Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 76693 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76693 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
On Monday night, I sent him pictures of my notes. He actually responded, which was surprising, with “K,” which was not surprising at all.
Asshole.
But it’s been a couple of days and I’m feeling more prepared to handle Two this time.
As I pull into the parking lot at PMU for my building, I squint against the morning rays and hunt for a parking spot that my big beast of a vehicle will fit into. I see one several spots away and start forward. A flash of olive green darts out from between two cars. Despite slamming on my brakes, I’m not quick enough.
Thunk!
The person—I hit a freaking person—goes down and out of sight. This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening! With my heart in my throat, I throw the car into park and then jump out.
“Oh my God!” I cry out, rounding the front of my vehicle to inspect the damage.
What if they’re dead?
I wasn’t going that fast, right?
A man sits on his ass, rubbing at his shoulder. I drop to my knees in front of him, panic clawing at me, and desperately run my palms over his shoulder, looking for broken bones sticking out.
“I’m so sorry,” I choke out, eyes prickling with tears. “I didn’t see you and—”
I finally meet the stare of the person I hit and recognize the chilly light-gray eyes of Two. Of all the people to hit…
“Did you hit me on purpose?” Two asks, scowling at me. “That’s fucked up.”
I shake my head, scoffing. “What? No. You came out of nowhere! Seriously, what is it with you and parking lots?”
His eyes narrow. “I could ask you the same.”
The initial shock of running into him wears off and irritation needles its way through me. “Are you hurt?” I demand, voice sharp. “Yes or no?”
His nostrils flare. “I’ll live.”
I hear people laughing nearby. I’m sure we’re quite the spectacle. With a groan, I stand back up and offer my hand to help him to his feet. He reluctantly takes my hand, his freakishly large hand swallowing mine. Once he’s standing, he jerks his hand out of mine like it’s tainted with poison.
He stalks off without another glance in my direction. My heart continues to hammer in my chest as I climb back into my vehicle and park it.
I can’t believe I hit Two Sheridan.
Even if he did deserve it…
If Dad ever finds out I hit someone, I’ll be banned from driving forever.
So much for starting the day off feeling better than Monday. Somehow, this one is shaping up to be worse. What is it about Two that wrecks me so easily?
There’s a coldness that emanates from him that I don’t understand. Usually, when someone doesn’t like me or my family, I can handle it with stride because it’s always something stupid. This thing with Two, though, feels personal. As though we’ve wronged him on some visceral level that makes him despise me.
Why?
I’m going to figure it out. You can’t hate someone so viciously for no reason. If there’s a reason, and me or my family are the cause, then I deserve to know. Maybe I could fix it.
By the time I make it to class, my stomach is in knots. As soon as I enter the classroom, my eyes dart straight to Two. He absently rubs at his shoulder and I feel a pang of guilt.
I didn’t mean to hurt him.
Mr. Pederson gives me a gentle smile as I pass by his desk. For some reason, he seems to like Two. He obviously knows a different side of him than I do.
I settle at my seat with plenty of time before class starts today. That helps ease the tension forming in my shoulders. After I pull out my notebook and pen, I turn to face him. Two stares straight ahead, cheeks still pink from the cold. His dark hair is in disarray and something tells me it has nothing to do with getting rammed by my Tahoe. He has a sharp jawline that, even I can admit, is pretty to look at.
Two may be a weirdo asshole, but he’s definitely an attractive one in an unusual way. He’s not classically handsome like his football friend. There’s just something different about him—something you can’t really put your finger on but know it’s there. If we’d met under different circumstances, perhaps I’d have met a completely different version of him that I might have been immediately smitten with.
He cants his head to the side and eyes me warily. “What?”
Heat floods my cheeks. “Nothing.”
“You’re staring.” He scoffs. “You didn’t break me, Golden. Try harder next time.”
Again with the Golden.
It’s said with such disdain, I know it’s meant as an insult. But, to me, Golden means beautiful and shiny and valuable.
“I wasn’t trying to break you and you know it,” I grumble. “I said I was sorry.”