Total pages in book: 50
Estimated words: 48601 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 243(@200wpm)___ 194(@250wpm)___ 162(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 48601 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 243(@200wpm)___ 194(@250wpm)___ 162(@300wpm)
Her jaw drops, and slowly, that fierce fire from before comes blazing into her eyes. She glares at me, her look wild as she steps back, planting her hands on her hips.
“Excuse me?”
“The prank war has begun, Moaner,” I growl, grinning as I watch the indignation spread over her face.
“Fine,” she snaps, glaring at me. “Fucking bring it, dick.”
She whirls, and without another word or another look at all, she slams the door in my face, just missing my nose and toes.
I grind my teeth, whirling away before I turn back to glare at her door. Fine is right. Because now, Ramona’s got herself a war. I turn back and start to march down the hall towards my own room.
Except, something’s off. This should just be one more episode of Ramona and I’s constant tit-for-tatting. One more chapter of this book of childish behavior and juvenile teasing, mostly on my part, admittedly, that we’ve been writing for thirteen fucking years. Except, there’s no pretending this is business as usual. There’s no ignoring that something big has fundamentally and irreversibly changed.
Because thirteen years later, I’ve just kissed Ramona Weiss for the first time. And I’m pretty fucking sure nothing is ever going to be the same again.
5
Ramona
So, the prank war has begun.
Maybe more importantly though, Jamison Scott kissed me.
I roll my eyes. Maybe? It’s maybe important that that happened? No, that’s not a maybe. That’s a “the world stopped spinning on the right axis, and we’ve entered bizarro-land” territory.
Jamison. Kissed. Me.
Right, and then I slapped him. I groan, squeezing my eyes shut and wishing I could erase basically everything from the past twelve to fourteen hours.
I swallow as I lie in bed, morning light coming through the window shades as I peer over the blanket. It’s like waking from a surreal dream, and then realizing that the “dream” hasn’t disappeared with being awake. It’s still very much around you. That’s how it feels to wake up after a very, very sleepless night in a post-kissing-Jamison world.
Three eras. Before Christ, Anno Domini, and now Anno Jamison. And I haven’t the slightest idea how I’m even supposed to get out of bed in this new world.
My eyes dart over the room, my pulse deep and steady. There’s the kiss, but then there’s also the prank war. I mean, I’ve had close to thirteen years of first-hand experience with Jamison Scott’s “pranks” and teasing, so believe me when I say he’s pro. This is like going to war against Napoleon. Or playing stickball with Babe freaking Ruth.
If this is really war, I’m screwed, because I know first-hand that there are a gazillion different ways that Jamison could “get me back” that I’d never see coming until I’ve got paint or dog crap or God knows what else dropping onto my head, or whatever fresh hell he’s got planned.
I pull the blanket up to just under my eyes as they scan the room, chewing at my lip. I’m not even sure what I’m looking for, but I know enough to know anything could be a trap. There aren’t any dick pictures everywhere, so there’s that. But still, I have no idea what I’m in store for.
Gingerly, checking first for like, I don’t know, mouse traps on the floor or something, I climb out of bed and pad carefully to the bathroom. I check the toothbrush, peering at it, looking for, what, cayenne pepper or something awful? In the end, I throw it away and grab a new one from the drawer.
I take a quick shower, checking of course first for dye in the showerheads or glue on the soap or something. After that, opening my dresser with a pencil and jumping back just in case something goes off in my face, I throw on clothes and head downstairs for breakfast.
Good lord, it’s like I’m in a real-life version of The Hurt Locker. Like anything and everything might be some sort of prank-IUD ready to take me out, courtesy of Jamison fucking Scott.
In the kitchen, Marta, our Swedish cook and head housekeeper, looks up and smiles at me.
“Coffee’s hot, hon.”
“Thanks,” I smile, saying good morning to her as I head over to the coffee maker.
I’ll be honest, even growing up with it, it’s weird to have people waiting on you. I get that, and it’s always felt odd to me. But Marta’s been with us for forever, since way before my dad ran off to France with his secretary when I was seven. And I do know that mom pays Marta a crazy amount of money. Like, she’s probably the best paid cook in the country at this point. Which at least makes it feel more like hired professionalism and not like a servant or something.
“Scrambled or over easy?”
“Or fertilized.”
I gasp, jumping at the sound of Jamison’s voice purring into my ear, and then swearing as hot coffee splashes down the front of my white top. I whirl, scowling at his smug grin.