Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 105665 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105665 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
“Why is that interesting?” Jersey grabbed a ball and shot it from the corner, nothing but net.
Ian’s lips parted for a few seconds before they pulled into a tentative smile. “You’ve played before.”
She shrugged. “Just enough to win a few bets, pay for a few meals. Before Marley let me train at the gym, I used several of the parks to exercise. Met some guys who liked to play. They taught me a few things.”
Ian made a few more long shots before palming a ball and dunking it.
Jersey froze, unable to blink or speak.
Ian grinned like he knew he was something pretty fucking special. And what could she say? Yeah, he could sing and play the guitar, write lyrics, kiss—man could he kiss—and he could dunk a basketball. Could they fit all of that onto a headstone? Jersey thought they could use small letters and both sides to accommodate his many talents.
“I’m thinking one-on-one or horse. What’s your game?”
“Horse, but no dunking.”
Ian nodded, passing her the ball.
“Are we wagering something?” she asked.
“What did you have in mind?”
“If I win, you tell me something about your past that you’ve never told anyone.”
Ian’s lips twisted to the side. A few seconds later, he nodded. “And if I win?”
She dribbled the ball between her legs several times. That made him smile even bigger. “What do you want, Coop?”
“You relinquish that thing you call a bag and let me get you a new one.”
“Wow … that’s a little harsh but whatever.” She tossed the ball up in the air, making the first basket.
After some impressive shots, evil banter, and a few stolen kisses, they were tied at HORS, Ian’s shot.
“Can’t wait to buy you a bubblegum pink travel bag, maybe something with rhinestones on it.” He winked, making a three-point shot … with one hand.
Jersey scowled at him, setting up for her shot. She put a perfect arc on it, landing it in the hoop, but it made a half spin, flying back out.
“Yes!” Ian threw up his hands and jumped up and down before hugging Jersey’s waist and lifting her up like they were on the same winning team.
When he finally set her down, she couldn’t look him in the eye.
“Oh come on, you can’t be that attached to that bag.”
She shook her head slowly.
“My past … you wanted me to tell you something about my past that I haven’t told anyone.”
Jersey glanced up at him. He had no way of knowing how tortured she felt, how incredibly torn up she was inside from the painful conflict of needing to hate him but wanting something else.
What if Chris wouldn’t have shown up at Marley’s? She still would have met Ian, taken the job, traveled the world, and spent her nights watching a rock star and her early morning hours kissing said rock star.
Why? Why? Why? Why was everything good in her life destined to go bad?
She slid her glasses up her nose after Ian’s celebration vibrated them out of place. “Congratulations. I can’t wait to see my new bag.” Jersey turned, taking confident strides to the door in spite of her disappointment.
“My parents died when I was seven.”
Jersey stopped, taking in a small, quick breath as something unfamiliar tingled in her chest.
Was it a lie? Ian told stories for a living. He wrote songs, like fictional stories, and sold them to fans with his voice. They were emotional and real … they were relatable. Maybe even believable.
He knew Jersey grew up without a family. Was he just trying to be relatable?
“My father was an only child, and his parents were dead. My mother had two siblings, and her father was still alive, but she was estranged from her family. When they contacted her surviving relatives, no one wanted to take me in and raise me.”
Jersey listened, without turning toward him. His story was sad, but not yet tragic. Not by her definition of tragic.
“Nobody else knows this?” she asked.
“No.”
Nobody could corroborate his story. Convenient.
“Were your parents wealthy?”
“That’s two things. I already shared one, and you didn’t even earn it.”
Jersey nodded, keeping him at her back. “True. Are you sure you never owned another vehicle like … a black Charger?”
“Who wants to know?”
That made Jersey turn around. “Does it matter?”
Ian returned a blank expression. After a few seconds, he shrugged. “I suppose not, since the answer is the same either way. No … I’ve never owned a black Charger. Hope that helps you sleep tonight.”
Was she imagining him talking in his own riddles, saying very little but meaning something worth so much more?
“Yeah. When I dream of that black Charger, I won’t put you in the driver’s seat.”
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
“He hates me.” Chris smirked, tipping back a beer as he and Jersey got a little tipsy on Ian’s sprawling deck overlooking the heart of Los Angeles. “Is it wrong for that to please me?”