Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 91299 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91299 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
“It’s too early for lunch, and I have a class.”
“Fine, but we’re marking this down: I asked you if you wanted a sandwich. It shall be proclaimed on banners and described in song around the annual Waylon bonfire and the toga party for ages to come. Blaze Townsend asked Charisma Rossi if she wanted to do lunch and she said no. Her loss, really. Blaze is super good company.”
“Now who’s using third person?”
She just shakes her head at me and we walk together out the entrance. It’s freezing. I offer my varsity jacket, and she shakes her head.
Fine, fine. Move slow, Blaze.
“Where you headed?”
She gives me a side-eye. “Class.”
We head down the path, passing several people who call out to me along the way. She makes a left at a fork in the sidewalk, and I follow.
“Don’t tell me we have our second class together too,” she says as we pass by a couple of buildings. She darts a look at me.
“You never know.”
She turns right and takes the steps up to the Crest Building, an ancient-looking structure with thick windows and heavy molding around the entrance. I’ve never been inside it, but it looks interesting. Here goes nothing.
We enter a huge, spacious room on the ground floor with not a chair in the place. There are long yoga-looking mats on the floor, and the air has a musty quality to it. It reminds me how nice our gym facility is.
Against the wall is a rack of wooden and metal sticks, and next to it are wire mesh masks hanging from pegs. Ah. I give her a surprised look. I picture Charisma in a white fencing uniform—is that what they call it?—her lush body bouncing around, poking her opponent with a sword. Nice. I could get behind that.
“Fencing? I like your style, city girl.”
She blows at her bangs. “Why do you keep calling me that? I’m not, like, sophisticated.” She does a twirl. “Look at me. I’m in Chucks and leggings.”
“To this Mississippi boy, you are totally sophisticated.”
She pauses, a shuttered expression on her face as she sets her backpack in a cubby. I do the same. I’m all about going with the flow.
“Welcome to class,” states a tall, thin man who’s come out of a side door. In his late forties with a blond man bun, he speaks with a slight Russian accent. He claps his hands fast and does a little dance, one step forward and two steps back, frisky like. “Grab a partner, preferably someone similar in height and wingspan. Take a mat.”
Charisma walks to the other side of the room and stands on a mat. I hang back for a second. Even though I said I had a class so I could walk with her, I don’t, and if I want to leave, now’s the time. I could get in a quick lifting session—
“Charisma, do you have a partner?” The words come from a male.
My head swivels and I take in a guy with short auburn-colored hair who’s walked up to her. Wait a damn minute. Isn’t he the one I saw giving her a once-over at Cadillac’s?
Oh.
Hell.
No.
“I’m her partner,” I say as I walk over and stand next to her.
Chess Guy looks up at me, gets a load of my I’ll pulverize you look, and backs away slowly.
What the fuck is wrong with me? I don’t own her. Not even close.
“So, you ARE taking fencing?” she asks, exasperation in her voice.
“Depends how I like it today. I can always add it.” I arch a brow.
She stills and frowns, the soft lines of her oval face flattening. “Blaze…please don’t take this class.”
Shit. She really doesn’t want to be near me. My heart twinges as her words snake around inside my chest. I did that to her. I removed her from my life in a public way that everyone knew about, even though that wasn’t my intention, and it made her hate me.
I stare at her. “Can you handle being close to me for just one more hour? Will you give me that? I’m not going to register for this class, okay?”
Her lashes flutter, but she nods.
“Everyone grab a practice foil,” comes from the instructor. He goes on to tell us his name is Chaz then he runs through the syllabus for the semester, which is basically us learning how to poke at each other. No books involved. I got this.
We grab the swords, each one a thin wooden blade with a ball at the tip covering the pointed end.
“Barritus!” I call out with the sword in the air, and a few nearby students glare my way. I wave and give them a grin. “What’s up? Cool class, right?” They blink and turn back to each other. I look at Charisma; she’s glaring too, but her lip is twitching.