Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 103109 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103109 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
“Easton!” She tugs the top of her robe tighter. “Ohmygod. Were you just looking at my breasts?”
I take a deep breath and drag my gaze back up to meet hers. “I love that you call them breasts.”
“What else am I supposed to call them?”
I shrug. “Most girls your age would dodge calling them anything at all. Or maybe vaguely refer to their chest.”
“I think you’re wrong. I’m not twelve anymore.”
I hope my arched brow conveys the obviously I’m not allowed to say.
She swallows. “And, well . . . I guess I’m not afraid of words.”
What are you afraid of?
It’s a question I won’t ask. Not when it would invite her to turn it back on me. I don’t want to talk about my fears any further than I did in the kitchen. Not tonight. Not when she’s so close and soon she’ll be so damn far away. I didn’t anticipate it would bother me so much, but the realization eats away at my gut. “That’s good,” I say. “Because you owe me a few.”
She blinks. “What do I owe you?”
“Words.”
“Must you speak in riddles?”
“Your secret. I told you mine, so now it’s your turn.”
Her face pales, and I wonder just how innocent she is that she doesn’t want to talk about it. “You already guessed it. I’m gonna go get dressed.”
She turns toward her room, and I grab her wrist to stop her. “We can do this one of two ways,” I say, and she slowly turns back to face me. “You can just tell me, which would be fair, since that was our deal. Or”—I lift the beer I grabbed from the fridge—“we can play a game.”
She studies the bottle. “What kind of game?”
“Never Have I Ever.”
She snorts and folds her arms. “Seriously? As I mentioned a minute ago, I’m not twelve anymore.”
I turn up the palm of my free hand, moving it up and down opposite the beer in the other hand, as if I’m weighing them against each other. “Your choice.”
“Fine, the game, but I’m getting dressed first.”
“If you must,” I say. I can’t stop grinning. Damn it. She does that to me.
I wait in the hall while she disappears into her bedroom, my eyes fixed on the door the whole time. Carter would definitely kick my ass if he knew I was about to play a drinking game with his little sister. But it’s not like we’re playing with tequila. One beer split between the two of us can’t get me in too much trouble. That said, if she’s as innocent as she claims, I’ll be the one doing most of the drinking.
A minute later, and the door swings open. Shay’s gotten dressed, but she’s not in her normal clothes. She’s wearing pajamas. These aren’t the kind of pajamas that are meant to seduce—they’re gray cotton. A long-sleeved T-shirt with a lace cutout down each arm, and matching shorts that show just enough leg to remind me there’s more that I want to see.
She catches me looking and scowls. “My clothes smelled like smoke from the bonfire, and the only other outfit I have with me is my work uniform for tomorrow.”
“I wasn’t complaining.”
“I know.” She frowns. “You’re weird tonight.”
“Nah, I’m weird every night. You’ve just forgotten because you barely ever see me anymore.”
“True.” She motions me to follow her, and when I freeze, she says, “I’m not going to jump you if you come into my room, weirdo.”
Damn shame.
I swallow hard and step inside “her” bedroom. This isn’t the Jacksons’ full-time home, but their vacation place. They rent out this cabin to tourists—a ten-year plan to get it paid off sooner, Carter told me—so it’s definitely not as personal as her room at home, but it is hers. As the only girl, she’s the one Jackson sibling to get a room of her own, and there are little decorative touches in here that show this room is truly Shay’s. The bookshelf overflowing with well-loved paperbacks, the map of Paris that hangs over the queen-sized bed, and the glasses that sit on the bedside table—no doubt for reading after she takes her contacts out.
I remember when she got glasses for the first time. She was so excited. But then some jerk at school teased her about them, and she came home with them tucked into her backpack and told her mom she wouldn’t wear them anymore. She lost that fight, of course, and wore glasses until her mom relented and let her get contacts when she started middle school.
“I can’t keep much here,” she says as I look around. “We still rent it out sometimes. Less now, though.”
“Carter used to be jealous that you got your own room.”
She shrugs. “Well, I used to be jealous that my brothers had each other and I didn’t have a single sister.”