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)
I frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means quit acting like you’ve got all the time in the world,” he says simply. “You don’t.”
That pronouncement sits weirdly in my chest.
I know he’s not talking about girls—he’s talking about hockey. Obviously.
But for some reason, it feels like he’s talking about girls.
My knee is bouncing as I stare out the window. “I get it, Dad. Focus, don’t screw up, don’t waste time—message received.”
He grunts. “Good. Then you won’t waste time second-guessing yourself.”
“I’m not.” I am.
Dad turns into our neighborhood, slowly passing mailbox after mailbox. “Look, I don’t know what’s going on with you,” he concedes. “And I don’t need to.” He pulls into our driveway, puts the SUV in park, then turns to face me. “But if you do nothing, don’t be pissed when the choice gets made for you.”
Wise words.
Annoying words.
I grab the small duffel at my feet, push the car door open, and step into the night air. The house is mostly dark, just the kitchen light glowing through the window. My dad disappears through the garage door, but I linger on the driveway for several moments, staring up at the sky.
I used to think girls were simple. You flirt. You made a move.
But this?
None of this is simple.
I scrub a hand down my face and head inside, the door clicking shut behind me.
One thing is clear: I can’t sit in the middle of two people.
I need to figure out what the hell I’m doing.
Chapter 20
Harper
“Know what would be ironic?” I mutter, twisting the combination on my locker. “If Maddie Miller suddenly decides Easton is worth her time because she senses I’m interested.”
I wouldn’t put it past her. It seems like the type of superhuman skill a girl like her would be gifted: the ability to smell my desperation, because prom is this week and Easton hasn’t asked me the big question yet. The CLOCK IS TICKING.
The universe loves pulling that kind of crap—especially on me. The second you start catching feelings—the second you think something good is going to happen—the world steps in and laughs in your face.
Still, the thought barely dampens the giddiness buzzing under my skin.
Easton called me this weekend! To talk!
Not for a favor. Not to argue. Not because of my ridiculous blackmail scheme.
Just because.
I sigh louder than I’ve ever sighed, blissfully lost in my own thoughts. I totally sound like I’m thinking about a boy, too happy to be jealous of Maddie Miller.
“Hey.”
The voice startles me so much I slam my locker shut. My heart nearly jumps out of my chest as I turn—and find Easton standing there, backpack slung over his shoulder.
“Jesus, warn a girl next time,” I breathe, pressing a hand to my chest, eyes raking up and down his body.
Joggers.
Hoodie.
Adidas.
He leans against his locker as I reopen mine. “Would you mind doing me a favor? I need a ride home and Marcus is being a prick…”
He shoots me one of his dazzling smiles meant to win me over.
As if I would say no! Alone in the car with him? Again?
Yes, please!
“Didn’t mean to freak you out, by the way,” he goes on. “I thought you heard me walk over.”
Freaked out? Hardly. Daydreaming is more like it…
“It’s fine.” I look around for stragglers, but the hallway is mostly empty now that school’s out. “I can give you a ride home, no problem.”
“You sure?” He sounds apologetic. “ ’Cause I can camp out in the hallway, begging for someone to take pity on me.”
I hide my smile in the stack of books in my arms. Organize them neatly in my locker before shutting the door and facing him again. It’s not lost on me that Easton knows dozens of people who could drive him home, but instead?
He asked me.
“That’s what friends are for.” I hope the dig grates at him the way I intend it to, the subtle reminder that we are friends who kissed.
As my face heats up from the memory, another presence looms, tall and heavy. The fluorescent lights glint off a pair of thick black-framed glasses. Polo shirt (embroidered with the school’s mascot) tucked into navy trousers. HEYDUDE shoes, no socks.
Principal Callahan.
Easton and I straighten our spines like two soldiers called to attention, his easy grin turning sheepish, like we’ve been busted doing something we aren’t supposed to be doing.
“Uh, hey, Mr. Callahan.” He pauses before adding, “Sir.”
Callahan doesn’t return the greeting, his gaze unwavering. “I assume you were present earlier this week for the announcement about the mascot theft?” He emphasizes the word mascot and fails to blink.
“Yes. Um. Sir,” we both stammer. I feel the weight of his scrutiny shift toward me.
Callahan tilts his head, studying us. “You wouldn’t happen to have any information about that, would you, Ms. Conrad?”
The way he says my name makes me squirm.
Easton’s expression flickers, but he recovers quickly, plastering on an exaggerated look of innocence.