Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 104081 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104081 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
“You okay?”
I startled at the voice, but recognized it immediately. Slipping my phone into my purse, I pushed off the wall to stand, trying for my best smile.
Vince was freshly showered, his hair damp and messy, eyes wide and alert like he was ready to tear up the town. He wore gray joggers and a royal blue Ospreys long-sleeve shirt, one that hugged the lean muscles of his chest and arms and tapered at his waist.
We hadn’t talked much since we left Tampa, but I could still feel the brand of his lips on mine. When he was close like he was now, I felt it burn even hotter.
“Yeah. We heading out?”
Vince eyed me like he didn’t believe me. “I’m not getting on the bus.”
“Oh?”
“Are you tired?”
I laughed as a yawn stretched my mouth open right as he asked. “Full of energy.”
He smirked a little, but it fell quickly. “I got a car. Want to come with me?”
“Where?”
“Anywhere.”
“You don’t want to go out with the guys?”
Our conversation was broken when a few of his teammates passed, and he high-fived one of them, nodding to the others. They had already cracked open a few beers.
“Not tonight,” he answered when they were gone.
“Why?”
He shrugged.
“And you don’t want to go to bed?”
“I can’t,” he said. “Not after a game. It takes a while for the adrenaline to wane.”
I chewed the inside of my lip, debating. It would be easy to just go back to the hotel and get some much-needed rest. But something about the way Vince watched me, about how he seemed to not want to be alone… it had me reconsidering.
“I’m still mad at you, you know.” I breathed the words low enough so only he could hear.
The corner of his mouth ticked up, but he didn’t say anything.
He just grabbed my hand in his, leading me through the hallway and out to where a car waited for us.
That Face
Maven
The Inner Harbor in Baltimore reminded me of Tampa’s Riverwalk, the lights of the city serving as a backdrop and reflecting off the water. Except I would have been sweating in Tampa, even though it was early November.
In Baltimore, I was shivering.
Vince and I walked quietly side by side, and I thought that was what he’d brought me here for. When the car had dropped us off and he’d just started strolling, I assumed that was it. He just wanted a walk to clear his head.
I was wishing I’d worn more comfortable shoes — and a heavier coat.
But we didn’t walk more than a hundred yards before he turned us toward a dock, and he shook hands with a man halfway down it before climbing aboard a boat.
Although, calling it a boat felt silly.
It was more like a small yacht.
I shook my head in disbelief at the pristine luxury of it — the crisp white hull gleaming under the moonlight, the plush leather seating area surrounding a hot tub, the tables covered in a spread of hors d’oeuvres. Vince watched my expression as the captain introduced himself to me, along with the crew, and then Vince and I were handed glasses of champagne and given a tour. We ended it at the front of the ship, Vince taking a seat on one of the couches while I sat in a chair across from him. The teak was gorgeous, the deck furniture more expensive than all my belongings combined.
“How on Earth did you manage to get a yacht chartered at almost midnight?” I asked when we were alone, the crew working to get us off the dock and out into the harbor.
“Gary is a friend of Bobby’s,” he explained on a shrug, referring to our captain. I remembered Bobby well enough — especially the stories he shared about Vince in college. If I’d had any doubt that Tampa’s shiny new toy hid his playboy activities behind his well-curated façade, it was obliterated with Bobby’s recounting of their days at Michigan.
James had been like that.
He had a shiny reputation on campus, and even more so when it came to the media that followed his college career as he worked toward being invited to play in the PGA Tour when he graduated. He was one of the few amateurs who received an invite to play at the Masters, and he’d made the cut, which had everyone in a tizzy about him and his future.
To everyone who thought they knew him, he was an All-American boy next door. But I’d seen him not-so-covertly check out another woman’s ass as he put his arm around me. I’d watched him wink and flirt with girls on campus as he signed autographs, only to quickly kiss me and tell me it was all for show. I’d seen him play in charity tournaments, only to make fun of the poor and complain about taxes with his buddies at the country club.