Total pages in book: 112
Estimated words: 108049 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 540(@200wpm)___ 432(@250wpm)___ 360(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108049 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 540(@200wpm)___ 432(@250wpm)___ 360(@300wpm)
His entire face lights up. “Thank you. I promise you won’t regret it.”
I already do.
We don’t stay at the alumni banquet much longer after Conor’s big performance. Considering I hadn’t wanted to go in the first place, I’m more than grateful to leave.
Last year Sasha and I got tipsy and had a blast, but she couldn’t attend this time because she had a last-minute rehearsal for her spring showcase. Which means I’d just spent the past several hours smiling and mingling and pretending to be BFFs with Kappas who either hate me or are just indifferent. Not to mention this stupid cardigan I’m wearing; I’d thrown it on earlier after growing weary of all the ogling being directed at my cleavage, and I’ve been sweating like crazy.
Conor offers to give me a lift back to my apartment since we both live in Hastings, but turns out he’s some kind of sneaky mind-wizard because somehow we end up at his place instead. I don’t know what compels me to agree to dinner and a movie. I decide to blame the two glasses of champagne I drank at the banquet, even though I feel completely sober.
“Fair warning,” he says, as we stand outside a townhouse on a quiet tree-lined street, “my roommates can be a bit excitable.”
“Like trying to hump my leg excitable, or easily startled and afraid of loud noises?
“A bit of both. Just smack ’em on the nose if they get out of hand.”
I nod and square my shoulders. “Got it.”
If I can handle a classroom full of two dozen six-year-olds raging on a sugar high, I’m well up to the task of taming four hockey players. Although it’d probably be easier if I had pudding cups.
“Con, that you?” someone calls when we enter. “What do you want in your grain bowl?”
Conor takes my coat to hang on one of the hooks by the door. “Everyone put your dicks away,” he announces. “We’ve got a guest.”
“Grain bowl?” I ask, confused.
“Team nutrition rules. We’re all eating like mice. No wasted calories.” He sighs.
I know the feeling.
He leads me around the corner into the living room, where three men of imposing figures are spread out on the couches, two playing Xbox.
They’re still in their suits from the banquet, albeit in various stages of disarray, with ties undone and shirts untucked. Together they look like a GQ cologne ad that ostensibly attempts to portray the aftermath of a fashionable boys’ night out in Vegas or something. All that’s missing is disembodied female legs in heels draped over their shoulders, and maybe a pair of lacy red underwear elegantly slung over the armrest.
“Guys, this is Taylor. Taylor, these are the guys.” Conor strips out of his suit jacket and tosses it on the back of a chair.
For a moment I’m transfixed, watching the way his muscles push against the crisp white fabric of his shirt. His chest straining against the buttons. He may have just ruined me for suits.
In unison the guys reply, “Hi, Taylor,” like we’re all in on a joke.
“Hi, guys.” I wave, now feeling awkward. All the more so because it’s hot in this room and I really, really want to take off my sweater.
But the dress I’m wearing must have shrunk in the wash yesterday, because my tits have been attempting to jailbreak out of it all afternoon. It’s discouraging to walk around a room full of former White House officials, Nobel laureates, and Fortune 500 CEOs, and find that they still haven’t perfected looking a woman in the eyes since their fraternity days.
Men are a failed species.
“So you’re the one.” Hunched forward with a game controller in his hand, one of the roommates raises an eyebrow at me. He’s handsome, with the kind of dimples that leave bodies in their wake.
I recognize him from the banquet as the dude standing with Conor’s team captain. He’d beat Conor home, but that’s my fault—I needed to hit the ladies’ and the lines had been atrocious.
“What one?” I ask, playing dumb.
“The one who sent Con to his knees and turned him into a slobbering, love-professing fool?” Mr. Dimples eyes me expectantly, waiting for me to fill in the gaps.
“Oh shit, that was you?” another guy demands. “Can’t believe we skipped out before the big show.” He pins an accusing look on the guy beside him. “Told you we should’ve stayed for one more drink.”
“No interrogating my guests, Matt,” Conor grumbles. “Same rule applies to all of you.”
“Are you our new mommy?” The third guy cracks open a beer, smiling with stupid puppy-dog eyes, and I can’t help but laugh in return.
“Alright, that’s enough.” Conor kicks Matt off the smaller of the two couches and gestures for me to take a seat. “This is why you dumbasses don’t get visitors.”
Their house is huge compared to my little apartment. A big living room with old leather sofas and a couple of reclining chairs. A massive flat screen TV with at least four different game consoles hooked up to it. When Conor said he lived with four roommates, I expected to walk into a nightmarish cave of man smells, pizza boxes, and dirty laundry, but the place is actually pretty tidy and doesn’t smell at all like feet and boy farts.