Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 92095 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92095 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
They’re both in the past, where exes belong.
Now, I need to do better. Be better.
I’m here, living the good life.
I can’t just risk it all because Grant would be a good lay.
Ah hell, he’d be a great lay.
My skin burns as the images flash past me.
That man.
That sexy, flirty, outgoing man.
I let out a long, heavy sigh.
The owl hoots, the sound reminding me that some say owls are harbingers. They warn you of trouble.
Thanks, owl. But I can see the trouble clearly myself.
I unbuckle and get out of the car.
Sometimes an owl is just an owl.
But either way, I need to cool it. I need to resist Grant.
Tonight needs to be in the past.
Tomorrow I’ll reset.
Keeping my shit together is my specialty.
But as I cross the lot, tossing my keys up and down in my palm, my gaze strays to the hotel windows. I count up to the sixth floor, wondering where Grant is, what room he’s in, and if he’s taking matters into his own hands right now.
My cock twitches at the thought right as my phone bleeps.
Grabbing it from my shorts pocket, I slide a thumb across the screen. A notification pops up from the man who commands my thoughts.
My messaging app shows a preview of his text.
* * *
Grant: You’ve got to check out this movie clip. It’s the one you wanted to see.
* * *
My skin tingles. My mouth waters. I’m Pavlov’s dog.
I stop in my tracks, shove a hand in my pocket, hunting for my AirPods but coming up short.
If this is what I think it is . . .
I hustle to the lobby, my thumb hovering over the screen, eager, so damn eager to play it.
My room is too far away.
It’s going to take forever to get there.
I want to see this clip now.
But I can’t take a chance.
Nope.
I jam the phone in my pocket, stuffing it deep, but I keep my hand on it, protecting it. Like it’s a treasure, a precious artifact I’ve discovered.
When I step into the lobby, a basketball hurls my way. Instinct kicks in, and I palm it, then look up at the shooter.
“Nice reflexes, shortstop,” Chance says, striding in from the outdoor pool, Crosby by his side. They are wearing swim trunks.
I grimace privately.
Love these guys, but I want to be alone with this . . . message ASAP. I toss the ball back to Chance. “I do my best to keep them up. You playing Marco Polo?”
Crosby mimes dunking a shot. “Nope. We found a way to combine pool and basketball because we’re brilliant like that.”
“Maybe you’ll even start a league,” I toss out.
“Goals,” Crosby jokes.
“Feel free to join us tomorrow, man,” Chance offers.
Saved by the bell.
“I’m there,” I say. It’ll be good for me to spend time with them, rather than obsessing over the catcher I want to eat for an appetizer, dinner, and then dessert.
Crosby furrows his brow, then tips his forehead to the doors. “What are you up to? Hot date, Mr. No Dating During Spring Training?”
“Ooh, busted,” Chance says with a grin.
A worm of annoyance wiggles through me. I’m about to lie. I abhor lies. They’re everything I strive to avoid.
My chest squeezes and I ball my fists, thinking of that owl.
Just like I did when I was younger. When I had to tell lies about my father. Lies when he missed my games. Lies when I was late to practice.
But I couldn’t lie anymore when he showed up at my games drunk. When he practically stumbled onto the field, reeking of tequila sometimes, beer others.
I hate lying.
But then, if I were seeing some guy in town, would I tell Crosby and Chance? If I were dating River, would I advertise them of that?
I decide I would not.
So, this is not a lie.
“Just went to CVS to get some shit,” I say, though I’m empty-handed. For all he knows I bought condoms and they’re in my pocket.
Which reminds me . . .
“Anyway,” I say, pushing out a yawn. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
They say goodbye and amble down the hall. I stab the button for the elevator, and it arrives instantly.
Anticipation winds through me as the doors close. I’m a horse at the gates. I’m champing at the bit.
Once the elevator chugs upward, I grab my phone, turn it to mute, and click open the message, hitting play.
One second in, I go up in flames.
“Oh, fuck me,” I mutter as the video plays.
I shut it down right away so I’m not sporting a raging boner as I walk along the hall. But I write back quickly.
* * *
Declan: Gonna watch this in 30 seconds. But I need to know—did you finish? If not, wait for me. I’ll send you something in a couple of minutes. Something you can finish to.
* * *
Grant: It’s Dirty Christmas morning! I’ll stroke it slow and easy, but don’t make me wait long. I’m dying here.