Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 100612 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100612 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
“I, uh—told my mom about prom last night.”
It didn’t occur to me that he would have to tell his parents he’s going to the dance. Not just any dance—PROM. I mean, it’s a big deal. Of course he’d need to tell them. I highly doubt he’s going to go shopping for his own outfit.
“You did?”
He sucks from one of the straws as we walk toward cinema 12.
“I didn’t give her the sordid details—you know, the extortion or whatever—only that I was thinking ’bout asking you so she isn’t caught off guard when it happens.” He pauses. “My mom is an attorney, by the way—she’d probably sue you for blackmailing me.”
An attorney? That is not good!
“I’m glad you warned her. I would hate to be sued,” I joke, brushing a hair behind my ear. “Did you mention my name, specifically?”
“Are you fishing for compliments?”
I grin at his back as we slip into the darkened theater, previews already rolling. They’re my favorite part of being in a theater, so I’m bummed to have missed the first few. I plop down next to Easton as the massive screen illuminates the room.
Our thighs touch.
Unable to shake the giddy feeling bubbling up inside me, I wiggle in my seat.
Prom. HE TOLD HIS MOM ABOUT IT!
I am one step closer to having an official date for the dance!
One. Step. Closer.
Seriously. The fact that he told his mom makes it real. The fear that he could back out of the deal dwindles…
I hide my grin by taking a sip of soda, sucking through the straw, shooting a sidelong glance at him; the glow from the screen casts a shadow on his face.
His jawline.
It belongs in a cologne ad, or—ugh, I don’t know. It feels rude and unfair of the universe to attach that jawline to someone who spends half his time making dumb jokes.
And the lips.
He has such nice lips…
Kissable.
I bite my straw, tearing my gaze away before I embarrass myself.
This is not part of the plan.
Macy and Marcus are lost in their own little world, leaning into each other, holding hands, their whispered conversation drowned out by the booming audio.
I sneak a glance at Easton, at the slope of his nose. His chin.
So cute.
Unfortunately, he catches me looking. He quirks an eyebrow.
“What?” he demands.
I react too slowly, brain still caught on cute, cute, cute, so I scramble for a response, giving him a weak little, “Nothing.”
I can see him smiling. “You were staring at me.”
A scoff leaves my throat as I shift in my seat, trying to act unfazed. “Please. You’re literally right next to me. Where else am I supposed to look?”
“The screen?”
I roll my eyes, taking an aggressive sip of my soda. “God, you’re annoying.”
I keep my eyes forward, pretending I don’t notice him watching me, but I can feel the weight of his curious gaze. It lingers, and I hate that I like it.
Something about tonight does feel different.
As if we’re not two people stuck on a double date because Macy demanded it. As if we’re not just fulfilling some weird social obligation because of our best friends. As if maybe—maybe—this is something real.
A girl can pretend, can’t she? No harm in that.
Does he feel that way, too?
Glancing down, I look at our arms, both on the rest between our seats; I could move my hand—put more space between us—but I don’t.
Neither does he.
My heart flips. I exhale.
It must have been louder than I intended, because he nudges me, leaning over the armrest to whisper, “What was that sigh for?”
“Huh?” I play dumb.
“Are you bored already? We’ve been sitting here less than twenty minutes.”
“I’m not bored.”
Confession: I have zero desire to sit through a movie about a doll who comes to life and murders her entire family. Such a fun time. I’d rather be watching a rom-com, but hey—this two hours of torture means I get to sit next to him and bask in his nearness. Bask in his elbow touching mine on the armrest, our hands meeting in the tub of popcorn.
He continues leaning toward me, invading my space. “You’re definitely acting weird.”
“No I’m not,” I protest. “You must be imagining things.”
“Whatever you say.”
Easton shifts away, facing forward again, his focus locked on the screen. Shadows stretch across the walls, the eerie glow of the movie making everything feel more intense. That ugly-ass doll and her unnerving expression will haunt me in my dreams tonight…
I shiver, reaching for the popcorn—not because I’m hungry for it but because I need something to do with my hands, something to ground me.
I can’t stop sneaking glances, no matter how hard I try. He’s too irresistible, too effortlessly distracting. And now, watching him is way more interesting than watching the actual movie.
I want him to look at me.
Every now and then he shifts in his seat and our arms brush—and each time that happens, a jolt of electricity shoots through my body.