Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 67046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
He raises one shoulder into a half shrug, chewing his steak. Swallows. “Eh, sometimes. It depends on where I go? I’m less conspicuous at, say, the mall, or like at the coffee shop the other day. Glasses and a hat help.”
“Sure, I can see that.” I pause, thinking. “What’s it like?”
“What’s what like?”
“You know.” I wave a hand airily around. “Having everyone know who you are, but you don’t know them,” I clarify.
“I won’t lie, it’s weird. Real hard to get used to.” He uses a knife to spear through a hunk of meat; it hovers halfway to his mouth. “People come up and know all this shit about me, like my birthday or my parents’ names and where I was raised. And I don’t know who they are at all. Kind of creepy, but…no close calls. Yet.”
“What do you mean by close calls?”
“Stalkers.”
I feel my eyes widen. “Stalkers? Like—that come to your house?”
“Yeah, it happens. Superfans or people get pissed off and go crazy blaming you for a loss. It doesn’t get any realer than that.”
“So no one has ever stood on your lawn and shouted at your windows?”
“No.” He laughs. “But I live in a gated community, and there’s a fence around my house, too, so…”
Ah. I see.
Not an apartment, not a condo. Not a shithole he rents. “Do you have roommates?”
“God no.”
The tone in which he says it makes me laugh and I bite down on my bottom lip to hold in a huge grin. “Guess you don’t need to split the rent, eh?”
I can’t believe I actually have the lady balls to allude to the fact that he has money. I’m so tacky sometimes.
His smile is rueful. “You’ve met some of my friends—can you imagine living with Buzz Wallace?” He feigns a tremor rippling through his body. “I’d kill him within a week.”
“Is he that bad?”
“That bad? That—” He gives me a stunned expression, a playful one. “He’s the fucking worst, pardon my French.” Stops. “I don’t speak French.”
“Is he one of your best friends?”
Noah tips his head to the side as he considers the answer to this. “Uh…I don’t know. He does some pretty fucked up shit.”
“What kind of fucked up shit?” I don’t mind cursing since he’s done it twice in the span of thirty seconds.
“Acting like an asshole when he was pretending to be me. He comes over, eats all my food and never feeds me. Lets himself in—once I found him in my backyard with three random women. You have a house, dude—don’t use mine as your sex dungeon.”
“Sex dungeon!”
“Okay, maybe that’s me being dramatic, but he doesn’t need to bring anyone over without telling me. It’s rude. My home isn’t a fraternity house.”
“Were you in a fraternity in college?”
“God no—when would I have had the time? I entered the draft as a senior, and you have to prepare for that months in advance to be eligible, so I had no life.”
“You didn’t date?” Yes, I’m fishing for information on his love life.
“Uh—no.”
“Because you didn’t have time?”
The vegetables on his fork hang there, halfway to his mouth. “Sure, we’ll go with that.”
“What kind of answer is that! I didn’t date in college either, mostly because I’m not the kind of girl guys hit on.”
There. I said it.
“What the hell does that mean?”
“I don’t know! I didn’t dress sexy or go out and get drunk. If I was being hit on, I wouldn’t have known it. Guys don’t like the girl next door. They want the girl who wants to bang.”
“Those guys were idiots. You’re gorgeous—who wouldn’t want to date you?”
He’s not looking at me, he’s staring into the takeout container as if it’s the most fascinating thing in the room, but the insides of me melt at his words just the same. There is nothing placating or pandering about them and he’s bashfully hiding his face as he says it, so endearing and sweet.
Noah Harding is a big softie.
“Plenty of people haven’t wanted to date me.”
“You don’t sound upset about it.”
I shake my head slowly. “I’m not. I’ve always thought the right guy would come along when he came along.”
“It’s that easy, huh?”
“No, that’s not what I’m saying. I just mean that…” I pause to think about it before putting it into words. “I’m young—we are young. Everyone—and by everyone, I mean my girlfriends—puts pressure on themselves to find someone, to be in a relationship, and they’re willing to settle for the first asshole who pays them any attention. Then it’s nonstop drama and arguing.” I feed myself and chew. “Sometimes they break up then get back together, then break up, and everyone around them develops whiplash from the back and forth.”
I mimic my head whipping side to side.
Digging a fork into my dinner, I say, “My mom always told me, ‘When you know, you know.’”