Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 108636 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 543(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 362(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108636 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 543(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 362(@300wpm)
I guess the possibility of clandestine meetings with the motherfreaking man of your dreams will do that to you.
Avery pouts. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner? I have that Tradelopan the hot doctor who works at the sleep clinic gave me.”
“Ha,” I chuff. “Thanks, but no thanks. Taking rando medications from even more rando men isn’t really my jive.”
“Yeah, but if you would, then you wouldn’t be tired, and I wouldn’t have to deal with a lame-o friend bailing on TauTau with me.”
TauTau is one of the newest nightclubs to hit the Miami party scene. And it’s one of those exclusive clubs that you need to know someone to get in—aka, exactly Avery Banks’s jam.
“You know…” I eye her knowingly and wrap the Prada wool-and-cashmere shawl my dad sent me three years ago for a birthday present—he was too busy entertaining Lola on one of his yachts in Monaco to give it in person—tighter around my shoulders. “Something tells me you’ll recover by finding twenty other friends to fill my void.”
“Well, duh.” She rolls her eyes and puts a hand to her slim hip. “Like I’d wallow by myself? Puh-lease.”
I laugh at her dramatics and brutal honesty. “I’m sorry. Truly. But you know the comfort of my bed is my true habitat anyway. Let me be content in my warm little nest.”
“Whatever, loser. Don’t wait up for me.”
I snort. “Oh, trust me, honey. I won’t.”
“Ta-ta!” she says with a final blown kiss, walking out my door and slamming it behind her. I listen intently for reactionary movement on the other side of the wall—a wall I just figured out two nights ago butts up to Beau’s bedroom. Not just his apartment—his freaking headboard, people!
Now that the coast is clear, I slide farther under my covers, grab my phone, and find the one and only chat I started in Midnight—Dream code 62814.
ElizaBeth has entered the chat appears on the screen when I open it up, announcing my arrival to…no one because I’m the only one in here. The name is cheesy—I know it is—but it’s the absolute best I could come up with while I was sitting here earlier, paging through Pride and Prejudice. It’s, hands down, my favorite book in the world and one I’ve read a hundred times. The biggest draw that always brings me back to its pages is Elizabeth Bennet. She’s fearless and outspoken in ways I could only wish to be.
Mind you, the other username options were DownComforterForLife and KillMeNow, so really, I think we can all agree I settled on the best one.
When no one enters the chat a minute later, I start to self-combust. I thrash out of my shawl to reveal my plain white tank top as sweat drips down my back, and I throw my hair into a sloppy ponytail. Frantically, I swipe down on the upper right-hand corner of my phone to look at the time and see it’s 8:59 p.m. Clearly, I’m a little early.
Freaking relax, Juniperrr.
I take a deep breath, settle into my green velvet headboard, and chew on the skin of my knuckle. I do okay for a little bit, but when the clock strikes 9:01 p.m., and then 9:05 p.m., I silently wonder if I turned myself into a ball of nerves for no reason at all.
What if he didn’t even see the freaking note before he left the office? Or even worse, saw it and very sagely chose to ignore it?
I don’t know why I thought this whole cloak-and-dagger thing was a good idea. I mean, I could have—
ThunderStruck has entered the chat, the notification pings, rolling a vibration through my thighs. My heart jumps into my throat at the sight, and I scoop up my phone so quickly it bobbles in my hands before I finally snag it steady. Holy shit.
I can’t believe he picked that freaking AC/DC song he spent the entire summer before his senior year of high school playing on his electric guitar. It’s a dropkick to my past obsession with that cute little rocker phase he went through, and my vagina convulses.
ThunderStruck: Hello?
Shaking fingers to the screen, I type out a response.
ElizaBeth: Hi.
My God, could I be any more blandly lacking in character? So ho-hum? So boring?
I am so nervous that nausea triggers a tingle in my throat. I don’t know why I thought this was a good idea or why I thought I’d be able to handle it.
I finally have Beau, the boy I’ve loved for what feels like fifty lifetimes, all to myself in an anonymous chat, and words have tunneled through the freaking wall like Andy Dufresne to escape me.
ThunderStruck: Who is this?
I ponder all the facetious answers I could give if I weren’t so cowardly. The woman of your dreams. Your future wife. Your wildest fantasy. The future mother of your brown-eyed babies.