Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 101348 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 507(@200wpm)___ 405(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101348 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 507(@200wpm)___ 405(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
I stare through the glass door at the front of my neighbor’s house. Inside, the overhead lights reflect off pristine marble floors the same way the sun reflects off the sea. I miss Hawaii. Everything was so different there. People were friendly. We were all one big family, looking out for each other. That’s how I was raised. We respected our elders and called everyone Aunty and Uncle, even if they weren’t related. Aloha Spirit was in our blood. But here, everyone is out for themselves. It’s all about who has the most impressive house or car or whatever. And forget about spreading kindness. I learned the hard way if you try to do that here, people look at you like you’ve gone mad. It gives me anxiety every time I’m forced to talk to someone now. I feel like I’m never going to fit in here.
My eyes dart to our villa next door, where my mom offers me an encouraging wave from the window. God, how embarrassing. She’s watching me stand here like an idiot, waiting for someone to open the door. When I shrug back at her, she gives me two thumbs-up. Just a few more seconds. The pineapple plate she made sticks to my hand in the summer heat, and my heart thumps against my ribs like a tambourine. Everything is different here. The crisp scent of the mountains surrounds us. The lack of any nearby ocean. And so many windows. This house has them in spades. Why do rich people like so many windows?
Theo, my stepfather, told us not long after we moved in a year ago that the mansion next to his was designed in a classic French provincial style. When he’s not busy making millions doing something with investments, he likes to read architectural digests. It’s a little weird.
Admittedly, the house is impressive, but I didn’t really give it another thought, being that it was vacant. Then last week, the principal called my mother, and that was pretty much when it all went wrong.
Apparently, the neighbors have just moved back to Black Mountain, and the boy who will be going to school with me in the fall needs a tutor. Naturally, I was the only person from the Academy who wasn’t sunning in the south of France, and therefore, I was the first person on their contact list. My mother, ever the optimist that I’ll find my place here, agreed that I’d love to tutor this spoiled rich stranger, and then promptly sent me right over to introduce myself.
That pretty much brings us up to speed on why I’ve been standing here for three minutes. I’ll be late for my summer dance class at the local gym if I don’t leave soon. And it’s just like one of these noble blooded princes to keep me waiting even though I’m doing him a favor. As I’m considering leaving the fruit on his veranda, the door swings open, startling me.
My eyes collide with a pair of steely gray irises so intense it deflates the air from my lungs. This can’t possibly be my new classmate. My mom said I’d be tutoring a sixteen-year-old boy. And now I know it’s true. I’ve been transplanted into a world where sixteen-year-old boys are a consolidation of every teenage girl’s fantasy rolled into one. If I had to find a way to describe this otherworldly human, he’d be the love child of every troubled hero from all my favorite novels.
Hot. I didn’t expect him to be so… hot. Or tortured.
I think that’s what catches me off guard the most. A lot of the guys in Black Mountain think they are tough shit, but this guy really looks it. His cold stare is like an arctic chill, and I’m trapped in the clutches of it. My ability to speak forgotten as my eyes roam over him. He’s taller than any other sophomore I know, and there’s no way those abs are real. Why isn’t he wearing a shirt?
It takes a real effort to drag my gaze away from those hip bones dipping into the black shorts hanging low from his hips. I swallow the golf ball in my throat and stare at his face instead. Dark hair. Hard lines. Tan skin. He could definitely pass for a morally ambiguous vampire from one of my novels. If that vampire were a mute who could make his victims wither with one stare. Does he not speak?
His eyes dart around the driveway as though he’s seeking out threats, and it occurs to me long seconds have passed since he opened the door. I guess I should probably say something. Yeah, that would be good right about now if I could get my mouth to cooperate. Ever the outsider, fumbling over my words and making horrible first impressions is my superpower.