Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 89658 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 359(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89658 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 359(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
I sigh, avoiding the intensity of Brock’s gaze. I can feel it, like the warmth of a spotlight hitting you in the side of the head. “It’s fine, whatever. The good news is you and Mr. Tight End are going too!” I bellow, throwing my arms in the air in victory.
The look on Caleb’s face is priceless. “What? Shit,” he mumbles. “I see him every day on the field.” My brother gets to deal with Dear Old Dad every day, since he’s one of the coaches.
“Family dinner for the win, big brother,” I sass, holding out my hand for him to give me a high-five.
“You’re mean,” he grumbles, hitting my hand with a hard, sharp tap.
“Ouch.” I try to shake the sting away, but it doesn’t work.
“Serves you right for being a smartass. So where are you going? Running way to Cuba to avoid going?”
“A reasonable consideration, but no.” I drop my gaze and whisper, “I have to go buy a dress for Sully’s.”
Caleb gives an Academy Award winning performance, shock written all over his face. “A dress? How will you survive?”
“I don’t know, but I’m pretty sure you’re buying,” I state, holding out my hand.
Brock barks out a laugh, watching our exchange, as Caleb pulls his wallet out of his shorts and hands me his credit card.
“Ohh, the black one. That means shoes and a pedicure too.” My poor toes haven’t seen paint or any sort of attention in so long, I’m not sure I can even remember when.
“Whatever,” he replies with a shrug. “Get what you need.”
“Starbucks. Coffee and one of those slices of their delicious lemon cake.”
He sighs. “What. Ever. Just make sure you’re back in time to go. I won’t wait on you.”
He will. He just likes giving me a hard time.
“I won’t make the golden child late for family dinner. I promise.”
I extend up on my tiptoes and kiss my brother’s scruffy cheek in appreciation. Just as I turn to head for the door, I hear, “I’ll go with her.”
Well, that makes me pause, because the owner of that voice was not my brother. “Oh, that’s not necessary,” I counter, turning around quickly to continue my protest. However, I didn’t realize Brock had moved, so when I turn, I practically face-plant into his chest. His very hard, very muscular, very nice chest.
Oh, the deliciousness of his soap and deodorant hits me square in the face, leaving me a little breathless.
“Well, if I’m the tight end you were referring to, that means I’m going too, and I could use a new dress shirt.” He says it so casually, so reasonably.
What the hell? No!
But Brock doesn’t hear my mental temper tantrum and opens the door, slipping out as quietly as a mouse.
I glare at my brother. “You’re buying me two pairs of shoes now, since I have to entertain your friend.”
Caleb grins and shrugs. “Whatever. I’m going to nap while you’re gone,” he says, turning and heading for his recliner.
“I hope you have nightmares about porcupines!” I yell, running out the door and letting it slam behind me.
As soon as I hit the steps, I start giggling, thinking about the shock and fear on his face. Porcupines are his biggest fear, mostly because he swore one gave him “the look” and chased him when he was ten and his mom took us to the zoo.
It didn’t, of course, but I’ve never let him forget it. He slept with the lights on for weeks after that trip.
“What’s so funny?”
Brock’s question startles me. I guess I expected him to not be standing so damn close.
“Nothing. Long story,” I reply, heading for my car.
When he doesn’t follow, I stop and turn around.
“You think we’re going in that?” he says.
I turn and look at my car. It’s totally sensible, gets great gas mileage, and has a sunroof. “What’s wrong with my car?”
“It has four doors.”
I roll my eyes, making sure he can see the whites all the way around. “That’s a total guy statement.”
“Well, I’m a guy, so…”
Brock heads for the garage and gets in his sports car. As he backs it out, I get my first real glimpse at something that probably costs more than my entire year’s salary, times two. It’s sleek, black, and screams sex.
Part of me wants to throw a fit about my car being passed over for a fancy sports car, but to be honest, I really want to go for a ride. My dad has always had his share of cars that cost a small fortune, but I never really had the itch. My first one at sixteen was a small Mercedes crossover SUV, even after Caleb tried to convince me to get the Audi R8.
The truth was, I never wanted to be one of those spoiled rich girls whose daddy bought them everything under the sun. Yes, I accepted that first car at sixteen, but I also sold it in college and bought a used Toyota Camry. Why? To prove a point.