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)
An incomplete reception.
Shaking my head in frustration, I drag my ass off the ground and trudge to the sidelines.
It’d take a miracle for us to win this game.
And the gods of football don’t grant it. When the clock runs out, we leave the field with a loss, smacking palms with the Leopards. When I pass Luke, he tips his chin in my direction.
“Better luck next time,” he says with a smirk.
“You don’t mean that,” I say.
“You’re right.” He grins. “But that was a good game, bro.” We both know that the chips could fall the other way next time.
I’m not thinking of the score as I head off the field, looking up at the stands one more time, searching for a familiar head of blond hair, for bright eyes, for a mischievous smile.
Then I want to kick myself. Like I can find him from this far away.
And if I did, what would I do about it?
I go inside and hit the showers.
Time to go. Dressed in my suit, like the rest of the guys when we travel as a team, I grab my phone from my stall. Our flight’s in two hours. Our gear is already packed and loaded, and the team bus to the airport pulls out in fifteen minutes.
I can do a lot in fifteen minutes. I trot out of the locker room and call Hunter. “Where are you?” I ask as soon as he picks up.
“In the media suite, wrapping up,” he says, his breath catching.
“I have to go. Can you meet me—”
“Anywhere.”
Five minutes later, I spot him race-walking toward me down the corridor to the equipment room where we made out three days ago.
I break into a jog, grab his hand, and tug him into the room again.
Then I kiss the fuck out of him. I kiss him like I’ll never see him again. Because I won’t.
I kiss him so he knows I don’t regret a thing. Because I don’t.
And I kiss him for the road, hard and deep and passionately, so I can feel it for as long as I possibly can.
When I break the kiss, his eyes are wild, and his hair’s a mess. “Thanks. Now you’ve made it even harder,” he says drily, but he’s not truly mad.
“It’s already hard enough.” We’re not playing with innuendo.
“I know, I know,” he says softly.
I press my forehead to his, breathing him in. Then I step back to savor the sight of this irresistible man one more time. This man who makes my heart new again.
“You have to know what this week meant to me,” I say, my voice thick with emotions I didn’t want to experience again.
Too bad. I feel them all.
“Same here, Nate,” he says.
I want to tell him so many things. To toss out ideas. Options. Possibilities.
But then I remember how it feels to love and to hurt, so I say, “You’re the best fake husband ever.”
He smiles, that winning grin that charmed me way back when.
“And that was the best fake honeymoon, Nate,” he says, and captures my mouth one last time.
It’s a tender goodbye kiss that I’ll replay for weeks.
He tips his forehead to the door. “I have to get back to work,” he says, resigned.
“I need to catch a plane,” I say.
And we go our separate ways.
Two hours later, I’m flying away from London, the city shrinking, the night sky inky and dark. San Francisco is calling me home, and as the miles stretch on, I stare at my wedding ring for too long.
38
DOES DICK TASTE BETTER THAN PUMPKIN SPICE LATTES?
Hunter
Two weeks later
I’m a third wheel on two wheels this Sunday, but at least I’m outpacing Trevor and Liam.
I lean over the handlebars and pedal harder, weaving past throngs of other cyclists, riding along the Outer Circle of Regent’s Park.
As I cruise past trees weeping fall leaves, I ignore the early November chill in the air, and the chill that’s deeper in my bones.
I’m trying, too, to ignore the incessant thoughts chasing me.
Did Nate enjoy the ending of the Huxley or did it drive him mad? Did he hear the new Amelia Stone tune and is he downward dogging to it? Has he taken off his ring?
I’d like to find a stop button for this loop in my head. But I’ve had no luck yet.
When I reach the end of the lap, I brake and wait for my mates to catch up a few minutes later.
“Tortoises,” I scoff.
“Life’s better when you look at the scenery,” Trevor retorts.
“Lovely excuse,” I say.
Then Liam gestures to a food cart a block ahead, advertising Fall Drinks. “Think they sell pumpkin spice lattes?”
I pretend to gag as I hop off my bike and wheel it beside me. “Who would want that?”
“You should try it,” Liam says, as he and his beau dismount from their rides too.