Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 102683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 411(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 411(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
Understatement.
“Nothing is going the way I thought it would,” I grumble, following him across the porch, down the steps, and to his truck.
The locks automatically beep, echoing in the night, and I pull open the passenger side door.
“If you’re British, how did you get a truck here?”
“Um. I bought it.” He buckles himself in. “What did you think I did, flew it across the ocean?”
“Yes?” God, why am I still talking? “How can you buy a car when you’re British and not a US citizen?”
Ashley laughs, putting the truck into gear.
“With cash? The same way you Americans do when you go overseas to get a better deal on a foreign car?”
People do that?
Dang.
“I’m sorry—I’m just not thinking straight. It seems I lost my case of the smarts.”
And having said that just makes me sound less intelligent. A case of the smarts? Oy.
“Your flat is up here, yeah?” He’s going the same way we walked earlier, past the administration building. “Up five blocks?”
“Yes, I’m over on fifteenth, second place once you turn left.”
He keeps driving. Stops at the stop sign, glancing left and right.
“This is the dorms.”
I unbuckle when he parks, giving him a lilting little laugh I can’t keep from escaping my lips. “I know.”
“Why are you in the dorms? Aren’t you a senior?”
“Yes, but I’m an out-of-state transfer and didn’t know anyone here, which made it impossible to find a roommate for a house.”
“The dorms suck.”
“Well no shit.” I laugh. “But it’s not like I have other options.”
I glance over at him, the streetlights from the well-lit block illuminating the cab and casting a glow on his sun-kissed skin.
Making him appear more…
Rugged. And handsome.
Larger than life.
Sexy as hell.
“You’re stuck here for the rest of the year?”
“Seems that way, unless someone magically takes pity on me and lets me crash in their spare room, which doesn’t seem likely to me—does it seem likely to you?” Everyone has made their friends at this point.
The goal when you get a house is to fill it with as many people as you can so your rent is cheaper—the odds of me finding a group who still needs a roommate are slim. And the odds of me finding a college kid living alone, with room to spare?
My odds of winning the lottery seem better.
“That’s bollocks.”
Bollocks.
Such a British way to say ‘load of crap.’
“What’s bollocks?”
“That you live in the dorms and you’re what, twenty-two?”
“Almost, but not quite.” My hand is gripping the handle of the door, ready to push so I can climb out, not that I’m in a rush. I’m enjoying this. “I had a house with a few girls at the school I transferred from. It was a dump, but at least I had a kitchen and an actual living room, you know? I can’t even make mac n cheese if I want to.”
Ash wrinkles his nose. “What’s mac and cheese?”
I gawk at him. “You don’t know what mac n cheese is? Stop it.”
That can’t just be an American thing, can it?
“Haven’t heard of it. What’s it, cheese and…”
“Pasta.” Sort of.
Shitty pasta, but noodles just the same.
“What kind of cheese?” he wonders.
“Um. The powdered kind.”
“Huh?” More confusion on his part.
“It, uh, comes in a bag?”
He squints. “Is that a question?”
We both laugh.
“I should make it for you. You can’t live in America and not have eaten mac n cheese at least once.”
His nod is slow. “Okay.”
“Okay.”
Eight
Georgia
515-555-9070: I’m hungry.
Me: I’m sorry, who is this?
515-555-9070: It’s Ashley, from class? I got your mobile from the group info…
Me: Ahh!!
Me: Hi
Me: If you’re hungry, why aren’t you eating? Why are you telling ME?
Ashley: I’m on a bus back from a scrimmage and thought a home-cooked meal of this cheesy mac sounds pretty good right now.
Me: First of all, lower your expectations and stop calling it a home-cooked meal. It comes in a box. It’s junk food.
Ashley: And second?
Me: You want me to come over and feed you?
Ashley: Sure.
Me: Don’t go turning this around to make it sound like I’m inviting myself over to cook for you. Just so we’re clear—YOU are asking ME to come over…?
Ashley: It’s only 5. Are you busy?
I glance down at the fuzzy socks on my feet and the worn afghan on my legs and grimace.
Me: No. My new friends were busy tonight.
Ashley: Or hungover.
Me: Lol or hungover. I didn’t ask.
I chew on my thumbnail, thinking.
Me: If you actually want me to come make mac for you, I’d have to run to the store. When will you be home?
Ashley: Home and out of the shower by six?
Me: Okay.
Me: What’s your address?
Ashley: Want me to pick you up?
Me: No, no, I can walk. It’ll still be light out.
I throw back the blanket and rise, walking three feet to my closet and peering inside.
Ashley: 2213 Decker Drive
I vaguely know where Decker is.
Me: Is that a house?