Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 62972 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 315(@200wpm)___ 252(@250wpm)___ 210(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62972 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 315(@200wpm)___ 252(@250wpm)___ 210(@300wpm)
I’ll remember that.
Is that why you’re texting me on Valentine’s Day? To talk about The Princess Bride? Are you lonely? My fingers move quickly, feeling comforted that I’m not the only one who’s a romance dud on the holiday of love.
I’m texting you because my friend was a jerk. He doesn’t mean to be; he just thinks we should hook up.
Not going to touch that comment.
So where are you right now? Dorm? Frat party? Off-campus strip club? My detective cap is on and I’m determined to figure out who this guy is. My mind goes back to a rather geeky, thin guy who hangs out in the romance section at the library. He’s given me a few lingering glances when I happen to walk past him.
I’m in bed, he says.
Alone? I’m being bolder than usual.
Yes. You?
I’m hesitant about responding. After all, he could be a serial killer, but I don’t get that vibe, and I trust my instincts.
Just me and my cat, a scary movie, and a bottle of vodka—hell of a way to spend V-Day.
At least two minutes go by—a damn long time in the world of texting—and I wonder if he’s left or grown bored of me. Chewing on my bottom lip, I’m in the middle of chastising myself for revealing as much as I have when a new message comes in.
Is it crazy and weird that we’re talking and you don’t know who I am?
Do you know who I am? I ask, adjusting my cat-eye glasses on my nose. If he saw me put up the ad, he probably does. Waylon is small, with an enrollment of around six thousand, so it’s likely we’ve seen each other or even had a class together.
You’re Delaney, a junior from North Carolina.
My pulse kicks up as I feel my heart beating in my chest, but those are basic facts he could have gotten off my social media.
He sends another text. Truth: I think you’re gorgeous. We also know each other…sorta.
He thinks I’m gorgeous? My bruised ego is flattered, and I shoot a look at Han. “Did it just get a little hot in here or is that the vodka talking?” He rolls his eyes and flounces off to the kitchen. “Are you saying I’ve had too much?” I call after him, but he pointedly ignores me by not turning around.
I stare down at my phone, wondering what else to say. I should probably end this, but I feel an odd connection with my new texting partner.
I could talk to a random guy.
I want to.
Do it, Delaney. I mentally dare myself.
Are you still there? he says. Did I go too far? I tend to do that. I should just apologize in advance for anything I’m about to say or do.
He hasn’t gone too far. My interest is piqued. So who are you?
I’m a badass athlete.
I roll my eyes. So you play a sport here at Waylon?
Yes.
Crap. My heart does a little sputter and takes a nosedive—it’s likely he knows Alex. The athletic dorm is situated on the west side of campus, and most of the players reside there. Football, baseball, and wrestling take up one side of Byrd Hall, while soccer, volleyball, tennis, and the minor sports occupy the other.
I purse my lips. Which sport? I’ve sworn off football for the moment.
Let’s keep that a secret, but if you need a name, you can call me He-Man.
And I’ll be She-Ra?
His reply is swift. Hell no—they were siblings. Pick another name, something that suits you.
Does He-Man suit you? I type. Do you live at Castle Grayskull? Are you fighting Skeletor?
Damn straight. I kick his ass every day.
I grin. You’re very serious about this. I’m starting to wonder if you might be crazy.
Just pick.
Princess Leia.
Perfect, he replies. I’m picturing you with cinnamon buns on your head.
I giggle. I’m picturing you as a muscled blond dude with a brain the size of a walnut.
Don’t be fooled by the dumb jock stereotypes.
And you shouldn’t be fooled by my nerdy, quiet girl status. I’m a red-blooded woman with needs. God. I can’t believe I just typed that. I take another sip of vodka. What I MEANT to say is I don’t do athletes anymore, specifically football players. Okay, that sounded stupid. Clearly, I need to stop texting.
Nothing comes back from him, and my mind wanders.
Is he a football player? That might explain why he’s not telling me his name. The guys on the team have a serious bro code when it comes to not messing with the exes of the other players.
I decide to change the subject. My roommate dared me to watch a scary movie tonight—alone. I was terrified.
Do you like dares? he texts.
Yes. It forces me to put myself out there. It feels silly to say, but it’s easy to tell him because I don’t know him. I’m beginning to see why anonymity is attractive.