Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 128742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 644(@200wpm)___ 515(@250wpm)___ 429(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 644(@200wpm)___ 515(@250wpm)___ 429(@300wpm)
Propelled by the music, I continue to dance, defiant. After a beat, Jack begins to move too, probably because he feels awkward standing still.
“That was cute,” I tell him. “Petty but cute.”
“Go on,” he says, sporting a scowl that’s more endearing than threatening.
“No, it’s cool. I get it. Don’t want other kids playing with your toys. I’m sort of flattered.”
He lifts a brow. “You think I’m jealous?”
“Sam already gave you up. He told me all about how you can’t stop talking about me to the team. Like you’re basically obsessed with me.”
It’s the wine talking. A lot of it. More than I realized until I remember I had a glass while we were cleaning up for the party. Then a glass while I was getting dressed. A glass for every time I resisted the urge to ask Celeste if Nate and Yvonne were coming.
And, well, they’ve kind of added up.
Jack grins at me. “I’ve never mentioned you once. Someone asked me earlier if you were a lost neighborhood child. I said no, that’s the mouthy American who doesn’t know how to put her dishes away.”
“Uh-huh. That’s why you practically threatened to fight your friend so you could cut in, right?”
“I was protecting him. He’s very dumb and unsuspecting.”
“Protecting him from what? I mean, worst I’ll do is take him upstairs and fuck him. Seems like a sweet deal for Sam.”
Oh my God.
I can’t believe I just said that. And it isn’t even true! I’m not the bring-a-total-stranger-upstairs-and-fuck-him kind of girl. Yet for some reason, wine always emboldens me when it comes to Jack.
I glimpse a spark of heat in his eyes before his features strain. “Don’t think I’ve heard you say that before.”
“Say what?”
“Fuck.”
My forehead wrinkles. “I say the word fuck all the time.”
“Not in that context.” He licks his lips. “So. Is that it? You want to fuck my mate, do you?”
“No,” I stammer. “It was just a joke.”
My heart’s suddenly pounding louder than the bass line of the song, beating even faster when I realize we’ve managed to work ourselves closer together. His hands on my hips. Mine resting on his chest. A rapid rush of excited nervousness charges across every inch of my skin. I tip my head up at him to see his expression is slightly hazy. Eyelids heavy. I wonder if he feels it too or if it’s just the alcohol crossing our wires.
It’s the same exhilaration I felt the first time I saw Nate. Which is even more confusing, because the two of them are so diametrically different. Jack’s easygoing. Quick with a laugh. Nate’s more complicated. Intense and guarded.
I’m attracted to both of them.
And they’re both equally out of reach.
“What’re you looking at me like that for?” Jack peers down at me, searching my face.
“I don’t know. You’re just…you’re impossible to read,” I admit.
Just like that, his crystal blue eyes become shuttered. Proving my point.
“Am I?” he drawls.
“Yes. It’s maddening sometimes.”
“Yes, Abbey, I’m the maddening one.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I protest.
He shifts his gaze away. “Nothing.”
“Jack.” He can be so frustratingly confusing.
When he looks at me again, his blithe demeanor is back. “Ah, don’t mind me tonight, Abbs. I’ve too much liquor in me. I talk nonsense when I’m drunk.” His grin stretches wide. “And you’ll be in for it when Lee catches you trying to grope me again.”
My gaze drops to my hands, which are splayed over his pecs. His hands brush mine as I snatch them away and take a self-conscious step backward.
I’m not able to respond, as a commotion suddenly breaks out across the room. Everyone rushes to watch a couple of Jack’s teammates scuffling in the hall. Not a fight but more a drunken wrestling match that bounces off the walls and clatters into the dining room.
Jack trudges after them, shouting at them to knock it off as knickknacks and photos tumble to the floor. I cross the threshold in time to see the guys crash into the dining table where the Dyce portrait is propped in a chair. I’d been taking more photos earlier and brought it down for better light.
Now I watch, helpless, as it falls under the feet of these two-hundred-and-thirty-pound clumsy buffalo.
“Oh no,” I gasp.
“Enough!” Jack pries his friends apart while I lunge for the painting. “You’ve fucked it now. Dickheads.”
I’m nearly hyperventilating as I lay the portrait on the table to inspect it. I promised it to a museum, for Pete’s sake. Luckily, there doesn’t appear to be any damage to the painting itself. The paper backing is torn, but that can be replaced.
A wave of relief crashes over me. Thank God.
“We’re sorry, Abbey,” one of the contrite men say.
“Yeah, we didn’t see it there,” the other chimes in with appropriately sad puppy eyes.
“What’s the damage?” Jack comes up beside me.
“It’s okay. Just this torn area— ” I stop.