Total pages in book: 50
Estimated words: 51243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 256(@200wpm)___ 205(@250wpm)___ 171(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 51243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 256(@200wpm)___ 205(@250wpm)___ 171(@300wpm)
“Mr. Wolff is sooo hot.”
“So—” I refused to acknowledge her interruption. “If you want to read me a few paragraphs or run some ideas by me, I’m free to listen now.”
“Ha!” She snorted. “I haven’t even started on that essay.”
“It’s due in six weeks.”
“Exactly. It won’t be on my radar until five weeks from now.”
“Um, okay…”
“Can you tell me if there are any other hot guys in your program?”
“Big essay aside, don’t you want to go over your short presentation that’s coming up this Friday?”
“Ugh, no.” She groaned. “I want to hear about the guys. I also need to know what I should pack whenever you agree to let me sleep over.”
“The guys here are way too old for you.” I rolled my eyes. “You’re sixteen.”
“So? There’s nothing wrong with getting their information and holding onto it until I turn eighteen. I’m just dreaming here.”
I hung up before she could say more and texted her instead.
Send me the first page of your essay and I’ll tell you about three other hot guys.
Emma
I’ll start working on it now.
Early-morning sunlight slanted through the blinds, hitting my eyes halfway through Taylor’s workshop essay.
I’d opened the file ready to attack it, but it was fucking perfect.
Exhaling, I set down my Kindle and brewed a new pot of coffee.
The kitchen filled with the scent of cinnamon as I stirred it into my mug.
Behind me, Taylor walked in, rearranged the pillows on the sofa, and plugged in his laptop like he owned the place.
“I thought we agreed that the living room was mine for the early-morning hours,” I said.
“It’s almost ten o’clock.” He looked over at me. “So technically, it’s my time—and I’m letting you stay. Generously.”
“Fine.” I bit my tongue as I stacked my things.
I shifted the pile of hardback books and binders against my chest, wincing as a sharp pull ran down my shoulder.
“What happened to your shoulder?” he asked.
“I probably re-sprained it from sleeping on the desk again,” I muttered. “Or from carrying half the library home.”
“Re-sprained?”
“I don’t think it ever healed from that time I fell out my window trying to sneak out.”
A soft smile crossed his lips.
Before I could comment, the top folder slid from my stack.
“Here.” He crossed the room, picked it up, then took the rest from my arms before I could protest.
Without asking, he carried the load toward my room.
It was the first time he’d ever stepped inside. I suddenly saw the space through his eyes—too many coffee mugs, Post-its stuck to the wall, my unmade bed crowding the corner. His gaze swept over my desk, pausing on the stacks of papers and the mess of half-finished drafts.
“You actually live like this?” he asked, smirking.
“It’s called multitasking.”
He set everything on my dresser and turned back to me.
“Turn around,” he said.
“Why?”
“Just do it.”
I sighed and obeyed, bracing myself for some sarcastic remark.
Instead, his hands pressed gently to my shoulders—warm, steady, and unexpectedly careful. His thumbs brushed the base of my neck before pressing deeper, tracing the tension until I almost forgot to breathe. The ache that had been pulsing for hours melted beneath his touch, replaced by something quieter, heavier.
A quiet sound escaped me before I could stop it.
He traced a finger along the gray phoenix tattoo on the back of my left shoulder.
“When did you get this?”
“A very long time ago.”
“It wasn’t there last year…”
“How would you know?” I asked, but he didn’t answer. His touch deepened, and I fought another involuntary sound.
“I got it two months ago,” I admitted.
“Hmm.”
“Aren’t you going to ask me what it means?”
“I think I have a pretty good idea.”
“Try me.”
“Rising from the ashes like a phoenix,” he said. “Though I’m guessing there’s something hidden in the feathers too. Am I right?”
Yes. “Nope.”
His low laugh brushed over my skin like a spark, and I kept my eyes shut—pretending his hands didn’t feel like relief.
“Feel better?” he asked.
“Slightly.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.” His tone softened. “If you need another one, let me know.”
“Why are you being nice to me today?” I turned around to face him. “What’s your motive?”
“I can’t claim to beat you if you’re not feeling well,” he said. “I want to beat you at your best—so you know there aren’t any excuses when you lose.”
“Thank you for being honest.”
“You’re more than welcome.”
“It isn’t every day that the tyrant apologizes to the victim.”
“That wasn’t an apology, and you weren’t a victim,” he said. “I recall you fucking with me too.”
“No, I—”
“I’ll own up to my part in your story,” he said, meeting my eyes. “But you need to admit to the pages you wrote as well.”
“Taylor…”
“Let’s not do this right now,” he said quietly. “Let’s just stay civil for once. Can we do that?”
“Yeah.” My voice came out softer than I meant it to. “We’re both too tired to re-write the same argument anyway.”