’t say…
Easton: I help you out, you help me out, everyone wins.
Harper: But you’re still going to be my prom date?
Easton: Obviously.
Harper: Okay.
Easton: You have to say “We have a deal.”
Harper: Do I actually?
Easton: You have to put it in writing so it’s a binding contract.
Harper: Fine. WE HAVE A DEAL. Are you happy?
Easton: As happy as I can possibly be under the circumstances…
Chapter 8
Harper
I’ve never blackmailed anyone before, so I have no idea what to even do with Easton Westermann now that I have him in my clutches.
Er, did I say clutches?
What I mean is—I have no idea what to do with the guy now that he’s following me around, asking me questions, looking for direction, doing the tasks I’ve given him.
On one hand, I feel like he’s doing it to annoy the crap out of me. With hopes that I’ll get so frustrated I tell him to leave. On the other, perhaps he is this clueless?
I haven’t seen him wield a glue gun yet but I’m dreading it.
After our text negotiations, the rest of Friday evening went by in a blink. Before the weekend, my art teacher, Mr. Graz, said he’s still finding us a space to use on campus and has his eye on the old high school woodshop. The department got an overhaul and a brand-new building, so the shed, once it’s emptied, will be ours for the time being.
In the meantime I have to continue using my garage.
Surrounded by glue, glitter, paint, and cardboard, I have everything laid out when Easton Westermann walks through the door Saturday afternoon—I even brought snacks because I want him to forget that he’s reluctant to be here.
I am, above all else, a gracious hostess.
But the first twenty minutes are awkward as I show him around our space, his cologne or body spray or whatever that smell is messing with my brain. I’ve never noticed him wearing fragrance before and he decides to start today?!
Also. There’s a nick on his neck where he cut himself shaving and I try not to stare directly at it.
I clear my throat, explaining the prom theme yet again and what my job is as far as decorations go.
“Um. These knights are going to be displayed around the gym—that’s why there are so many of them,” I tell him, although the concept is pretty self-explanatory.
Easton nods, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his joggers. “Gotcha.” He raises an eyebrow. “So, why knights? I thought the prom theme was ‘A Night Under the Stars.’ And I thought themes were supposed to be romantic.”
I roll my eyes. He hasn’t connected ‘knights’ and ‘nights’—and he doesn’t find either romantic? “ ‘A Knight Under the Stars’? Night, knight? Get it? It’s a pun. You know what those are, right?”
Easton frowns at my sarcasm. “Yes, I get it. Very punny. I just hope no one thinks we’re supposed to come in full armor. I don’t think I can pull off the chain mail look.”
For the life of me, I can’t decide if he’s teasing. “Please tell me you’re joking.”
“Obviously I’m joking—the gym’s AC can’t handle that kind of heat.” He laughs, picking up a hammer. Inspects it. Sets it back on my dad’s workbench.
“Can you imagine trying to dance in chain mail?”
He pretends to think about it, then shakes his head. “Nope. And I’d probably knock someone out with my lance or something.” He props his hands on his hips, mirroring my pose. “So, what’s our agenda? When do I get snack privileges?”
I laugh, walking to a card table I set up that my mom uses for garage sales, grab a bag of chips. Grabbing a bag of chips, I hand it to him.
“Consider these your peace offering.” Not that I’m letting him off the hook—he does not get to stand here and look pretty. He is here to help. “But you do have to help me with these knights. Start by cutting out the shields. Just don’t hurt yourself.”
Easton takes the bag, tears it open, and shakes chips into his open mouth. Broken chips fall to the floor as he continues eating. He crushes the bag once he’s done, then does a basket toss into the trash can.