Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 98023 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98023 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
I laugh, which earns me a glare. “Okay, it’s not an official place, so to speak, but it’s a place. There’s a guy from Chicago who makes deep-dish pizza in his dorm room and sells it on Saturday nights. It’s the best you’ll ever have.”
Her face scrunches in absolute horror. “His dorm room?”
“Yes. Here in Graham. It’s not as bad as it sounds.”
“That’s good. Because it sounds like an FDA violation and a call to the New York Department of Health.”
I smile. “It’s not a restaurant. It’s just a…hobby.”
“Does he have a Home Processor Exemption from Article 20-C?”
“Uh…I doubt it.”
“Then he needs to be registered with the state under New York cottage food laws.” Her voice is pure exasperation, and I can’t help but laugh.
“How do you know that?” I ask. “Did you used to have a food business?”
She shrugs. “I just know a lot of things.”
No argument there. “What else do you know?”
“About New York food law? Or life in general?” she asks, blinking at me. “Because in general is a very broad question that would take me hours to answer.”
I smile, completely intrigued. “I’ve got hours.”
She rolls her eyes so hard I’m worried they’ll get stuck. “You said I owed you pizza, not hours.”
“Why can’t it be both?”
“Probably because of the food poisoning we’re both sure to have after the first. Do you know if he even follows the 140-degree temperature regulation? And gloves. Does he wear prep gloves?”
I grin at her, a little awestruck by the sheer level of detail she applies to everything. “Why don’t we go inside, and you can find out for yourself?”
She hesitates, clearly weighing the pros and cons. Her face is so expressive when she’s deep in thought—brows furrowed, lips pursed slightly—and I swear, she has no idea how beautiful she is in these moments.
“Because,” she says finally, “if I go inside and find out he doesn’t, it’ll be a complete waste of time and energy. Not to mention the dangers of going into a random building with a virtual stranger.”
“I’m no one’s stranger. I’m Blake Boden.”
She snorts, and I’m pretty sure it’s the closest thing I’ve seen to a smile from her all night. “Interesting take on reality.”
“I’m just saying, if you need witnesses for my hypothetical crimes, you’d have no trouble rounding them up.”
She sighs dramatically, but there’s something softer in her expression as she relents. “Fine. But if your goal is to make me eat this dorm-room pizza, you might want to knock me out and tie me up now.”
I burst out laughing, shaking my head. “I’ll take my chances.”
Lexi shrugs, resigned. “Suit yourself. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
She follows me toward the entrance, and all I can think is that there’s no one like her. Lexi—whip-smart, beautiful, and completely unaware of how fascinating she is to me. It’s probably why I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her since the day we met.
She might think she’s untouchable, closed off behind her wall of logic and facts, but I see her.
And I’m not backing down. Not yet.
I pause right outside the door. “Would it make you feel any better if I told you Finn and Ace have both eaten this pizza on multiple occasions and lived to tell the tale?”
She levels me with a look so sharp it could cut glass. “Ace and Finn are hardly my guiding light for sound life choices.”
She has a point. The first time she met Finn Hayes—who she recently found out is actually related to her—he fought an ex-UFC fighter at a Double C event. And she’s known Ace’s wild ways her whole life. Frankly, it’s Ace’s family’s connection to Lexi’s family that got me an invite into Double C in the first place.
“That’s fair,” I agree on a chuckle. “So, what do you want to do? I can take you somewhere else if you really want, but I’m telling you—this is one of Dickson’s finest experiences. You’re going to love it.”
Her eyes drift to the building, scanning the scattered dots of glowing windows like she’s calculating the probability of food poisoning per floor. Her posture is rigid, hands curled into fists at her sides, like she’s bracing herself for war.
Ten seconds pass—ten long, quiet seconds—and then I watch her exhale, the fight deflating out of her like a popped balloon.
“Okay. You’re right. Let’s go visit the…dorm-pizza guy.” The last three words drip with disgust, but there’s a shift in her demeanor. She’s going along with it.
“Really? You’re sure?”
She sighs dramatically, and I laugh. “Right. Of course you’re not sure. But you will be afterward, I promise.”
Without giving her time to reconsider, I grab her hand—not the intimate finger-linking kind, just a firm, steady grip across our palms—and head straight for the door as it swings open. A group stumbles out—a guy in a massive hoodie and two girls—laughing and jostling into the night.