Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 88490 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 442(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88490 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 442(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
“There are more options for a girl your age,” she says. “Better pills and IUDs. No reason not to be careful.”
“Um…” I sputter. “I’m, um…”
Beside me, I can feel Jamie’s laughter without even having to look.
“…a nursing student,” I finally manage. “I have, uh, lots of information about all that.”
“Good,” she says firmly. “Blake doesn’t need any distractions. Women have toyed with him before.”
Even in my haze of embarrassment, this statement hits me a little wrong. I lock eyes with Mama Riley, and her expression is fierce. Maybe she’s the type to assume that every girl is a gold digger. But I think not. Blake didn’t tell his family what happened, but mothers are damned intuitive.
I think she knows.
***
Jess: MAYDAY! Hope you see this before you see your mom. I sat next to her, and let’s just say a body cavity search would have been less probing.
Jess: Also, nice goal!
Blake: Shitballs. I’m sorry. Forgot J-Bomb’s seats were next to Mom. Ugh. Ugh. Ugh.
Jess: Felt like a jerk lying to her :(
Blake: I hate liars. And now I made you into one. My ex has got me all tipsy topsy.
Jess: Topsy turvy.
Blake: Whatever.
Jess: So would now be a good time to ask you if you need a +1 for Hozier? Please say yes! I lied to your mom for you.
Blake: Wait. Is this a shakedown?
Jess: No, because I’m being REALLY HONEST here about how deep in love I am with…Hozier.
Blake: Fine, lady. But wear something sexy.
Jess: REALLY? I can go?
Blake: Yeah, it’s cool. Gotta go. I can hear Mom out in the hallway bellowing for me.
Jess: Bye! You’re the best friend in the whole world! I owe you!
Blake: Uh-huh. We’ll talk payment later. TTYTOTNDOW
Jess: ?
Blake: Talk to you tomorrow or the next day or whenever.
Chapter 19
Friends at Benefits
Blake
Houston, we have un problema.
No, not just un problema. We have…whatever the Spanish word is for disaster.
And it’s me. I’m the disaster. I’ve been a disaster for two weeks, and nobody has even noticed. Well, in their defense, they haven’t noticed because I’ve kept my mouth shut about it. Because what man goes around telling everyone that he’s a disaster?
This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not to me. I’m a big, tough hockey player who always knows what to do. And I liked my life just the way it was, fuck you very much. Playing pro hockey comes with a ton of perks. Babes. Free shit. Babes. Adoring fans. Oh, and babes.
In fact, any chick would be fawning all over me right now, whipping her panties off and whispering in my ear all the filthy things she’ll do to me later for bringing her to such a cool-ass event.
Any chick but Jess Canning, that is.
She’s my problem. And I can hardly even form the words in my mind, they’re so awful.
I’m falling for her.
But does she notice? No, no, and no. My date is too busy fawning over the Irish chump on the stage.
“That accent,” Jess gushes, her brown eyes glued to the singer. “Oh my God, I’d listen to him recite the phone book for three days straight if it meant hearing that accent broguing in my ear.”
“Broguing isn’t a real word,” I grumble.
She snickers. “Hey, pot? I’m kettle. Half your vocabulary is made up, Blakey. Now shh! I’m trying to listen.”
But she’s the one who started talking in the first place! I swallow a growl and force myself to tune in to Hozier’s set. He’s got this whole acoustic setup going on, nice and intimate, and I might actually be enjoying it if Jess wasn’t eye-fucking the guy.
How much does this dude weigh anyway? A buck seventy? Eighty? Everyone knows you’re not a real man unless you weigh over two hundo.
I watch Jess as she watches the show. She took my suggestion and wore something sexy tonight—a tight black dress that hugs her perfect tits and stops about midthigh. When she stood on her tiptoes earlier to hug Eriksson, the silky fabric rode so high I could see the swell of her ass cheeks. And she did something seriously fuckable to her hair. It’s big and trashy in a good way. I want to shove my fingers through it, angle her head back, and kiss her until she’s breathless. And then buy her some dinner.
Yup. Dinner.
I don’t just want to fuck this girl. I want to feed her. I want to take her out to some fancy French place, maybe order chocolate-covered strawberries and sensually rub them on her lips all Don Juan–style.
Seriously, something’s wrong with me. It’s been wrong ever since I dropped her at home after the baby shower and almost blurted out, “Can I take you to a French place and feed you strawberries?” Thank fuck I reined in the crazy.
“Encore!” the crowd shouts.
I think Eriksson might be leading the chant. I turn toward him—yeah, he is. Never knew the Swedes had such a hard-on for the Irish. Were they allies during the war?