Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 65712 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 329(@200wpm)___ 263(@250wpm)___ 219(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65712 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 329(@200wpm)___ 263(@250wpm)___ 219(@300wpm)
And then he broke the kiss and took a step back.
After that all my insecurities returned in a heartbeat and I panicked. Why was he kissing me? What did it mean? Did he like it? Did he want to do it again? Or did he never want to kiss me again? How long did I freeze at the beginning? Does he think I’m weird? Does he like me? Do I like him? Most importantly, what if I like him and it doesn’t work out?
What if we have sex and it’s bad and he never talks to me again? Or what if we have sex and it’s bad but he thinks it’s good and wants to keep having terrible sex with me? What if we get together and it doesn’t work out and then I have to explain it to my friends, which includes his sister?
So yes, I’ll admit that I panicked. I’m not a hasty thinker; I need a moment to process things or I feel cornered and I freak out. I’m like that with everything—apartment leases, pizza toppings, kissing. I just need a minute to think.
But then he rubbed his bottom lip with his thumb and told me that’s what he’d have done if we were on a real date. Because he’s my dating tutor or something now. When exactly did that happen anyway? The details get fuzzy when I’m around Boyd. He arrested my date. I asked him not to say anything about it to Everly or his sister Sophie. And that spiraled into me owing him a favor and him providing me with dating advice. I think. He’s sort of confusing.
I was a mass of mixed feelings after that kiss. Excited, terrified, confused, aroused. My heart was racing—hell, it still races a little when I think about it. I felt relief that it wasn’t real because it let me off the hook from thinking about what that would mean. Yet I felt disappointed and foolish for the same reason. So I said nothing—I needed another minute to process this twist—and before I could decide if I wanted to slap him or drag him back for more, he walked out the door, tossing out something about calling me with the details for next weekend.
On Wednesday he texted.
Boyd: Friday night. 8pm.
Chloe: ???
Boyd: What’s ??? Confusing?
Chloe: I thought you said the wedding was on Saturday?
Boyd:: It is.
Chloe: Then why do I need to see you on Friday?
Boyd: You need the practice. We’ll call it a date rehearsal.
Chloe: Are you serious right now?
Boyd: Dress comfortably. You can wear some of those godforsaken leggings you love. Wait, don’t. Sweatpants would be better. Baggy sweatpants.
Chloe: WTF are you talking about?
Boyd: See you Friday.
Chloe: Um, no.
Boyd: No you don’t own any sweatpants?
Chloe: No, I won’t see you on Friday.
Boyd: You will.
Chloe: What do we need to rehearse? You picked out the dress and shoes yourself. AND you’ve already rehearsed kissing me. Do you need to practice kissing me again? That was rude by the way. R.U.D.E. And if you think this favor I owe you includes making out with you in front of your family you can think again.
Boyd:: So as long as my family isn’t watching it’s okay? Deal.
Chloe: ………….
Boyd: ……….
The arrogant bastard shows up on Friday night at a quarter to eight. He’s wearing jeans that fit him perfectly, a long-sleeved black Henley and a smug smile—which drops from his face as his eyes trail over my legging-clad legs.
“Fucking leggings,” he mutters and walks inside my apartment without waiting for an invitation. I shut the door behind him and cross my arms across my chest while resting my weight on one hip, shooting Boyd with the most snarky expression I can manage.
“I’m busy, Boyd, what do you need?”
I mean seriously, what does he need? He cannot be hard up for female companionship on a Friday evening and as lovely as it is that he’s taken me on some sort of charity case, he’s got to have better things to do.
“You seem pretty busy,” he agrees, nodding towards my TV. I’m in the middle of a Dateline episode about a murder.
I sigh and roll my eyes, uncrossing my arms to wave a hand at him, indicating he should get to his point.
“I need you to pack,” he says.
Pack for what? I get a sinking feeling in my stomach as it occurs to me that Boyd’s never exactly said where this wedding is. Did I ever ask? Or did I just assume it was in the general Philadelphia area? I watch him as he strolls through my tiny studio apartment, his gaze roaming over my things while mine roams over him. Dammit, that shirt looks good on him. Freaking clingy cotton.
“What are you talking about?” I question when he doesn’t elaborate further. “Pack for what?”