Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 78257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Penelope
Someone clears their throat. A male. “Hey…you down there. Do you have any clue how hard you are to find?”
I stiffen at the husky words, embarrassed that Ryker has, once again, caught me with my butt straight up in the air. This time I’m scrounging around on the bookstore floor, looking on every shelf for the right workbook for my next class.
“What do you want?” I say without looking at him, tautness in my tone, although it’s a bit muffled from speaking while bent over.
“You. I told you last night we’d talk, and here I am.”
Ignoring him, I move another collection of books aside on the shelf, but my search is fruitless. A long frustrated groan comes from me.
“We do have a class to get to, so today would be nice,” he says from above me, “although the view from here is stellar. Your curves are…lush.”
He’s staring at my ass.
“Keep your eyeballs in your head, quarterback.”
“Hard to do when you’re bent over.”
“Try harder,” I snap.
I huff out a breath and put my hand on the shelf above me to help me stand up. Ryker immediately extends a hand, his fingers clasping mine as he heaves me up. It’s the third time we’ve touched skin to skin—yes, I’m counting—and I inhale sharply as the sensation ripples up my arm and out like waves from a skipped rock on the water. Breathlessly, I stare down at the place where our hands are joined, and he’s looking as well, a look of speculation on his face. He swallows and drops my hand swiftly. His face changes, closing in and shuttering like a window, becoming contained.
No one really knows him, I think, except Maverick.
What I do know is he’s a god on the football field, an authoritative kickass quarterback that has kept Waylon in the top ten of the SEC for the past three years. Back last year, there was even talk of Ryker being a Heisman candidate, but that day is long gone…
I glance down at my hand, my skin burning where we touched, as if an electric current has had its way with me. I press my palm against my leggings.
I blame my reaction on the early morning, my lack of breakfast, and the search for the missing workbook.
“What do you want anyway? I’m busy.”
Amusement gleams in his eyes. “Damn. No one talks to me the way you do.”
I shrug. “I see you for what you are.”
A quick smirk. “A hot quarterback?”
“An asshole,” I correct him.
“Some girls love assholes.”
“I don’t.” My arms cross.
“I think you do. I’ve seen the romance books you bring to class, the ones with bare-chested men on the covers.”
“Those are called alpha-holes.”
“I see. This romance novel thing has its own lingo, then?”
“Doesn’t everything?”
He grins. “What kind of football lingo do you know?”
“That you’re a gunslinger.”
He straightens, interest lighting his gaze.
I shake my head. “You really think I wrote that article about you and didn’t research the hell out of it? And for your information, a gunslinger is a quarterback whose arm is good for long, deep passes.”
He rubs his jaw. “Are you saying you’re a secret Ryker Voss stalker?”
I stiffen. “The interest was strictly professional.”
“So you’ve never checked out my Instagram or Twitter?”
“Never.” Okay, I have. In fact, I did last night after texting with him. All I found were a few pics of him hanging out with Blaze and Maverick, some of his workout routine—damn, his body is tight—and a few random shots of a tiny white kitten.
But…
I won’t let the fact that he likes small animals soften me.
He grins. “You blush when you lie, Penelope.”
“I’m not blushing.” My face is hot as hell.
He considers me. “You find what you were looking for down there?”
I huff out a breath and put my hand on my hip. “No. It’s the stupid workbook for class. We’re supposed to have it by today and here I am…scrambling.” I run a hand through my hair.
“You’re stressed out.” It’s a statement, not a question.
“Yes.”
He fishes around in his black backpack and pulls out a paperback book, flashing the red and black cover at me, a small grin on his face. “This the one?”
“Don’t tell me you got the last one.”
He shrugs. “Someone delivered it to my dorm before classes started.”
“Jersey chaser?” I smirk.
“No, just a service the administration provides for athletes.” He pauses. “You seem to think I don’t do anything for myself. I assure you; I’m a grown man.”
Indeed, he is.
His broad shoulders shift, calling attention to his untucked, blue pinstriped button-up shirt that’s rolled up, displaying his muscled, tanned arms. My eyes get hung up on his golden arm hair. It’s nothing too crazy, mind you, but something about it on him is so fucking hot that my brain hurts.
I silently curse myself. This predilection for hair has never happened to me before. It’s just…him.