Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 84952 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84952 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
“You could say that.”
The way he says it makes me wonder what exactly he’s referring to. But it also scares me too much to ask.
Boone Mason is Aunt Siggy’s youngest son. With four brothers, it was probably a given that he would be a handful. When you couple that with the fact his brother Coy was only eighteen months older than him and a complete and utter hellion, Boone didn’t stand a chance.
The three of us grew up together—four, if you count Bellamy—building forts in the woods and damming up the creek behind their house. We’d ride bikes, play home run derby, and hold fake Star Search contests that Coy would always win.
We were the Four Musketeers until Bellamy and Coy decided they hated each other.
“I spent the morning with your mom,” I tell Boone.
He groans. “I’m so sick of hearing about her damn party. Did she poll you on snowflakes or icicles?”
I laugh again. “Yes. How did you know?”
“Because when I went by there last night to see if I could smuggle any food out, she was asking me.”
“Your mom isn’t giving you food anymore?”
“Yeah. But sometimes, I feel guilty. I’m a grown-ass man. I shouldn’t be going to my mom's to get food, you know?”
“Exactly how does it make it better if you smuggle it out?”
He pauses. “I’m not sure. I think it just lets me keep some of my self-respect.”
“You’re an idiot,” I say with a giggle. “We picked icicle, by the way. In case you care.”
“I don’t. I assure you, I don’t.”
I lean my head back on the chair and relax. Boone muffles the phone with what sounds like his hand and has a brief conversation with someone else. When he comes back, my mind is on Hollis again … and the fact he didn’t call last night.
“Sorry,” he says. “I’m back.”
“No problem.” I sigh, unsure whether I should bring up Hollis. I’m going to keep ruminating on him, so I might as well see what Boone thinks. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
“What do guys think of girls who make the first move, even if she didn’t really mean it?”
“Depends.”
I wait for more.
Still, nothing.
I roll my eyes. “Fine. That wasn’t what I meant anyway.” I shift around in the chair. “Let me rephrase this for you. What would a guy think about accompanying a girl somewhere if that girl had no desire to make something more out of it?”
“Why doesn’t she want to do that?”
“Because maybe she just wants a man to be a gentleman for once and look out for a friend for a night.”
I do want that, but if I’m candid, I want a man to be genuine and kind and above blaming me for my inadequacies—the reason they all seem to leave in some way or another. God, I’m over that.
“Because maybe she’s tired of being burned. Maybe she’s sick of finding herself in the same situations over and over with men who seem good at the start and then end up … tolerating her instead of loving her. Maybe she just wants to be alone for a while and break her bad habits so she can pick a guy with mental clarity, for once.”
“Wow. Alright. Settle down.”
“Sorry. That got a little aggressive there, didn’t it?”
“A little,” he teases. “And by she, I’m assuming we’re talking about you?”
“Obviously.” I sigh. “How would a guy react if I asked him to go somewhere with me as friends? Even if we aren’t friends. And the sizzle between us isn’t exactly friendly. Do you feel me?”
He taps his tongue on the roof of his mouth. “Well, I’m pretending we aren’t talking about you because that makes things … weird and potentially skews my response. However, if it were me and a chick who had the hots for me invited me somewhere, my answer, I suppose, would depend on how well we got along. And if it’s really a ploy to get us in a situation where we’re gonna fuck, but she feels good about it. Like oops, we just happened to end up at this place where there’s a bed, and the two of us, and we’ve had a couple of drinks.” He laughs. “That’s happened more times than you’d believe.”
“Oh, great.”
“You asked.”
I sigh. “I expected you to be more … sweet about it, which I guess is my fault because when are you ever sweet?”
“I can be,” he protests. “But only when it’s necessary. I don’t waste sweet behavior on just anyone, you know.”
“God forbid.”
“Not every situation calls for sweet behavior. Some women don’t even want that, I’ll have you know.” He laughs. “So who is the guy, and where do you want to take him?”
Instantly, tension stretches across the back of my neck again. I place a hand at the base of my skull and squeeze.