Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 80045 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80045 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
“Fuck yeah,” I say. “Grab them both and point me toward the TV.”
She laughs, grabbing the individual pints out of the freezer and two spoons as she heads over to me. “I usually watch Bridgerton in bed…in my PJ's.”
“That's even better,” I say, waggling my eyebrows just to get her to laugh again.
Which she does. And I feel like I've won tonight all over again.
I take the ice cream out of her hands and follow her through her small living room and down a short hallway into the one bedroom that she has.
It's simple and modern, with splashes of color in the form of pillows and a few pictures of art on her wall. Her bed is in the center of the room, pressed against the focal wall, and it almost takes up the entire space. A TV is nestled in between some do-it-yourself built-ins on the opposite side.
“Oh shit,” I say, checking out the setup. “You really do have the perfect room for marathoning shows.”
She laughs softly, nodding at the space. “I spent my college career barely even getting to sleep in my bed, let alone watch TV. Once I secured my job, I decided there was nothing I'd rather do in my downtime than this form of self-care.”
“I love self-care,” I say, setting the ice cream on a little nightstand next to her bed. “Are we about to do face masks?” I tease.
“I'm fresh out of those, but I can stock up for next time.” She grabs some clothes out of a drawer from a dresser inside her closet, and heads to what I can only assume is the en-suite bathroom.
“Next time? Already planning for when I’m back in your bed next?”
“Maybe,” she fires back, then closes the bathroom door behind her.
Jesus, she’s making it hard for me to focus on anything but getting in bed with her.
And even though I’m about to get into bed with this woman, I won’t be seducing her. She just got some creepy ass note from her ex, this is so not the time to continue our hot-as-fuck-saga that started in Kiplin's office.
I chuckle to myself as I find the remote to her TV, pulling up her Netflix and queuing season two of Bridgerton, not knowing which one she wanted to watch but seeing from her watch history that this was up next.
I kick off my shoes, grateful for my postgame sweatpants and T-shirt attire, and hop on the side of the bed that I assume isn’t hers, since the opposite nightstand indicates daily usage with pens and notebooks and other books scattered across it.
Is my girl into journaling? I'll have to ask her—except she isn’t really my anything. Yet here I am, after a game win ready to marathon a show instead of drinking celebratory beers with my teammates.
There’s at least some part of me that believes there’s way more to this than friendship and chemistry, but the other part of me is reminding myself that I don’t do relationships. They’re too complicated and put my career focus at risk.
But I can’t deny those risks seem a lot smaller when it comes to Blakely.
She opens the door to the bathroom, coming out fully changed in a pair of PJ’s that make my dick hard just from looking at her.
She wears a pair of cotton linen lavender pajama bottoms and a matching tank top hugging her supple breasts. It’s all I can do to not stare, and I force myself to look at the TV as she climbs into the bed next to me, grabbing the ice cream and handing me an open pint.
“Cheers,” she says, clinking her spoon against mine.
“Cheers,” I say, mimicking her movements, then I hit play on the show.
After twenty minutes, we've thrown in the towel with the ice cream, me rushing it back to the freezer and tossing the spoons in the dishwasher. When I come back, Blakely smiles at me.
“Thank you so much again for being here,” she says. “I know it's ridiculous, but it makes me feel less worried when you're around.”
“It's not ridiculous,” I say climbing back into bed. “I told you, there's nowhere I'd rather be.”
“What about Seattle?” she asks, arching a brow. “Weren’t you joking a few weeks ago that you’d rather be at the Sharks’ arena?”
I cringe, hissing through my teeth. “You heard that?”
“I’m a coach,” she says, shrugging. “I hear everything.”
I nod. “The Sharks have been my favorite team since I was a kid. Was I dreaming of being the one they drafted? Yes. Would I entertain a trade offer? Also, yes…but…”
“But?”
“I don’t know, we’re getting into a groove,” I say. “We’ve only just had our first preseason game, but there’s something about this team.” And there’s something about her, but I don’t add that fact.
“I know,” she says, smiling softly. “The Badgers have a way of growing on you.”