Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 85453 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 427(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85453 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 427(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
She steals my ability to reply by disappearing into a sea of drama geeks decked out in cat suits and heavy stage makeup for a performance they’re undertaking tonight at a local theater restaurant.
I could chase her down again, but I’m allergic to cats. My allergy is almost as severe as my inability to chase a woman who isn’t ready to be caught.
She’ll come around—they always do—but until then, it’s back to the drawing board.
Chapter 2
McKayla
A melody of lust and the despair that comes with it serenades me when I press my ear to the glass dividing me from Gabriel Sutton, teen soap star, heartthrob, and my very first crush. He’s practicing a melody for a production that’s yet to be slated, and I get a front-row seat since he favors the acoustics of a basketball court over a recording studio.
We’re at the top of the bleachers, away from the prying eyes of the sweaty men and overly chipper cheerleaders below. It is just Gabriel and me… until my hand slips on the control board I’m practically straddling since the soundproof glass was dampening his Grammy-worthy performance.
My skid doesn’t merely turn on the house lights, it illuminates the PA room as well, which means I’m now visible to the entire basketball team, their snarly-faced wannabee girlfriends, and one extremely smug pair of eyes.
Mercifully, the haughty gleam doesn’t belong to Gabriel. Even with his eyes closed as he breaks into a solo performance of the chorus, I can tell you with utmost certainty that his eyes are blue. The pair staring at me like I caved as my heart wanted me to when he approached me three weeks ago are a greenish-brown.
If Milo Mancini thinks I’ve come to ask for his scraps, he needs more than a tutor. His entire head should be examined. I’m not here for him, but since I’d have to exit the door Gabriel uses to keep his solo melodies at the peak of the bleachers, I have no way of informing Milo of that.
I’m a sitting duck, and it appears as if Milo knows that. A second after tossing the stupid orange ball some girls at South Harmon act as if it is the key to the kingdom, he climbs the bleachers separating us two steps at a time.
The thunderous stomps of his enormous feet startle Gabriel enough he stops singing. He doesn’t have the build nor the height to send his stomps booming across an entire arena. His voice, though. That grips you for miles.
Regretfully, it couldn’t keep Patterson Drive on prime time. It was axed around the same time Gabriel stopped growing, leaving my eleven-year-old self absolutely gutted. I only recovered when I learned what college Gabriel had been accepted to attend five years ago. I switched my preferences the same afternoon.
What? It isn’t stalking if you don’t watch them sleep.
Right?
When the door to the sound room shoots open, I stuff my hands into my pockets and act as if I invited Milo to join me. I’d rather Gabriel think I’m fraternizing with the enemy than stalking him like a loser.
The friendly smile I direct at Milo smooths the grooves between Gabriel’s dark, manicured brows. He believes my ruse, and so does Milo. “I knew you’d eventually show up.” Perfectly straight blond wisps of hair fall into his greenish-brown eyes when he slants his head to the side and says with a grin, “They always do.”
I laugh as if he said something far more profound before scooting by him to close the door he left hanging open. Then, with far more confidence in the soundproof glass than I should have, I mutter, “I’m not here for you.”
“Please…” Milo shifts from foot to foot, his smile picking up along with his shuffles. “Even from a distance, I saw the heat on your cheeks. You were totally digging what you saw.”
After turning back around to face him, my movements unsteady when an unusual smell kick-starts my sluggish heart, I ask, “And what did I ‘supposedly’ see?” I air quote my second to last word.
Through crinkled brows, he replies, “My three-pointer. Didn’t even hit the backboard.” When I remain mute, clueless as to what he is referencing, he adds, “My shot from the middle of the court went straight in the hoop.” The more he talks, the slower his words come out. “You didn’t see it?”
Disappointment hardens his features when I shake my head. “But I’m sure it was a good shot.”
“A good shot?” He holds his heart as if wounded by my reply. “It was pure brilliance, absolute drive. It was more than a good shot.”
While rolling my eyes at his dramatics, I snag my backpack from the swivel chair in front of the lights panel, then murmur, “Whatever it was, I didn’t see it.”
My back stiffens like a rod when he mutters to himself, “So, if you’re not here for me, who are you here for?”