Total pages in book: 54
Estimated words: 51193 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 256(@200wpm)___ 205(@250wpm)___ 171(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 51193 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 256(@200wpm)___ 205(@250wpm)___ 171(@300wpm)
Killian narrows his eyes at me. “Your girl?”
Ignoring Killian and Preston’s intense gazes, I hook my arm around Shannon’s back and lead her out of the house where the air already feels lighter. Just being away from my friends helps me to relax.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” I say to Shannon, releasing my grip on her. “I was just trying to—”
She holds out her hand to stop me. “I know. No worries, okay? This isn’t a date. Just two friends having breakfast together.”
Letting out the breath of air I was holding, I mutter, “Right. Let’s go eat. I’m starving.”
“Yeah, me too. My stomach has been growling since I woke up.”
Even at this hour, drunk people crowd the street, stumbling out of houses occupied by the sports teams on campus. Beer cans and trash are littered across every lawn. The old Victorian houses, despite their pristine shine, look a hot mess. Weekends are the worst around here. It doesn’t hurt that the fraternities and sororities are one block over from us. Greek Row is already alive, the soft hum of rock music filling the air.
When we reach the end of the on-campus housing, we cross over Broad Street to the coffee shop. Broad Street Beans is a staple at Strickland University.
“Was Jordan pissed when you got home?”
Shannon shakes her head. “No, not really. Thank God.” I can hear the relief in her voice. “She said the dry cleaner could remove the stain no problem. I hope that’s true. Her dress cost a fortune that I don’t have.”
Last night, right before Shannon went home, I accidentally spilled the rest of my beer on her dress. She looked so panicked I wasn’t sure what to do other than offer to have it cleaned.
“Let me pay for it… since it was my fault.”
She peeks up at me from beneath her light brows, green eyes fixed on me. “That’s sweet of you to offer, Jamie. But you don’t have to do that.”
Money is tight for Shannon. She’s good at hiding the fact she doesn’t fit in with the girls in her sorority. It’s not that she doesn’t look the part of a Kappa girl because she does, but most of her sisters have trust funds like my friends and me. Scholarship kids are rare at Strick U. Jordan has made it easier for Shannon to conceal the truth. I’m one of the few people outside of her inner circle who knows she commutes to campus.
“If you insist,” I lie, intending to call Jordan after I take Shannon home to tell her to send the dry cleaning bill to me.
My dad grew up so poor he never knew if or when he’d eat. Now that he’s a self-made tech billionaire, he gives back in any way he can. I have the largest trust fund of all my friends, and an actual empire to share with my siblings. Sometimes, I feel a little guilty for having so much while others struggle. It’s not that Shannon is a charity case, but some people just need a little help to make their life easier.
I open the door for Shannon, and when I step inside, the scent of brewed coffee and pastries baking fill my nostrils.
“Yum.” Shannon licks her lips. “Smells so good in here.”
I place my hand on her shoulder and guide her toward the line forming in front of the counter. “I bet you’re used to this, working at the bakery.”
“Yeah, I love working at Rizzo’s. Mrs. R lets me make anything I want.”
Shannon works part time at an Italian bakery in South Philly. She can cook her ass off.
“If you’re so good at baking, then how come you didn’t go to cooking school instead?”
She shrugs, staring up at the menu board posted on the wall behind the counter. “I don’t know. I thought about it. But my dream is to own a bakery. I figured I should learn how to run a business first.”
“The food industry has the highest turnover rate. Most of those businesses fail.” She frowns, and now I feel like shit for telling her the truth. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be such a downer. It’s just that I read—”
She presses her index finger to my lips to silence me. “Shhh… you think too much, Jamie.”
I clutch her hand, rubbing my thumb along her soft skin, and she slowly removes her finger from my mouth. Our eyes meet, the fire behind her green irises blazing. She has that look, the one my father mentioned at the conference over the summer, and it scares the shit out of me.
An awkward beat passes between us. She’s right about my overthinking. My brain does most of the talking for me. Well, technically, it does all the talking for me if you want to get scientific. Oh my God, what’s wrong with me? I need to get out of my head. I live there so often, it’s hard to reel it back.