Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 83355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
She grins, then pulls me close, so her words are just for me: “I hope you’re planning to make out with at least one of the hockey boys tonight. You deserve it.”
I tip my head back and let out a laugh, high and bright. “I’ll consider it,” I say, “if I can figure out which one is actually legal.” She howls and whirls away, leaving me at the center of the room, the music hitting a new high. It’s true though because my actual tastes run towards older, magnetic alpha males. But still, beggars can’t be choosers and at least the hockey boys are here.
The crowd changes shape every few seconds. New faces appear, old ones disappear, and every so often, someone in a designer coat cuts across the room and deposits a chilled bottle on the marble. The windows are all steamed up, and outside, Minneapolis is reduced to a glittering, black-smeared void beyond the heavy velvet drapes. Someone’s turned the study into a makeshift coat check, and the kitchen has become a low-stakes casino, with a couple boys playing poker with a wad of bills in front of them. The whole scene hums with the energy of a house just past the point of no return.
I love it, but I don’t. I’m restless, almost buzzing. For every moment I throw my head back and laugh, there’s a counter-moment—a flash of unease, the feeling of a phantom limb, like something (someone) should be here but isn’t. I pour another drink, the action practiced and precise, then slip onto the patio for a gulp of cold air.
The contrast hits me instantly: inside, bodies and heat; out here, the icy slap of the wind. I draw a slow breath, then lean back against the railing, scanning the dark. My phone buzzes in my hand. It’s a text from Andie—she’s already posted a boomerang of her and my father on the plane, the caption a dozen hearts and “Missing my girl!!” I tap out a quick, affectionate response, then pocket the phone and press my bare feet to the flagstones.
“Hey.”
I turn. I squint a little. What was his name again? Oh right, Brad. The jock’s standing half in shadow, a longneck dangling between two fingers, his other hand tucked in his jeans. Even out here, he looks like he could bench-press a small sedan: six foot two, hockey hair perfectly artful, jawline built to feature in cologne ads. He’s been at three parties I can recall, but I always get the sense he’s not a party guy—not really. Too watchful, too self-contained. But tonight he’s dialed in, a little drunk, and grinning with a lopsided smile that could probably power the city grid.
“Hey,” I say, letting the word linger.
“Your place is sick.” He nods at the French doors behind me, where a thumping bassline makes the glass shudder. “You could fit my entire apartment in that kitchen.”
I laugh, because it’s true, and also because I want him to think I’m a little above it all. “Technically, it’s not my place. I just live here.” I step closer, so we’re almost shoulder to shoulder, then glance up at him through my lashes. “You’re not one of those dudes who wants a tour, are you?”
He shrugs, his breath curling in the cold. “Maybe I just wanted to talk to you.”
I’m not sure why, but that answer makes me shiver. He’s so earnest, and I don’t think I’m ready for it. I drain my glass and set it on the balustrade. “You want to come in? Or are you just going to stand here and pretend to smoke?”
He grins, showing perfect teeth, and leans in, lowering his voice. “I don’t smoke.”
“Good,” I say, “because if you did, I’d have to kick you out.”
For a second, neither of us moves. We just watch each other, letting the silence stretch. There’s a gravitational pull, and I feel it: the way his hand could fit around my waist, the way he’s looking at my mouth. It’s not subtle, but then, nothing good ever is.
Inside, the music spikes. We both look up, startled, as Kayleigh bursts through the doors, a blur of energy and shimmery dress.
“Stell, you’re missing the best part!” She grabs my arm and tugs, hard, hauling us both back inside. Brad follows, his fingers brushing my bare shoulder for half a second—just enough to make my skin tingle.
The rest of the night is a series of dissolving moments, each more fluid and unfocused than the last. I work the room, glass in hand, bumping shoulders and swapping barbed compliments with Mary Kate, letting Chloe douse me in glitter spray, posing for a few too many selfies. I catch Brad’s eye across the room more than once—he’s always just outside the circle, watching, waiting. At one point, he ducks into the kitchen with a couple of the boys, and I hear him call my name, but it’s lost in the shriek of the crowd.