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)
Gah!
I adjust my seat, moving the footrest up, then back, wishing I had a blanket. Peel open the chocolate candy Easton bought and then plunk the bucket of popcorn in my lap. I settle into a routine: handful of popcorn, handful of chocolate.
I am eating my anxiety away.
“Are you even paying attention?” His voice comes out of the dark, low and accusing.
I pop a Sno-Cap on my tongue. Let it melt. “Nope.” Not even a little.
“I thought you wanted to see this?” he whisper-hisses.
“Who told you that? Like I said, I am as much a hostage to them as you are,” I inform him indignantly. “Never would I ever pick a movie like this. It’s horrible.”
Horror is not my vibe.
“We could have gone to see a comedy or something—we didn’t all have to see the same movie.”
I gawk at him. Now he tells me?
I pop another kernel into my mouth and chew thoughtfully, debating whether I should say what’s on my mind. It’s risky, but the theater makes me feel undercover, like anything said here doesn’t count against you.
So I decide to be honest.
“I’m not paying attention,” I mumble out the corner of my mouth. “I’ve been sitting here thinking about prom.”
“Oh you have, have you?” He laughs softly. “Why does that not surprise me? And just so you know—you’re allowed to change your mind about it if you want.”
I turn to him, surprised. “Why would I change my mind?”
Prom with him was my idea! He is my ideal date.
Easton shrugs, his big hand digging into the popcorn. I have to move mine out of the way so his fits in the bucket.
“I don’t know.” His expression is impossible to read in the dim light. “Just thought I’d give you an out if you wanted one.”
I shake my head, a playful smile pasted to my lips. “We’re locked in, remember?”
He frowns. “How could I forget?”
Oh.
Oh…
The way he says it…
It’s not lighthearted. Not teasing. It lands heavier than I expect, laced with something that makes my stomach drop. My heart races, but not from excitement.
The inflection in his tone sends heat straight to my cheeks.
For a split second, his irritation is written all over his face, unfiltered and sharp. And it stings—worse than I could have imagined.
How could I have been so stupid? How could I have thought we were flirting, that this meant something to him?
I was fooling myself, that’s how. For Easton, this isn’t fun.
It’s not exciting.
It’s an obligation, a deal he got roped into.
I am someone he has to tolerate.
“I…”…don’t know what to say to that. “Am I that bad?”
“Harper.” He looks concerned, like he’s tracking my reaction. “I’m fucking with you.”
Ah.
Well.
“Could have fooled me.”
I move my seat back to its upright position and struggle to stand, then shove the bucket of popcorn into his hands, toss down the Sno-Caps, and grab my purse. Head toward the stairs, taking them as fast as I can without toppling ass over teakettle, panic and embarrassment propelling me forward.
Omg. He must resent me.
I am such an asshole forcing him to go to this dance with me because I didn’t want to go dateless—as if being dateless were a big deal. It’s not! Dozens of my classmates go stag! WHO CARES ANYMORE WHO GOES TO THE DANCE WITH WHO?
Me.
I care.
The meaning behind his words horrify me. When I reach the lobby, adrenaline makes everything a blur.
My heart is pounding in my chest so hard I can hear it, so loud it drowns out the noise around me—the hum of the drink machines, the chatter of people waiting in line, the people loitering. Playing on their phones. Standing around waiting for the upcoming showings.
I weave through them.
My only plan: Get out of the movie theater, get to my car, get away from Easton and his smirk and cute smile and stupid, stupid comment.
He’s just fucking with me?
Does he think that’s funny? That he is funny?
’Cause he’s not.
I push through the heavy exit doors, cool night air hitting me like a slap to the face. It’s refreshing, but it does nothing to calm the storm brewing inside me.
I’m furious—with myself.
Ashamed.
“Forever embarrassed,” I rant. “I should make goddamn bumper stickers and sell them online.”
I walk briskly, my head on a swivel. Left. Right. Scanning the parking lot for evildoers, always vigilantly aware of my surroundings, like all girlies should be.
The faster I walk, the farther I get from the building, closer to my dumb car, parked in the last row. My feet move as if on autopilot.
“Harper! Wait up!”
His voice is louder and closer than I expect, and I whip around, startled that I didn’t notice I was being followed. So much for my Spidey senses and being vigilantly aware of my surroundings to ward off an attack.
Shocked, I watch Easton jog toward me. His expression is one of concern: brow furrowed, mouth downturned. He stops short several feet away, giving me space. One hand in his jacket pocket, one around a popcorn bucket.