Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 123435 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 617(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 411(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123435 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 617(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 411(@300wpm)
“Who is he?” she demands when I put her on speakerphone. “Tell me everything.”
“Nothing to tell.” I wander over to the vanity table and examine my chin. I feel a zit coming on, but my reflection says otherwise. “I met a hot guy, turned down his invitation to hang out with him at the party, and went home instead.”
“Cassandra.” Peyton is aghast.
“I know.”
“What the hell is wrong with you? The whole point of going last night was to meet a dude! And you found one! And you said he’s hot?”
“Hottest guy I’ve ever seen,” I moan.
“Then why did you leave?” Her confusion might as well be an accusation.
“I chickened out,” I confess. “He was too intimidating! And you should’ve seen the girls he was with—they were these perfect, tall, fit goddesses. With perfectly proportioned boobs … unlike someone you know.”
“Oh my God, Cass. Stop. You know how I feel about you beating up on yourself.”
“Yeah, yeah, you want to punch me in the face. I can’t help it, though. Seriously, those girls were gorgeous.”
“And so are you.” A frazzled sound echoes over the speaker. “You know, I really hate your mother.”
“What does my mother have to do with this?” I snicker.
“Are you kidding me? I’ve been to your house. I hear how she talks to you. I was actually speaking to my mom about it the other day, and she was saying all that hurtful shit is bound to affect your self-esteem.”
“Why are you speaking to your mom about me?” I demand, embarrassment climbing up my throat.
Having a best friend whose mother is a clinical psychologist is definitely a pain in the ass sometimes. I’ve known Peyton since we were eleven—we met not long after Mom and I moved to Boston—and Peyton’s mother would constantly pry into my psyche when I was a kid. She always tried getting me to talk about my parents’ divorce, how it made me feel, how my mother’s criticism affected me. Blah, blah, and blah. I don’t need a shrink to tell me there’s a direct correlation between my insecurities and my mother’s verbal attacks. Or that my mother is a raging bitch. I know it all too well.
On the rare occasions Dad and I have spoken about her, he’s admitted that Mom has always skewed more toward me me me on the altruism scale. But the divorce really twisted something inside her. Made her worse. It certainly didn’t help that he remarried within a year and a half and now has two other daughters.
“Mom thinks we need to silence your inner critic. Aka your mother’s horrible voice in your head.”
“I shut my inner critic up all the time. Silver lining, remember?” Because while my grandmother’s life rule is to make sure you get murdered in your Sunday best, mine has always been to look on the bright side. Find the silver lining in every situation, because the alternative—wallowing in the darkness—is bound to destroy you.
“Of course, Little Miss Sunshine,” Peyton says mockingly. “Always looking for the silver lining—how could I forget?” Her voice takes on a note of challenge. “Okay, fine. So tell me, what’s the silver lining in letting Hottie slip away?”
I mull it over. “He’s too hot,” I finally answer.
Laughter bursts out of the phone. “That would be the reason not to let him slip away.” She makes a loud buzzing sound. “Try again.”
“No, that’s really it,” I insist. “Imagine if the first guy I ever sleep with is at that level of hotness? It’ll spoil all future men for me! I’ll expect every man who comes afterward to be a perfect ten, and when nobody measures up I’m just going to be devastated.”
“You’re impossible. Did you get his number at least?”
“No, I told you, I ran away like a nervous babbling bunny.”
She lets out a loud, heavy sigh. “This is unacceptable to me, Cassandra Elise.”
“My deepest apologies, Peyton Marie.”
“If you see him again, you’re asking him out, understood?” My best friend has snapped into totalitarian mode. “No babbling. No excuses. Promise me you’ll ask him out next time you see him.”
“I will. I promise,” I say lightly, but only because I’m confident I’ll never see him again.
Joke’s on me, though.
The moment Grandma and I step outside five minutes later, I find none other than Tate standing in our driveway.
CHAPTER 3
TATE
It takes a second to realize the cute redhead on the porch is the same one from the party last night. She was right—her hair is more copper than ginger. I guess the bonfire made it appear lighter. My gaze then darts to her chest, just a quick peek to confirm I hadn’t fallen into some teenage-boy fantasy yesterday. But nope, didn’t dream it. Her rack is objectively spectacular. Sue me for noticing. I’m a man. I always notice a great rack.
She’s wearing a short sundress that falls mid-thigh and clashes with the red-painted toenails poking out of her strappy sandals. And she’s staring at me as if she’s not quite sure what to make of my presence.