Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 99545 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 498(@200wpm)___ 398(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99545 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 498(@200wpm)___ 398(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
There is no rush for me today. I have nowhere to be.
Kaylee was telling me Jack might have practice or a game—she wasn’t sure which one, but she was going to try to go and did her best to coerce me into tagging along with her as her wingman.
I was out the door before she could ask and ask and ask me again.
I can’t even look at her today, for so many reasons.
I can’t shut my brain off, not long enough to get creative and cartoon, imagination eluding me, a first since starting my book.
I ordered an omelet, but eating it holds no appeal to me, so I ordered a cranberry muffin, too.
Both things are cold on their plates in front of me, untouched.
“I thought I would find you here.”
Startled, I whip my head up at the deep baritone, my heart palpitating when Jack comes around the opposite side of the table and pulls out a chair—uninvited.
I’m here today because I need to think. This is my private place to unwind, decompress, far from campus and my roommates and Jack, and yet here he is, as if I conjured him up with my unrelenting thoughts of him.
Dammit, Jack.
Rather than jumping straight into a conversation, he pulls a menu from its usual spot on the table and holds it in front of him, studying it.
“Hmmm,” comes his hum.
I smile…but hide it, not wanting to be smitten.
Too late for that, Eliza, don’t you think?
“Are you going to eat that?” He sets the menu down to the side, pouring himself a glass of water from the carafe the server brought over.
“I haven’t touched it,” I admit glumly.
“Hmmm,” he hums again. “I won’t touch it if you think you’re going to want it later—but eggs do sound good.”
I see no reason why he cannot eat mine, especially since it appears he’s staying.
Jack may suck at rugby, but he still possesses an athlete’s ambition; never give up.
“Just eat the omelet, Jack.”
He licks his lips. “The muffin too, or just the omelet?”
He is always pushing his luck, isn’t he? “Whatever you want.”
“Whatever I want? Really?”
Are we still talking about food? Or is he making an innuendo about something else entirely?
His expression is one of virtue; an invisible halo hovers above his dark hair as a testament.
“I meant—to eat.”
Jack raises his brows.
“Stop doing that,” I tell him, though it’s too late to stop the frenzied rush of blood coursing through my veins.
“Have you eaten anything at all today?” He’s still gazing at both me and my plate hungrily.
“Don’t tell me you’re worried about me,” I tease with a wry smile.
“You need to eat. Breakfast is my favorite meal of the day.”
“Well, it’s not early anymore, and…I don’t seem to have an appetite.” At least not for anything healthy. Suddenly I’m craving a donut.
Or chocolate.
Shoot, maybe I’m getting my period.
Jack pushes the plates forward toward my side of the table, refusing them. He takes the menu back up in his hands and studies before declaring, “I think today I’m going to have bacon and eggs and some toast.” He sets the menu back down with a nod. “And you should eat your omelet and muffin because you can’t sit here starving. It’s not good for your nob.”
“Not good for my nob?”
“You know—your brain.” He smiles, resting against the seat back. “Bet you haven’t been able to focus on your work.”
No, but my inability to concentrate has nothing to do with food and everything to do with him.
“You’re so cute when you’re confused.”
I look up. Did he just call me cute?
Ugh.
“Did you purposely come in here because you thought you would find me here or because you wanted to escape, too?”
“Yes,” he says with a grin but doesn’t explain himself further, his fingers fiddling with the edge of the plastic menu.
“Well which of the two is it?” I’m impatient for the answer.
“Both. I came in here because I thought maybe you would be here, and because I wanted an escape, but mostly because I was hoping you would be here.” He smiles and his face lights up. “Were you able to sleep? Because I wasn’t.”
It’s strange to me that he’d admit that, but it was also strange to me when he admitted last night he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about me—I didn’t think guys talked about feelings the way he has talked about his with me. There seems to be more to Jack Dryden-Jones than meets the eye, and if my instincts are correct, he wants me to know what that more is.
“No, I wasn’t able to sleep.” Feeling self-conscious about that admission, I add, “Someone turned the air off last night.”
Blushing, I lower my gaze, not wanting to meet his.
He has no problem looking me in the eye and telling me what’s on his mind, which is odd considering he can’t quit the rugby team. These two sides of him I cannot reconcile in my brain.