#Score Read Online Free Page B

again. We’re not in here for half an hour and I’m already getting my drink dumped on me by some random drunk guy. I can see myself fifteen minutes from now, having found Brie and Michael and explaining why I’m calling a cab. I’ll get that look they always give me when they’re secretly judging me as a ‘party pooper,’ and then I can go home and change into some dry PJs. Maybe find a good episode of those courtroom dramas I like to watch.
    It’s hard not to scream at the situation. My parents would see it as kismet, but I see it as straight-up bullshit and clench my jaw as I wring out the daiquiri from my shirt. I try to pull myself away from the guy who’s standing way too close for comfort and mumbling something to himself, but I get a good look at him and freeze right as he says “cinnamon,” in this way that sort of thrums through me even though it’s super fucking loud in the club.
    I automatically reply with a loud “What?”. I don’t recognize him at all, except maybe sort of. It hits me instantly—he reminds me of a sculpture I’ve seen at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art. It’s one of my favorites, a classical rendering of a Roman man with an insanely fit body for the times. I’ve always thought it was sort of out of place, which makes me like it that much more. This guy reminds me of it, with his square jawline that could have been easily chiseled from marble, the prominent nose that fits right in with the rest of his face, and the full lips that any woman would kill for. My eyes drink him in easily, even though it’s chaotic and way too bright with all the raver lights overhead. His dark t-shirt clings to him in a flattering way, revealing the lean, muscular physique that marks him as an athlete, and when I look farther down I see he’s wearing jeans that work very well for him too. Dammit, maybe I should stop looking at him. I really need to get out of here and find Brie and Michael.
    I look around to see an easy exit, but the guy leans in enough to block out some of the crazy lights and mentions something about hot chocolate and a secret. I raise a brow. What is he on?
    It’s hard not to at least try to make out what he’s saying. His thick brows that perch over his lighter-colored and glassy eyes knit together in concentration. I can’t tell whether they’re blue or green from the lighting in here, but if the world is as fair as it probably is to this gorgeous-looking man, then they’re probably blue. Girls are always suckers for blue eyes.
    There’s a smile on his face now and although it’s all too clear that he’s ten sheets to the wind, the smile at least seems genuine. This model for Sports Illustrated is looking at me, giving me a toothy grin when he finishes off with “Your freckles, they kind of look like that.”
    My freckles? He was talking about my freckles? Even though I really shouldn’t care and I’m still pissed he spilled my drink all over me, I’m sort of wishing I heard what he said better. I reach up, instinctively touching my cheeks. Most guys in L.A. don’t give a damn about freckles, because they all want the same thing. A little blonde white girl with a tan, bright white teeth, a C-cup on average, with a tiny waist and hips that only just flare out. You would think that’s just a cliché that people use, but it’s the truth, and it only makes me stick out that much more. L.A. guys exude this vibe that I’ve never been able to get along with.
    Is this guy different from all the rest? I have to roll my eyes because I’m clearly reaching. No need to be an idiot, Ramona. There’s no substantial evidence that this guy is even remotely different from the thousands of others like him.
    “You don’t say much, do you?” his voice cuts through loudly as the DJ takes a moment to transition to another song.
    I shake my head and start scanning the thick crowd for my friends. Beneath the flash of neon lights, everyone looks similar and alien to me. It’s