Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 78470 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78470 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
AKA exactly my kind of thing.
“Level with me, Sarah,” I say when we reach the street that runs along the edge of the Marina. I check to make sure no one is in earshot. “Would that be the coolest show to work or, like, the holy-fuck coolest?”
“It’ll be badass. And I want them to come to Webflix right now.”
“Or yesterday.”
“Exactly.” She checks her watch. “But right now, by my estimate, you have five hours before your flight back, Hunter. We could hit the trails in Marin. The mountain biking there is fantastic.” She nudges my elbow. “Better than biking the Yorkshire Dales.”
“I’m seriously tempted,” I say. My flight to Chicago leaves tonight. I’ll spend one day there, then my sister convinced me to stop in New York before I return to London. I’d love to hit the trails now since I’ve got some time.
“We have extra bikes, and Kai is always game to hit the trails.”
“But do you guys have an extra helmet?”
Sarah scoffs. “Course I do. I collect them from ex-boyfriends. Want to go?”
Never a dull moment with Sarah. “Yes, but mostly because I want to hear more about the trophies you gather from your exes.”
Sarah smiles. “Fab. I’ll tell you all about it on the trails. Just let me text Kai,” she says, sliding open her phone as we turn the corner and walk toward Crissy Field. It’s good to be back in San Francisco even for a quick work trip. I went to uni here, getting far away from home and making friends with Americans like Sarah and now her guy Kai. Too bad I can’t stay longer.
But I want to make the most of the free time I have since our pitch meeting is done.
As Sarah flicks her blonde braid off her shoulder then brings the phone to her ear, I peer around, spotting a Ferris wheel rising above the trees up ahead. Then, I hear the screams from the roller coaster next to it.
Then, I spy a rainbow flag.
I pick up the pace toward the carnival.
“They’re in the garage. Where people usually keep bike helmets.” A pause. “No, you’re not supposed to make your kombucha in the garage.” A longer one. “Ugh, Kai! Incense makes kombucha smell even worse.”
Hmm. Seems Kai doesn’t know what became of the shrine to Sarah’s exes, but I don’t entirely care since I’m staring at the sea of people now a block away—women in tight tops. Men in tighter shirts.
Suddenly, mountain biking holds no appeal.
My hungry libido is leading the way to the carnival. But that’s not surprising. My libido has been leading the way for a while, and it’s been awfully ravenous since my last girlfriend blew my mind four months ago when we were out dancing in Leicester Square. The whole lot of us were grinding together, Penny and me and a guy named—fuck if I remember his name—when Penny said, “Hunter, have you ever considered you might be bisexual?”
Bless her.
Just fucking bless that goddess of an ex-girlfriend.
“For the twenty-sixth time, you can’t use my pickling jars for your disgusting kombucha,” Sarah huffs. Then she relents, softens her voice. “Love you too.”
When she hangs up, she shrugs apologetically. “He can’t find the helmet.”
“Yeah, I picked up on that. Such a bloody shame,” I say drily.
Sarah follows my gaze toward the fair. “Are you ditching me to play Whac-A-Mole for the next few hours?”
“I’m twenty-four. I’ve only ever kissed a man. Yeah, I think I’m going to ditch you to go to a Pride carnival.”
She growls. “You totally don’t deserve this secret now, but I’ll tell you anyway. The place is teeming with jocks,” she says as we near the entrance. “A lot of the local athletes volunteer.”
“Hmm…” I tap my chin thoughtfully. “Do I like jocks?”
“I don’t know. Do you?” she asks with a laugh.
“I feel a bit omnivorous. I kind of like everything these days.” I don’t think I have a type whatsoever. Except, well, humans.
Wait. Humans who aren’t vapid. Humans who don’t play games.
Sarah points to the sign above the ticket stand—Sponsored by the San Francisco Hawks. “Let’s go in. I can point out all the hot jocks I see.”
“You’re the best kind of tour guide.”
We head to the counter where I purchase a pack of tickets. Once we enter the fairgrounds, we weave down a lane past the ring toss, but I do a double-take when the dunk tank comes into view.
Hello, Adonis.
I whistle under my breath, admiring his eight-pack. “I just decided I like abs too.”
“How unusual. Nobody likes washboard abs,” Sarah says, then adds, “That’s Nate Chandler. Receiver for the Hawks. Very out. Very single. Very not straight at all.”
“That’s also my type.” I stare shamelessly at the strapping stud in the dunk tank, all sandy-brown hair, carved jaw, and cool blue eyes. He looks dry, though. “A man like that should be wet, droplets sliding down his chest on a fast track to his happy trail.”