Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 113699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 568(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 568(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
“Why?” she finally asks. It’s a simple question but one I don’t have an appropriate answer to. Because you might be my salvation. She has no idea how insane I can be, and she won’t have to find out so long as she agrees.
I push the thought away and take a careful step forward, close enough to hand her the gloves but not enough to spook her. “Give me the chance to explain myself and my idea. I’m not asking you to agree tonight.”
She takes the Ziploc bag, her fingers careful not to brush mine. “I don’t know.” I want to banish the wavering apprehension in her voice.
“Please? Just hear me out. Meet me for coffee. Nothing more. Tomorrow? At ten?”
Pausing, she chews on her bottom lip as if weighing her options. This is a big step for her, and I understand her fear, even if I don’t like it.
“Please?” I add for safe measure.
She sighs, no doubt her anxiety prickling. “Fine. Let’s meet at ten.”
“This is either really sweet or really serial killer-ish,” Noah comments.
“Totes not a serial killer.” I smile and wink.
“That’s to be determined.” Noah smirks back.
“I can’t promise you an answer,” she adds.
I back away, hands raised in surrender. “I don’t need an answer, Pantry Girl. I just need you to hear me out.”
As I walk back to my Jeep, all I can do is hope she agrees to help me and allows me to help her in return. It doesn’t matter that I could find another girl with little effort. None of them are Salem, and I won’t settle for anyone else.
Not when I’ve had my eye on her since the pantry, unable to help myself. I have to figure out what makes her so damn fascinating.
I slide behind the wheel, watching in my rearview mirror as she disappears inside, Noah following her protectively. My phone buzzes. It’s probably another text from Emma with more warnings about Mother’s matchmaking attempts. Or Drew telling me I’m an idiot. Or Bel threatening bodily harm if I hurt her friend.
None of the messages matter.
All my attention and thoughts are on tomorrow morning at ten.
Fourteen hours and twenty-seven minutes.
All I have to do is convince Salem Masters that fake dating the campus disaster is exactly what she needs.
SEVEN
lee
The coffee shop feels like a cage after two hours of waiting. Two hours of watching tables fill up and people coming and going. Two hours of growing certainty that Salem isn’t going to show up, no matter how long I sit here.
My fingers drum against the table, creating chaotic rhythms that would probably drive her crazy. Good thing she isn’t here to hear it. Good thing she isn’t here to see how fucking frustrated I’m getting, watching that perfect corner stay empty.
I need her. Need her patterns and counting and carefully measured world. Need her to help quiet the chaos in my head that’s getting louder with each passing minute. Need her to agree to this fake dating scheme so my family will back off about finding someone suitable.
But more than that, I need her to need me.
Need her to see how I could protect her.
Need her to understand how perfect we’d be together, even if it’s just pretending to start.
The barista side-eyes me, probably wondering why the campus bad boy is posted up at a table for two hours, getting more agitated by the minute. If she only knew. If any of them knew how much I’d thought about this, about Salem. About how I intend to make her see how perfect we are for each other.
Even if I have to manipulate everything to make it happen.
Fuck this. She’s not coming, and I need a real drink. Something stronger than coffee. Something to help me think clearer about how to make this work. I could go to her house and confront her. No, not a good idea. I’m not certain I could control myself, and when it comes to Salem, the slightest thing can set her off.
It doesn’t take long to get to the corner pub frequented by most of the football team. Even at this time of day, it’s busy.
The bourbon burns going down, but not enough to quiet my obsession with Salem Masters. Three drinks and a couple of hours later, all I can think about is how she stood me up and how I guess I failed at making her feel safe enough to accept meeting me at a fucking coffee shop.
The bartender knows better than to make small talk—the Sterling name and my reputation ensure privacy, ensure no one asks why I’m drinking at noon.
I trace patterns in the condensation on the bar top, thinking about how Salem would count the water droplets. She’s so careful with everything, so desperate for control. It’s beautiful, really. The way she creates order from chaos. The way she measures her whole world into manageable pieces. The way she could be manipulated using that very need for control.