Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 78049 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 390(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78049 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 390(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
My phone chimes with a text, startling me. I turn away from the mirror, feeling as if a weight has lifted off my chest simply from not looking anymore. I move to grab my phone from the pocket of my robe, and I’m shocked to see it’s a text from Gage.
Are you awake?
I flush with embarrassment that I’m standing here naked after having forced myself to look at my body. I’m mortified that I was sinking into a dark place and feeling badly about everything, all because I think Gage is too perfect for me.
And now he’s texting?
It’s eerie… as if the universe is being cruel.
It almost feels like I’ve been caught doing something bad. I scramble for my dresser to pull out underwear and pajamas, needing clothes to make me feel secure, as if Gage can see me through the phone. I don’t wear nightgowns because they expose my legs, but the pj’s I slide on are lightweight and flowing and make me feel pretty.
I snag my phone and move into the living room, settling onto the couch as I pull my legs underneath me.
I text back, I’m awake.
His response is almost immediate. Can I come up?
My entire body locks tight, and my heart hammers.
He’s here?
But why?
I chew on my lip, wondering how to answer. Maybe I shouldn’t and he’ll go away, and I can pretend I never got that text.
Stupid. That’s really stupid, Jenna.
Crap, crap, crap. What do I do?
It seems like it takes hours for me to decide, but ultimately, I throw caution to the wind. My curiosity is far too great.
Give me two minutes, I text back.
I don’t wait for his response. I shoot off the couch and jet into my room, stripping off my pajamas. I grab a pair of jeans out of my closet and shimmy into them. Next, I grab a T-shirt and jam it over my head, threading my arms through the sleeves as I run into the bathroom. Nothing can be done about my wet hair, and I don’t have time for makeup.
Shit.
I brush my teeth, leaning over to give them a quick scrub. When I pop back up to look in the mirror, my eyes catch on the scars. “Shit.”
I run back to the closet, whip off the T-shirt and yank a turtleneck off a hanger, struggling into it and feeling like I just ran a marathon. I barely get it pulled over my stomach when there’s a knock on my apartment door.
“Shit,” I mutter and run my fingers through my semi-damp hair. This will have to do.
I force myself to walk calmly across my small living room, putting my eye up to the peephole. Gage stands there, distorted from the fish-eye lens but still looking amazing.
I unlock the door and pull it open. “Hey.”
Gage smiles, hands tucked into his pockets. “You sure it isn’t too late to visit?”
“No, not at all,” I assure him, stepping back in a welcoming gesture. “I watched the game. You were incredible tonight.”
“Thanks,” he says as he walks in. “You didn’t go?”
I shake my head. “Too much work to do, so I settled for watching it on my iPad while I did some stuff on my laptop.”
“All work and no play,” he quips, leaving the rest of the cliché hanging.
“Well, I did have wine,” I say, closing the door behind him.
Gage laughs. “Party animal.”
“Can I get you something? Wine? Or water? Those are the two choices.”
He shakes his head. “I’m good.”
Those hazel eyes bore into mine, and for a second, we have a weird staring contest where neither of us speaks.
Finally, I blurt, “Why are you here?”
Gage shrugs. “Had a crappy night. You make me smile, so I thought I’d come get my bucket filled.”
Crappy night? Off the end of an amazing game?
I motion toward the couch, and he moves to one end. I plop down on the other, resting my back against the arm and tucking my legs under me. “So, why was your night crappy?”
Gage angles slightly toward me, propping an ankle on his knee and slinging his arm across the back of the couch. It puts his hand within a foot of me—completely innocuous, but his closeness flutters my nerves.
“Coen Highsmith got into a scuffle tonight with someone at Mario’s,” he says grimly, rubbing his jaw as if it aches from gritting his teeth. “I’m worried about him.”
I recall Coen walking out of the conference room when Brienne told the guys about the documentary. While she by no means cares if Coen doesn’t want to participate, the manner in which he left was rude. I also read about his recent arrest in New York and subsequent two-game suspension.
“I imagine it’s hard on him… losing all his teammates. The guilt of surviving.”
Gage nods. “Yeah, I know that’s what’s driving his behavior. I confronted him about it tonight… tried to offer help… but he just won’t take it.”