Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 95340 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 477(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95340 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 477(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
“I still cannot believe you’re going out with Sully Brewer.”
“Why?” I ask Jill, who’s back from her parents’ lake house and holding up the kitchen counter, leaning one hip against it while she flips through a new magazine.
“Because. He’s not your type.”
Oh? “How is he not my type?”
Seriously, tell me because I didn’t realize I had a type.
“First of all, have you ever spoken to him for more than five minutes?” she asks.
I shake my head.
“’Cause it’s mind-numbing, and you like smart people—not saying he’s not smart because obviously he got accepted to college, but he’s not appearing on the Dean’s List anytime soon.”
“Can I get an amen?!” Bethany—finally back from Jon’s—shouts out from the bathroom; she’s using the toilet with the door wide open, as per usual.
“No, you cannot.” I laugh, dipping a carrot into a container of ranch dressing. “Keep going. You don’t think he’s my type because he’s not a Rhodes Scholar?”
“Correct.” She nods, flipping yet another page. I’m amazed she’s able to have a conversation and read simultaneously. “I also think he’s too pretty for you.” She shrugs. “He’s too pretty for me.”
“He’s a guy. How can he be too pretty?”
“I’m pretty sure he waxes his eyebrows.”
“So?”
“So. You don’t wax your eyebrows.”
No, but I wax my upper lip and sometimes my side-burns. Is waxing a crime?
I keep this bit to myself for self-preservation.
“Look. Go out, have fun, maybe have sex.” She has the magazine in one hand when she points a finger in my direction. “Do not bring him back here. I don’t want to wake up and have him standing in the kitchen while I’m wearing my hair bonnet and have bags under my eyes.”
“I’m not having sex with him. He invited me for food, and I like to eat. It’s a win-win.”
“Please.” Bethany snorts from the bathroom, still on the toilet. “No guy invites you out for food without an ulterior motive.”
“Where on earth are you getting this from? That is so false. SO false.”
“Sorry. Let me rephrase that. A guy like Sully wouldn’t invite you out for food unless he had an ulterior motive,” Bethany says. “Just saying.”
A guy like Sully…
“You barely know him.”
That makes Jill laugh. “Know him? I was banging his roommate for a hot minute, remember?” She puts her hands up in mock surrender. “It’s fine. Don’t listen to us—see for yourself.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m not marrying the guy. We’re having dinner. And who’s to say a hot jock won’t turn out to be my type in the long run?”
“Yeah, yeah.” Jill steals one of my carrots and takes a bite off the end. “Keep us posted, though. We want to hear every detail.”
Every detail.
Ha.
“There will be no details, but I will spill the tea when I get home.” Which will probably be sooner than they expect, I think to myself as I check my watch. “Got to get ready.”
“Whatcha wearing?”
I look down at my sweatpants and hoodie. “I don’t know. Leggings and a crewneck?”
“Wow. Really going the extra mile to impress him.”
“He’ll definitely want to get inside your pants.” Bethany laughs.
My eyes get wide, and my mouth falls open. “Maybe he’s my type, maybe he’s not. Or maybe I’m only going out with him for the free food!”
That’s mostly a lie. The truth is, I’m going on a date with him because he asked me and I had no reason to say no. Simple as that. He seems like a fun dude to spend a night with, and there’s nothing wrong with a guy wanting to get inside one’s pants.
Why not go on a date? Why not eat food and laugh a little?
“You don’t know it’s going to be free. What if he’s one of those guys who wants to split the check ’cause of women’s lib?”
True. Good point.
But doubtful.
“You can’t have it both ways, Jill. You can’t want men to look at us as equals if you’re not willing to pick up half the check.”
Her chin tilts up defiantly. “You bet I can.”
“You’re such a brat.” Bethany laughs.
“You bet I am.”
I sigh. “That’s my cue to get dressed.”
Once I’m in my bedroom, I do that thing girls do when they’re standing in front of their open closet, not knowing what to wear, pulling clothes out—throwing them on the bed behind me.
Too dressy.
Too sloppy.
Dirty, why is this even in here?
Too basic.
Not basic enough.
Tank top. Long sleeves. Skirt. Pants.
“Ugh! Just pick an outfit. This is for fun, not your engagement dinner,” I grumble, finally narrowing down the selection, choosing the very thing I said I would wear—or close to it.
A cute, dressy jogger (yes, there is such a thing). A cropped sweatshirt with a zipper running quarter way down the front. Crisp white sneakers.
I pull my hair back in a low pony and add hoops.
Casual. Cute.
My ass looks fabulous in these pants, and he can’t stare at my cleavage because there is none.