Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 85453 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 427(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85453 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 427(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
After handing me the ball like he hasn’t noticed the shakes hampering me, Cash coaches me on how to take the perfect shot. “Bend your knees a little more. You’re short, so you need as much leverage as you can get.” He grins again before warming my back with his front and curling his hands around the ball by placing them over mine. His closeness sends my head in a tailspin, but I pay careful attention to what he says next because I hate losing. “You don’t want your hands too close together, but you also don’t want them worlds apart.” I can see how that isn’t an issue for him. His hands are huge. “When you take your shot, jump a little forward, but keep your shoulders back.”
“There’s no way I’ll reach the net from here. It’s miles away.” My voice echoes in the silence of the gymnasium, not to mention my hearty swallow.
Cash pffts me as if there’s no need for the worry in my tone before taking a giant step back, doubling my disappointment. “Take the shot, Einstein. Have faith in yourself.”
He chokes on the laughter erupting up his chest when I believe his wisdom and it miserably fails on me. The ball barely sails two feet through the air before it flops to the floor with a dramatic thud.
“I told you I’d miss.”
After taking a moment to settle his chuckles, he bands his arm around my shoulders and inches us closer to the net.
It is even more challenging up close. How anyone can reach it to slam-dunk a ball through it is beyond me. Not even my love of physics has me comprehending how someone can jump so high.
When it dawns on me I’ll never master this art, I try to get out of it. “I don’t want to do this. This is stupid.”
Once again, Cash stops me from leaving by curling his arm around my back and tugging me in close to his body. The heat of his body slackens my shakes, not to mention his familiar scent. It is still imbedded in the poncho he loaned me. “One shot. If you hit the net, I’ll teach you how to kiss.”
“Huh?”
I realize I vocalized my shock out loud when Cash says, “Gabriel is a fucking douche, but I’m reasonably sure he’s been kissed at least once, so you don’t want him to be your first kiss.”
“Why wouldn’t that be the case? It’s kind of ideal. First crush. First kiss. First—”
Before I can say ‘love,’ Cash mutters, “First heartbreak. The guy is a tool.”
“A what?” I should be focusing on his obvious dislike of Gabriel, but since I believe it resides more around a macho-pride thing, I keep my focus on the lingo I’m still learning.
At home, a tool is a useful apparatus.
Cash’s screwed-up face announces it means something else to him. “It is someone who screws people over. A douche. A prick. A—”
“I get it. You don’t need to continue spelling it out for me.” I switch his expression from annoyed to panicked when I mutter, “Unless you want to add English to your tutor schedule. I heard they were reading Virginia Andrews this semester—”
He shuts me up by tossing me the ball and demanding I take my shot.
“Just the net, right?”
Something flares through his eyes before he nods. “If you hit the net, English remains off the table.”
The rise and fall of his Adam’s apple is unmissable when I clarify, “And you’ll teach me how to kiss?”
“And I’ll teach you how to kiss.” His voice is throaty this time around, demandingly deep.
“Okay.” I breathe out my nerves, even with me being unsure they are nerves, before peering up at the net dangling several feet above my head. I don’t know whether Cash’s lack of help this time around is because he doesn’t want to hold true on his promise or because he has more faith in me than he should have.
I’m smart. Smart enough to realize this is a bad move. I want Gabriel’s attention, but do I want to achieve it like this? Do I want to use one man to gain the attention of another?
No, I don’t.
I don’t want to use Cash like that. I don’t care how cocky he is or how little someone like me could hurt him, I refuse to be an active participant in anything that will harm an intended target.
So, with my mind made up, I botch my shot, then drop my bottom lip as if I am devastated.
The already low hang of my lip droops even further when I spin to face Cash. His devastation appears genuine, and it doubles the output of my heart.
Why would he be upset? He got out of this lightly, didn’t he?
When Cash notices my watch, he smooths the lines on his forehead by plastering a fake grin on his face, then he says, “You can’t win them all.” After bobbing down to collect the ball, he takes the perfect shot. However, he doesn’t relish the victory. He commiserates it. “I know that better than anyone.”