Read Online Rewind (A Perfect Forever Novella) by Susan Ward - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Susan Ward
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Telegraph.
The warmth of the fire surrounds me like a caress, but I am quaking like a leaf. I wasn’t sure what Alan expected after he walked out of the kitchen. It would have been logical to assume that I would leave. But he knew I’d follow him. I don’t know why he’s ignoring me now. I look at the lit candlesticks—he wanted me to follow him.
I bite my lower lip and stare at my knotted fingers. I stayed alone in the kitchen for what seemed like ages, and now that I’ve done exactly what he expected me to do, nothing.
I struggle for something to say to break the silence. “You do have seven bedrooms. I counted them twice. But there are seven only if I include yours.”
He folds the Journal , tosses it on the table and fixes those penetrating, mesmerizing eyes on me. “Is this the room you want?” he asks, his voice gentle. “I meant it when I said you could have any room. It doesn’t have to be my room for you to stay.”
Does he not want me in his room? A ragged breath forces its way from deep in my lungs. “Do you want me to go?” I murmur.
“Of course not. I want you here.” His voice is husky and his eyes are wandering in a leisurely hold that is tender and oddly comforting.
Thank you for reading. Continue the story of Chrissie and Alan in the second book of the Half Shell Series: Girl of Tokens and Tears coming Fall 2014. Please enjoying the following sneak peek as Neil Stanton re-enters the story:
“Here, you look like you could use this,” says a quiet male voice above me.
I look up only far enough to see the carry size pack of tissue held out in long, tan fingers. I take one and anxiously dab at my tears. On the concrete walkway below there is a pair of some kind of work shoe and dark blue pant legs that look like they belong to a jump suit or something. Oh God, the janitor I barreled into. How humiliating is this? To be the girl alone on a concrete slab, crying and being consoled by the janitor.
I don’t look up, praying he’ll go away.
“Can I sit on your bench?” he asks politely.
I nod. “It’s not my bench and it’s a free country.”
He gives me a small laugh for that. I avoid looking straight at him, inhale another sniffle, and touch my nose with the tissue.
“Thank you. You’ve been very nice,” I whisper.
He settles near me copying my posture, feet on bench, legs bent and facing me.
“You know, Lambert will only bully you if you let him,” he advises kindly. “And he only bullies the students he thinks have potential they are not putting to good use.”
“Thanks. I’ll try to remember that. He doesn’t hate me. I have potential.”
He laughs and from a pack on the ground he takes a brown lunch bag and sets it beside him.
“Rough year?” He is carefully unwrapping some kind of minimart precooked burrito thing.
Jeez, is he going to eat that cold?
“Do you want a bite? It isn’t a terrible as it looks.”
I start to laugh when I really don’t want to. “Thanks, but no thanks!”
“Come on. What’s not to love? Week old beans. Week old rice and I’m not even sure what the sauce is. Be bold. Be brave. Eat a minimart burrito from yesterday.”
Ok, that was funny. I look at him then locking on green eyes and I see a really sweet teasing glint in them. His eyes are large, brightly colored and filled with a smile. Shoulder length blond streaked brown hair peeks out from beneath an army green bandana and the face of the janitor is tanned, really good looking…and really familiar.
Why does it feel like I know him?
“Are you homesick? Is that why you mope around campus all day?”
I lift my chin. “I don’t mope and how would you know what I do all day?”
He takes the keys hanging from his belt and shakes them. “There’s not much to do when you push a broom in the music department except listen and watch everything.” He takes a bite of his burrito. “You have Lambert’s class from 10 until 11. You sit on this bench until noon. You
The warmth of the fire surrounds me like a caress, but I am quaking like a leaf. I wasn’t sure what Alan expected after he walked out of the kitchen. It would have been logical to assume that I would leave. But he knew I’d follow him. I don’t know why he’s ignoring me now. I look at the lit candlesticks—he wanted me to follow him.
I bite my lower lip and stare at my knotted fingers. I stayed alone in the kitchen for what seemed like ages, and now that I’ve done exactly what he expected me to do, nothing.
I struggle for something to say to break the silence. “You do have seven bedrooms. I counted them twice. But there are seven only if I include yours.”
He folds the Journal , tosses it on the table and fixes those penetrating, mesmerizing eyes on me. “Is this the room you want?” he asks, his voice gentle. “I meant it when I said you could have any room. It doesn’t have to be my room for you to stay.”
Does he not want me in his room? A ragged breath forces its way from deep in my lungs. “Do you want me to go?” I murmur.
“Of course not. I want you here.” His voice is husky and his eyes are wandering in a leisurely hold that is tender and oddly comforting.
Thank you for reading. Continue the story of Chrissie and Alan in the second book of the Half Shell Series: Girl of Tokens and Tears coming Fall 2014. Please enjoying the following sneak peek as Neil Stanton re-enters the story:
“Here, you look like you could use this,” says a quiet male voice above me.
I look up only far enough to see the carry size pack of tissue held out in long, tan fingers. I take one and anxiously dab at my tears. On the concrete walkway below there is a pair of some kind of work shoe and dark blue pant legs that look like they belong to a jump suit or something. Oh God, the janitor I barreled into. How humiliating is this? To be the girl alone on a concrete slab, crying and being consoled by the janitor.
I don’t look up, praying he’ll go away.
“Can I sit on your bench?” he asks politely.
I nod. “It’s not my bench and it’s a free country.”
He gives me a small laugh for that. I avoid looking straight at him, inhale another sniffle, and touch my nose with the tissue.
“Thank you. You’ve been very nice,” I whisper.
He settles near me copying my posture, feet on bench, legs bent and facing me.
“You know, Lambert will only bully you if you let him,” he advises kindly. “And he only bullies the students he thinks have potential they are not putting to good use.”
“Thanks. I’ll try to remember that. He doesn’t hate me. I have potential.”
He laughs and from a pack on the ground he takes a brown lunch bag and sets it beside him.
“Rough year?” He is carefully unwrapping some kind of minimart precooked burrito thing.
Jeez, is he going to eat that cold?
“Do you want a bite? It isn’t a terrible as it looks.”
I start to laugh when I really don’t want to. “Thanks, but no thanks!”
“Come on. What’s not to love? Week old beans. Week old rice and I’m not even sure what the sauce is. Be bold. Be brave. Eat a minimart burrito from yesterday.”
Ok, that was funny. I look at him then locking on green eyes and I see a really sweet teasing glint in them. His eyes are large, brightly colored and filled with a smile. Shoulder length blond streaked brown hair peeks out from beneath an army green bandana and the face of the janitor is tanned, really good looking…and really familiar.
Why does it feel like I know him?
“Are you homesick? Is that why you mope around campus all day?”
I lift my chin. “I don’t mope and how would you know what I do all day?”
He takes the keys hanging from his belt and shakes them. “There’s not much to do when you push a broom in the music department except listen and watch everything.” He takes a bite of his burrito. “You have Lambert’s class from 10 until 11. You sit on this bench until noon. You
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