SNATCHED (A Sports Romance) by Harper James

Author:Harper James [James, Harper]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Favor Ford Publishing
Published: 2016-10-17T04:00:00+00:00

It takes all of my willpower to force myself out of my dorm room to go to my appointment with Chase, plus an almost literal push from Kensie.

"You have to do this," she insists. "Show him you don't let shit get to you." She runs her lint roller down my russet cashmere sleeve. (I'm not going anywhere near food in this sweater.) "This can only work in your favor, you know. You're tenacious, and you're tough."

"Right," I say.

I try to push the lunch incident out of my mind as I head downstairs and across the cobblestone path towards the Liberal Arts building, but the images keep crashing back. My salad flying through the air. The sound of those dicks jeering about me biting it. The look on Chase's face.

I still don't get why Chase Brooks was eating lunch in a cafeteria with people who live in dorm rooms. I mean, I know our small college town is exactly that, but maybe I should slip him a list of the two or three restaurants my parents go to when they're in town. If my dad, with his five-star tastes, likes those places, surely Chase Brooks would prefer them to our lame dining hall.

"Whoa," I mutter once I’m inside the Liberal Arts building. This is serious. And so are the faces of the people waiting ahead of me.

One guy is poring over his writing-- at least I assume it's his writing-- moving his lips, and scribbling last-minute changes.

A girl with deep black hair, black fingernails and black lipstick occupies the last spot in line, and turns around when I take my place behind her. "This," she breathes, "is going to be spiritual."

"Yeah," I agree, glancing at the guy coming out of the office with a dejected look on his face. I don't think it's going to be spiritual for him. He crumples up the papers he's holding and whips them into a nearby trashcan on his way towards the stairs.

"Another one bites the dust," someone murmurs ahead of us.

"The class or the interview will be spiritual?" I ask.

"Well, both. But the class, obviously."

"I wish I had your confidence," I tell her. She gives me a smug smile. "Creative Writing or Lit?"

I must look confused because she says, "Are you on the Creative Writing track or the Literature track?"

Oh. "I'm not an English major."

"You're not?" She doesn't bother to hide her shocked expression. "Oh, shit."

"Is that bad?"

"I can't decide if I'm going to show him my novel or my album. Or my screenplay."

"Um, cool." I don't really have much else to offer her, unless she wants to hear how my stomach has butterflies on crack shooting around inside of it.

"Addison Simmons," the secretary calls, and I nearly jump with fright. I somehow put one foot in front of the other and enter the office. "He's ready for you."

I walk into the office, past the secretary, and head through the open doorway, which is the only other door in this office, so I figure that’s where I’m going.

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