Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80943 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80943 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
Normally, she hated hotels, but her father’s penthouse surpassed any ordinary hotel suite. He’d lived here before marrying Sheila, and the apartment had everything Hayden could possibly need, including a large kitchen that was fully stocked and surprisingly cozy. It reminded her of her kitchen back home, making her homesick for the west coast. In San Francisco, she hadn’t needed to worry about anything except how she was going to get her boyfriend into bed.
Here, she had her father’s problems, her stepmother’s lies and Brody Croft’s incessant attempts to get her into bed.
She wasn’t tired yet, so she took her tea to the living room and switched on the TV again. Time to finally watch that van Gogh biography. Since she was teaching an entire course on him next semester, she figured she ought to get reacquainted with the guy.
She scrolled through Netflix, searching for the documentary.
You want me, come and get me.
The sound of Brody’s sandpaper-rough voice suddenly filled her head. She let out a long breath, exasperated. Why couldn’t she stop thinking about the guy? And why couldn’t she stop wanting him? She wanted him so badly she could practically feel those big muscular arms around her waist.
But sometimes the things you wanted weren’t necessarily the ones you needed.
At the moment, she needed to concentrate on supporting her dad through his divorce and maybe finally calling Doug back to tell him she’d slept with someone else and that it was time to turn their break into a breakup.
But what she wanted was one more night with Brody Croft.
It doesn’t have to be black-and-white.
She sat there for a moment, chewing on her lower lip as Darcy’s words buzzed around in her brain.
Was her friend right? Was she overanalyzing all of this? She’d always had the tendency to pick and prod at each situation until she’d sucked every last drop of fun or enjoyment from it. This wasn’t an art history lecture she needed to plan for—it was just sex. Was there really anything wrong with delving into that gray area and enjoying a carnal ride with a man she found wildly attractive?
No sooner had that thought entered her mind than her phone buzzed with an incoming text.
Her heart stopped when she saw the name on the screen.
BRODY CROFT.
How was he texting her? She had his number, but she hadn’t given him hers.
The text was equally puzzling.
BRODY: Did you now?
Did she now what?
Eyes narrowed, Hayden opened the chat thread, only to curse out loud when she solved the mystery.
Sometime, maybe when she was in the bathroom or calling the front desk to take the dinner tray away, someone took it upon themselves to send Brody a message from her phone. It was four words and one emoji. Clear evidence of Darcy White’s betrayal.
I liked your interview ;)
Fucking hell. She was going to kill her friend.
Grumbling with irritation, Hayden quickly typed a response.
HAYDEN: I’m not the one who sent you that. My friend did. Ex-friend now. Please delete this number.
He was quick to text back.
BRODY: You don’t really want me to delete it. And aren’t we too old to use the “my friend did it” excuse?
HAYDEN: It’s not an excuse! She’s a traitor.
BRODY: So you didn’t like the interview?
HAYDEN: Nope. It was presumptuous.
BRODY: What was presumptuous about it? I was simply being honest. I want to see you again and I want to know what it’ll take. I’ll put in the work…
HAYDEN: No work required.
BRODY: Great! I’m back from LA late Sunday night. I can come by straight from the airport or see you Monday. You pick.
She blew out an exasperated breath. This man really didn’t give up.
You don’t want him to give up, a little voice taunted.
Oh, wonderful. Now her own subconscious was against her!
HAYDEN: I pick neither.
BRODY: Are you always this stubborn?
HAYDEN: Yep. Have a good night, Brody.
Jutting her chin, she clicked the phone to its lock screen and reached for the remote again. Maybe if she watched this van Gogh documentary for long enough, she would eventually forget about Brody Croft and how badly she wanted to see him again.
Thirteen
The raucous cheers of the crowd and the echoes of skates scraping against the ice filled the air as Brody and his teammates celebrated their hard-fought victory. Despite the sweat dripping down his face and the sore ribs from the forecheck he’d taken in the second period, Brody was high on adrenaline and the contagious joy sweeping through the rink.
Fuck yeah. They’d swept the first round of the playoffs. Four games, four wins. The Vipers hadn’t even stood a chance.
The home fans looked dejected, shoulders sagging and faces stricken as bodies began leaving their seats and heading for the exits. Brody knew the feeling. Michigan, his home team, hadn’t made it past a first playoffs round in more than a decade.