Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 92646 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92646 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Cash scratches at his elbow several seconds before responding. “Awesome. Got laid twice on Saturday by two different chicks.”
“Sounds like a blast.”
Cash snickers, totally unfazed by the sarcasm. “Hey, I’m just saying—it was a productive weekend.”
I don’t respond.
Mostly because I’ve already burned through my tolerance for his bragging and it’s not even ten a.m.
He stretches, barefoot on the patio, tank top riding up just enough to flash the obnoxious tattoo he got last year in Vegas. The one that says SEND NÜDZ in gothic font, on top of a steaming bowl of Ramen noodles.
Real classy stuff. Poppy will die when she sees it.
“Place had a hot tub though.” My roommate pauses. “Which brings me to my next point—what’s the deal with Miss Buzzkill in there?”
“Poppy?”
He jerks his chin toward the house. “Yes, Poppy. Little Miss, ‘I’ll pass on the bar invite, thanks, I have to build my home office.’” Cash snorts. “Has she been that uptight all fucking week?”
No.
No, she hasn’t been.
But I don’t say that.
Because if I open my mouth right now, I’m not sure what’ll come out. Probably something that makes this conversation even more awkward—or ends with Cash picking grass out of his teeth.
So instead, I throw the tennis ball again.
Nugget bolts like he’s chasing a championship title.
“She’s not uptight,” I finally say, voice low and measured. “She just doesn’t feel like partying with strangers. Imagine that.”
Cash snorts. “Man, I’m hilarious with a beer in my hand. Total stranger barrier breaker.”
“You’re a walking HR violation.”
“Bro—I am not,” he objects weakly, knowing he’s a fun time but not the most well-behaved guy in the house. He holds up his hands, then squints like he’s trying to do long division. “You gotta admit she’s got a tight little as—”
“You just fucking proved my point.”
Cash has the decency to look sheepish for all of two seconds—before shrugging it off and doubling down like the idiot he is.
“What?!” He doesn’t have the decency to look chagrined. “She’s got a tight little ass. That’s all I’m saying. From behind?” He whistles low. “Ten outta ten.”
I stare him down.
“And from the front?” I challenge.
He makes a face. “Ehh. Six, maybe? Seven on a good day. Little plain for my taste. Not really my type.”
I shouldn’t have asked.
A silence falls between us. Stretches.
My jaw tics once.
Twice.
Then I chuck the tennis ball harder than necessary, launching it halfway across the yard until it bounces off the pool house and nearly goes over the fence.
Nugget goes after it.
“She’s just not, you know…” He waves his hand in the air like he’s swatting a gnat. “Hot-hot. Like, if I passed her at a bar, I wouldn’t want to fuck her.”
I say nothing.
“Not that it matters,” he continues, stretching again and making a show of being tired. Yawns. “She doesn’t seem like the type who even tries. No make-up. Hair in those Swedish braids.”
French braids.
They’re called French braids, you dipshit.
“Like the woman you snowboard with have a full-face of make-up?” I can’t help pointing out.
He ignores me, grinning. “Dude. You’d be shocked what chicks wear to the slopes these days. Full beat. Lashes. Bikini tops. I’m telling you—the good old U S of A is breeding a different kind of athlete.”
“Cool.” I drag a hand down my face, exhausted with this conversation but he barrels ahead.
He shrugs. “I’ll put it to you this way: yeah, personality is cool or whatever. But if I’m going to stare at someone across the breakfast table, I at least want to be inspired.”
Inspired.
Jesus Christ.
“Anyway,” he goes on, like he hasn’t just steamrolled every last ounce of my patience. “I’m not saying our roomie is busted or anything. Just saying if she smiled more and wore, like, less clothing, maybe someone would’ve locked her down by now.”
I stare.
Nugget sidles up, doing his best to set his ball in the palm hanging at my side, it’s wet, drooly texture causing me to wince.
“Pretty sure Poppy doesn’t give a shit about what you think of her.”
Cash lifts his brows. “No need to get all feminist on me, bro. I’m just saying—she could clean up if she wanted. There’s potential under there.”
Under there.
Like she’s some project to be excavated.
Like she needs fixing. “Pretty sure she’s exactly who she wants to be.”
“Dude—why do you care? Jeez, she’s just a roommate, it’s not like she’s your girlfriend. Chill, man. All I’m saying is—I don’t get the hype.”
Hype?
What hype?
No one asked him to give him unfiltered opinion of her.
If she walked in on this conversation I would be so fucking horrified. Heard him picking her apart like she’s a clearance rack item he doesn’t want but still feels entitled to critique?
My roommate kicks at a rock with his toe, totally oblivious, watching as it bounces off the deck and into the well-manicured lawn. “Seriously, bro. You’ve got to admit—if she just put in a little effort…”