Total pages in book: 174
Estimated words: 173355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 693(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 173355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 693(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
Anyway, the first time I saw him was the very next day after our office meeting.
I was under my favorite tree, bundled up in my favorite sweater and a knitted cap — both Christmas gifts from Callie, she’s hardcore into knitting — my sketchpad in my lap as the winter sun slowly, very slowly rose up in the sky.
I was busy working on my sketch.
Of him.
So when I looked up and saw a flash of someone up ahead on the field, I was taken aback.
I was more taken aback when I figured who that flash was.
Him.
There was no question that it was his tall broad form.
He was close to the brick wall, running along the length of it. I’m not sure when he got there because I was busy with my work, but from the looks of it, he’d been there for a while.
He was sweaty from his ongoing workout and tanned even under the winter sun, and I could see… things.
I could see that his t-shirt was sticking to his body.
The fabric was clinging to his broad chest and shoulders like a needy little thing. It also clung to his ridged and muscled torso, that then tapers into his hips.
And don’t get me started on his thighs.
His thighs were bulging under his workout pants as he ran and kept running even as he drew near me.
And then he stopped by the net on the field, directly in my line of vision, bent down and picked up a water bottle that I hadn’t noticed before.
He gulped down half of it before letting the other half pour down on his face.
My fingers tightened around my pencil and my lips parted, my breaths erratic and unrhythmic as I watched that water rain down on him.
As I watched it drenching his face, drenching that hair of his, pouring down his moving, gulping, veined throat to his t-shirt, turning the already darkened fabric to almost translucent.
When he was done, he ran his fingers through his wet hair, scrubbed a hand over his face, picked up something else from the ground — his discarded hoodie, apparently — and left without a backward glance.
So that was the first day.
Since then I’ve seen him run laps — ten of them, I’ve counted — around the soccer field every single day.
I sit under my tree and sketch, him of course, while he exercises.
He never once looks at me or talks to me, and neither do I. We both pretend that the other is not there. Or rather, he pretends. I don’t think I can with all the watching that I do.
So it’s a surprise — big, epic, breath-stealing — when one day he stops.
Pretending that I’m not there.
It’s been two weeks since that meeting in his office and it’s a typical morning before school starts. I’m in my usual spot under the tree with my sketchpad. I got here a minute or two ago, just like him. But instead of doing what he does every day, taking off his hoodie, leaving it on the ground by the net and starting to run, he’s walking over to me.
At first I can’t believe it, and then my heart can’t stop racing with every step that he takes.
My thighs can’t stop buzzing.
Where his name is.
I still write it every night like a ritual. And decorate it with thorns and little roses.
I know I have to stop. I know that.
But it’s my guilty pleasure. A secret stinging pleasure.
Just like watching him run every morning.
When he gets about ten feet from me, I shut my sketchpad, set it aside and spring up onto my feet.
“Hi,” I say, when he stops in front of me.
Instead of greeting me back, he almost clips, “What the fuck are you doing?”
Watching you.
It’s on the tip of my tongue.
Probably because this is the first thing he’s said to me in two weeks. This is the first time he’s even looked at me and I’m… jarred.
And breathless.
But I still have the good sense to leave those words there, at the tip, and not let them fall out.
“Uh, sketching,” I reply, swatting a strand of hair off my face. My answer only makes him frown even more, which in turn makes me point to where I was sitting. “I sketch here every day. In this spot. This is my spot.” When all he does is grit his jaw in response, I’m compelled to go further. “I’m Bronwyn.” I point to my chest. “Littleton? Remember? People call me Wyn but you call me Bronwyn. I’m one of your students. Or players. Whatever. You called me into your office the other day. And took away my outing privileges for four weeks. Does any of that ring a bell?”
His nostrils flare and he finally speaks. “Is that supposed to be funny?”
I chuckle slightly. “Sort of.” When his jaw clenches again, I hastily add in, “But given that you’re not amused, I’m thinking no.”