Total pages in book: 22
Estimated words: 20305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 102(@200wpm)___ 81(@250wpm)___ 68(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 20305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 102(@200wpm)___ 81(@250wpm)___ 68(@300wpm)
I remember the first time I met him after Reed and I came back from some dumb club he wanted to go to where his friends were all hanging out. He brought me to his dad’s house in Malibu because he thought he wouldn’t be home, but he was. He was in the kitchen pouring himself a whiskey on the rocks. He took one look at me and said, “Well, don’t you just class up the whole house?”
My heart just about stopped right there. It was just then that I felt myself falling for him – falling for my boyfriend’s father—
My phone vibrates obnoxiously beside me like a splash of water to my face, snatching me from my daydream. I snatch it up and see a text from Reed.
Outside.
Short and to the point. Just like he always is. I honestly don’t even want to go out with him tonight, but I quickly grab my purse, slip on my flats, and head out front, where he’s waiting in his Audi.
“You look nice,” he says as I get in, his eyes still on his phone. He has it angled away from me, but I can see by the reflection in the window that he’s watching a girl’s TikTok video. A very spicy TikTok video.
“Oh, thanks,” I reply.
Reed sets his phone aside and pulls off, heading in the direction of his off-campus apartment. Reed is a sophomore at USC and plays for their lacrosse team, which I pretend to be interested in, but I think he can tell that I’m just not. We’ve been dating for almost two months now and haven’t “sealed the deal,” and I sometimes wonder if that’s why he’s not as nice as he was at the beginning of our relationship.
But if he thinks being short and acting like he doesn’t even care about me is going to get me to make him my first, he’s sorely mistaken. That’s only going to happen with someone I truly care about, and the more I’m with Reed, the more I feel like that’s really just not him.
We pull up to his apartment and park. Reed sends a text then glances over at me. He looks me up and down like he always does, which makes me feel like a piece of meat. “I like those shoes.”
I shrug. “You said that last time I wore them.”
“Well, I liked them then too,” he replies. “How come you never wear heels, though?”
For some reason, this question really irritates me. Not only was his compliment not genuine, but now he’s trying to ask me to wear heels for him without just asking me to wear heels for him. He’s not even smiling or trying to be charming either. In fact, he’s reminding me of my dad…
“I don’t know,” I reply, letting the sass flow. “I guess I like being able to walk without worrying about breaking my ankles.”
Reed makes a face. “Geez, okay. Didn’t mean to wake the dragon or whatever. Let’s go inside.”
I don’t know why I do, but I say okay and we both go upstairs into his second-floor apartment. It’s ridiculously nice, paid for by his father, and probably costs more than the mortgage on my family’s house. Once we’re inside, Grant casually points to his wet-bar by the pool table as he heads for the bathroom.
“I gotta piss, but make yourself whatever you want.”
Charming.
“'Kay.”
I’m only eighteen, so I don’t really drink, but I wander over to the bottles anyway and pretend like they interest me. The whole apartment is really a college jock’s wet dream. Pool table, wet-bar, a table to pull out for beer pong whenever his friends are over. He even has posters of girls in bikinis on the walls that he doesn’t bother to take down when I come over.
Contemplating what it is I’m doing with my life, I go over to the couch and collapse down into the cushions just as Reed is coming back from the bathroom. He flashes me the same frat-boy grin he always gives when he’s doing his best to come off charismatic, and saunters over to the bar to pour himself something.
“Did I ever tell you how much I like dating a working-class girl like you?” he asks. His question takes me aback. Working-class girl? Have we stepped back into 1800s England?
“Um, no?”
“Yeah,” he replies, coming over to the couch. “Rich girls, like from my class, are just always spoiled and obnoxious. Girls like you are much more down to earth. Much more grateful for things, you know?”
I’m still processing and trying to figure out how to respond to his question as he takes a seat beside me. But as he does, the cushion behind him lifts up and that’s when I see it: a flash of seductive red. I recognize it immediately, and my chest tightens.