Breaking dawn (Twilight saga book 4) preview chapter 1

อีกประมาณ 1 ชั่วโมงเวลาที่รอคอยก็กำลังจะมาถึงแล้ว ก่อนอื่นก็ต้องขอโทษเพื่อนๆที่ติดตามกันก่อนนะคะที่ไม่ได้เอาพรีวิวเล่มนี้มาให้อ่านกันเสียที วันนี้มาแก้ตัวก่อนหนังสือออกเลยทีเดียว ให้อ่านกันนิดๆหน่อยๆ ถ้าใครอยากได้ไฟล์สแกนเล่มนี้ก็ฝากข้อความมาแล้วกันนะคะ เราเพิ่งได้มาแต่ยังไม่จบเล่ม (แบบจบเล่มไว้รออ่านทีเดียวพรุ่งนี้นะคะทุกคน อุดหนุนคุณแม่สเตเฟนี่ของเราด้วยนะ อุตส่าห์เขียนด้วยความตั้งใจ พรุ่งนี้... ไม่สิ อีกไม่ถึงชั่วโมงก็วางแผงแล้ว ...เราเช็คดูแล้วนะคะที่คิโนคุนิยะมีขายแล้วค่ะ เล่มละ 435 บาท - ปกอ่อน) แต่ไม่ว่าอย่างไรเราก็จิตหน่อยๆ ตอนนี้ได้ไฟล์หนังสือของจริงที่หลุดจากเมืองนอกมาไว้ในครอบครองแล้วประมาณ 300 หน้า แต่ไม่สามารถโพสได้ (ผิดกฎหมายนะเนี่ย ละเมิดลิขสิทธิ์อย่างแรง) ไว้ยังไงจะเร่งอ่านตั้งแต่คืนนี้ แล้วเดี๋ยวจะมาเล่าให้ฟังนะคะ (คงจะสปอยด์อย่างแรงเหมือนเดิม) เอาละค่ะเมาท์มาซะมาก ลองอ่านพรีวิวของบทที่ 1 ได้เลยค่ะ

1. ENGAGED

NO ONE IS STARING AT YOU, I promised myself. No one is staring at you. No one is staring at you.

But, because I couldn't lie convincingly even to myself, I had to check.

As I sat waiting for one of the three traffic lights in town to turn green, I peeked to the right — in her minivan, Mrs. Weber had turned her whole torso in my direction. Her eyes bored into mine, and I flinched back, wondering why she didn't drop her gaze or look ashamed. It was still considered rude to stare at people, wasn't it? Didn't that apply to me anymore?

Then I remembered that these windows were so darkly tinted that she probably had no idea if it was even me in here, let alone that I'd caught her looking. I tried to take some comfort in the fact that she wasn't really staring at me, just the car.

My car. Sigh.

I glanced to the left and groaned. Two pedestrians were frozen on the sidewalk, missing their chance to cross as they stared. Behind them, Mr. Marshall was gawking through the plate glass window of his little souvenir shop. At least he didn't have his nose pressed up against the glass. Yet.

The light turned green and, in my hurry to escape, I stomped on the gas pedal without thinking — the normal way I would have punched it to get my ancient Chevy truck moving.

Engine snarling like a hunting panther, the car jolted forward so fast that my body slammed into the black leather seat and my stomach flattened against my spine.

''Arg!'' I gasped as I fumbled for the brake. Keeping my head, I merely tapped the pedal. The car lurched to an absolute standstill anyway.

I couldn't bear to look around at the reaction. If there had been any doubt as to who was driving this car before, it was gone now. With the toe of my shoe, I gently nudged the gas pedal down one half millimeter, and the car shot forward again.

I managed to reach my goal, the gas station. If I hadn't been running on vapors, I wouldn't have come into town at all. I was going without a lot of things these days, like Pop-Tarts and shoelaces, to avoid spending time in public.

Moving as if I were in a race, I got the hatch open, the cap off, the card scanned, and the nozzle in the tank within seconds. Of course, there was nothing I could do to make the numbers on the gauge pick up the pace. They ticked by sluggishly, almost as if they were doing it just to annoy me.

It wasn't bright out — a typically drizzly day in Forks, Washington — but I still felt like a spotlight was trained on me, drawing attention to the delicate ring on my left hand. At times like this, sensing the eyes on my back, it felt as if the ring were pulsing like a neon sign: Look at me, look at me.

It was stupid to be so self-conscious, and I knew that. Besides my dad and mom, did it really matter what people were saying about my engagement? About my new car? About my mysterious acceptance into an Ivy League college? About the shiny black credit card that felt red-hot in my back pocket right now?

''Yeah, who cares what they think,'' I muttered under my breath.

(c) 2008 by Stephenie Meyer, reprinted with permission from the Eclipse Special Edition published by Little, Brown and Company

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