Love is messy. The last person Natasha Chabra expected to fall for was Ty, the arrogant, hot-headed, hockey boy. Well, scratch that. Turns out Ty's not what Nat thought at all. The real Ty has carved out a place in Nat's heart, making her question e...
Without further ado, here is Chapter One of JUST CALL ME!
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Everyone knows how awkward it is to take a shit in public, but how about taking a shit in public when the guy you like, who just agreed to go on a date with you, walks in? I couldn't catch a break here.
Yesterday, Ty and I cleared everything up between us. After a mind-blowingly amazing kiss, we talked about everything and nothing for hours. And all that ended with deciding to go out on a date Friday night.
I one hundred percent didn't decide on this happening.
I strolled into the bathroom like any other Sunday night, brushed my teeth, washed my face, and sat to take a shit. Riveting, I know.
The bathroom door swung open, not an uncommon occurrence.
But, that deep, gravelly voice had to go and say, "Hey, nice slippers, Nat."
I froze on my porcelain throne, hardly stifling a yelp.
Ty?! His shadow on the floor told me he stopped in front of a sink.
"I'm not Nat," I choked out. Biting down on my bottom lip, I shook my head. Did Ty seriously have to walk in mid-satisfying-shit?
"Pink fuzzy slippers," he said like that explained it away.
I glared down at my all-too-recognizable pink foot coverings. Shoulda gone for the Adidas slides.
Welp, there was zero chance I'd be continuing my shit here. Sure, Ty knew pretty much all my weird quirks, but I drew the line at taking a shit while he stood five feet away.
I'd slip out of the stall, wash my hands, and run down to the washrooms in the basement— easy peasy lemon squeezy.
Hand to thin toilet paper, foot to metal flusher, fingers to cold stall lock.
The blue door of the stall swung open with a whoosh.
Eyes to too-handsome-for-his-own-good Ty.
I stood in the stall doorway, taking in his same old (well, hopefully, he had more than just one) white shirt and sweats.
Ty wet his toothbrush and squeezed a red, white, and blue stripe of toothpaste across the bristles. His dark blonde hair fell into his eyes as his head tilted down, jawline cutting.
I sucked in a sharp breath.
How'd he still manage to short circuit my brain after months of knowing him? And why was I swooning over his dental hygiene habits?
