Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 71647 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71647 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
“Right.”
“I do. But like you said…I’m a busy dude.” I tossed the apple core into the trash and pumped my arms victoriously, then yanked my shirt over my head.
I know, I know…totally obnoxious. Why was I like this?
Well…’cause just like clockwork, Holden’s eyes traveled to my torso.
Confession. I’d caught Holden checking out my abs when I first moved in nine months ago and thought he had a crush on me. Maybe that was what started my low-grade thing for him? Whatever. It didn’t last. I pissed him off the following week when he’d found the lacy red thong I vaguely remembered slipping off my date on the sofa. In my defense, the sofa was also red. It was an honest mistake.
Long story short, Holden blew like a top and wouldn’t talk to me or look at me…till the following weekend when I stripped down to my boxer briefs ’cause it was too damn hot in the house and yes, ’cause I wanted his attention. He yelled at me for willful nudity. To which I’d rolled my eyes, then mooned him.
But just before he threw grapes at me, I’d noted his smoldering stare and the way his gaze lingered on my biceps and pecs, and dipped south. My cock had swelled in my briefs, making it rather obvious that Holden’s reaction did something for me. It fed my ego and made me greedy for more clandestine stares. He might not like me, but he liked looking at me. In my perpetually confused state, I decided I could live with that. Maybe surface admiration was enough.
“Four hours, tops,” he blurted.
“Huh?”
“Two hours Saturday, two hours Sunday.”
I widened my eyes comically. “Are you begging me, Holden?”
He gave a belligerent huff. “I would never stoop to beg. But I will admit you’d make a perfect Henry the Eighth. You wouldn’t have to do anything crazy. You’d simply strut around the park like you do here…except in a royal robe, a fabulous Tudor bonnet, and with an entourage. You’d love an entourage.”
“Nah, I’m shy.”
He snorted, muttering something under his breath about detested parasites and dim-witted beasts before going quiet again.
“Perhaps a gentleman’s wager might persuade you.”
A weighted silence filtered through our normally creaky old house, reminding me of the opening reel of a shootout on an old-fashioned Western.
I arched a brow. “A bet?”
“Yes, a bet.”
“What kinda bet?”
Holden dragged his teeth over his bottom lip. “Well…I appreciate that you brought groceries today, and I’m sure Tommy and Cole will too. But remember when you moved in and said you’d be an ideal roommate? You know, clean the kitchen, not eat anyone else’s food, tidy your messes, oh yeah, and keep your clothes on?”
“Nope, I don’t remember ever agreeing to be perfect. Where are you going with this?”
“I challenge you to be an exemplary roommate for a week. And if you slip up, you have to agree to be Henry the Eighth for Renaissance in the Park.”
I snickered. “That’s too easy. So…what do I get when I win?”
“The satisfaction of knowing you can keep your end of a contract.”
“Lame. Try again.”
“Whatever you want,” he replied lazily.
Easy. I want you to notice me, I thought. What I said was, “You’ll wash my ride, de-pit my olives, massage my bunions?”
“Sure.”
“Really?”
“It’s a fool’s bet, Ezra. You have no chance of winning. Agreeing to this is tantamount to agreeing to become an honorary HRS member this summer. And I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.” He beamed, patting my shoulder as he stood. “I know you’re busy, but if you’re free next Saturday, it would be great if you could come to a rehearsal so everyone can meet you.”
“You’re assuming you’re gonna win, and sadly…you won’t. I’ll have to think about my prize. You want four hours of my time, so whatever I collect should be comparable.” I scratched my chin thoughtfully. “I’ll probably have you do my laundry, take care of my dry cleaning—”
“Nope! You can’t do it, Ezra. You don’t know the meaning of boundaries, and you can’t keep your clothes on. I’ll win this bet within twenty-four hours. Forty-eight hours, tops. You might as well concede defeat.”
“Whoa! We’ve already got a side bet going. I like this,” I hooted, rubbing my hands together. “Let me get this straight. If I’m a Boy Scout till Saturday, you do whatever I want. If I fail, I’m king of the Renaissance geeks for two days. Now, if I lose sooner, you can rope me into practices. If I don’t lose at all…I get double your time. That means eight hours of doing my bidding. Geez, my head is exploding with ideas. You can make my breakfast, iron my shirts, be my personal assistant at the gym. It would be nice to have someone bring me water and wipe sweat off the equipment.”