Total pages in book: 199
Estimated words: 200280 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1001(@200wpm)___ 801(@250wpm)___ 668(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 200280 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1001(@200wpm)___ 801(@250wpm)___ 668(@300wpm)
Because it gets louder and more incessant. It’s creating too much noise in my body, in my head, to hear or think anything except that he looks different.
Or rather he looks like he used to.
Before he came to my dorm room. Before, when I still thought he was a good guy.
And that’s because his stubble is gone.
His jaw is clean-shaven.
For the first time in a year I can see his face clearly. I can see the hollows of his cheeks and the killer slant of his jawline. I can see the corners of his mouth, how curved they are and how really plush and pink his lips are.
And I realize that I missed seeing those lips.
I missed seeing his cresting cheekbones, his masculine jaw.
I missed seeing him.
Which is not good at all.
What’s even worse is the fact that his clothes — although as usual, a t-shirt and jeans — look different too. His t-shirt isn’t as faded as it usually is; it’s still dark though and fits him very well. And his jeans aren’t threadbare and washed out like that of a rockstar’s. In fact they barely look worn at all.
And let’s not forget that he’s here.
At my door.
“You shaved,” I say, looking up at him.
“It was about time.”
“And you’re wearing different clothes.”
He looks down at himself. “I’m wearing what I usually wear.”
“No, you’re not.” I grab the doorknob tightly. “Your t-shirt doesn’t have an I’m-too-cool-for-this-world print and your jeans barely show the impression of your,” I wave my free hand around, “package. Down there.”
His eyes flash with amusement. “Well, I am too cool for this world and you have thought about my package then.”
“It isn’t funny.”
“It’s a little funny.”
I breathe out sharply. “I told you this isn’t a date.”
“And?”
“And so what are you doing?” I squeak out. “Why are you all clean-shaven and put together and what are you doing at my apartment when I asked you to wait for me at the restaurant? Not to mention, you’re early.”
His eyes flick back and forth between mine, all relaxed and calm. “This is a business meeting, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Yes, it is.”
“So that’s how I go to a business meeting.”
“You —”
“Clean-shaven and put together. And early.”
I glare at him then. “That still doesn’t explain what you’re doing at my apartment.”
“It’s on the way,” he replies without missing a beat.
“No, it isn’t. We live in totally opposite directions and —”
“I found a detour.”
“A detour? That doesn’t make —”
“Are you ready or not?”
“But —”
“Because I’m hungry as fuck and if you wanna argue, we can do it on the way,” he cuts me off.
I bite my lip then.
Because I don’t want to argue either. It defeats the whole purpose of this evening. If I want him to do what I want, then I need to be personable.
I sigh and nod. “Fine. Let me…” Then, completely switching gears when I catch sight of his hands, I go, “Oh my God, what happened here?” In fact I reach out and grab one and bring it closer to examine his knuckles. “What happened to your hand? Why does it look like…” I go for his other hand too. “Why do they both look like someone has run them over with their car?”
They do.
The knuckles are all torn up and scraped. The skin’s all red and tender around them.
I mean, I have seen him with injuries before. He’s a soccer player; of course he sustains injuries, big and small, almost every day. Plus he used to get into fights with my brother all the time. So of course I’ve seen him with bruises and cuts before.
And the reason that these ones worry me is because they didn’t come from soccer and I know they didn’t come from my brother either; he was fine yesterday when I saw him.
“Ran into a wall,” he clips, taking his hands away from me and pushing them into his pockets.
“What?”
His face is all tight and blank as he clips again, “Let’s go.”
“What happened?” I ask, swallowing. “Did you get into a fight with someone?”
“Yes.”
“With whom?”
“Don’t know. Don’t care.”
“Why?”
His jaw clenches. “Why do you think I do anything?”
“I —”
“I’m the Angry Thorn, aren’t I?” Another clench. “That’s what I do. I get into fights. I beat people up.”
For some reason his casual words don’t sound so casual and my heart twists in my chest. “But that’s not all who —”
“You’re done,” he says decisively, ready to turn around and leave.
“But Ledger —”
“Look,” he begins, his jaw ticking. “We’re making a stop along the way and as I already said, I’m hungry as fuck. So we’re leaving.”
“What stop?”
He breathes out, annoyed, and I hasten to say, “Doesn’t matter. It’s fine. Let me just get my purse.”
Chapter Fifteen
The stop along the way was to my favorite place ever.
A bookstore in the heart of Bardstown: Burning the Midnight Candle.