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)
When the door finally closes behind me, I toss my purse and phone down on the bed and head for the window. Out back, I spot several sitting areas for guests to use and one under the stars is calling my name. I head over and grab my tablet, letting it power up while I change my clothes. Once I throw on an oversized long-sleeved shirt, one I found in Brock’s closet this morning with the Ramblers’ logo on the front, and a pair of black yoga pants, I’m all set to check out the property I’ve been hearing about since I arrived. Grabbing my tablet, I head for the door.
Just before I open it, my phone chimes with an alert. The screen shows a voice mail notification, sent fifteen minutes ago. I glance at the top and notice I have only one bar of service. Something tells me coverage out here is on the spotty side, and I make a mental note to check into the free Wi-Fi.
Clicking on Brock’s message, I press my phone to my ear as his message begins. “Hey, babe, we’re taking a quick break at practice. I found out we’re doing a team dinner down in the hotel restaurant after we leave here, so I probably won’t be able to call you right away. There’s some talk about—”
“Oh, Brock Williams, you’re so hot. Will you have sex with me?” The question is followed immediately by laughter, as if whoever the teammate was who was trying to impersonate a woman could barely hold it together long enough to get the words out.
“Jesus Christ, Jones, knock it off! I’m leaving her a damn message,” Brock says absently. “Sorry, babe. Jones was just busting my balls and being an asshole. Anyway, after the dinner, most of the team is talking about staying down at the bar and watching a game for a bit. We can’t drink, but the coach is encouraging it as team building. I may have to stay a while, but I promise to call you as soon as we’re done. I love you and hope your dinner went well. Kick ass, Sunshine.”
“I love you!”
“Love you, Sunshine!”
“I’m such a loser!”
“Fuck you all!” Brock hollers to a chorus of laughter, hanging up the phone and making me shake my head and chuckle. His teammates are seriously the craziest.
Pulling up the message app, I fire off a quick note.
Me: Have fun with your teammates tonight. That’s an order! *insert winky emoji*
Me: We can talk in the morning before you leave for practice. Besides, I have a date with a book, a margarita from the resort bar, and a lounge chair out by the lake. I love you!
I slip my phone back into my purse, grab my tablet, and head for the door. Sure I’m going to miss our video chat later tonight, but knowing he’s with his team, continuing to strengthen those relationships, is more important right now. I’ve heard it for years from my dad, and later, my brother.
He has a job to do.
It’s best to give him the space to do it.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE
Brock
“I can’t believe you’re wifed up, man,” Jones grumbles. “When I heard you were joining the Ramblers, I was stoked to have a new wingman. I feel like I got juked,” he says, taking a long pull of his Dr Pepper.
“You think you got juked?” Caleb speaks up. “He’s my”—he points at his chest—“best friend. I thought I was getting my wingman back. But nooooo, do you know what I got instead? This guy—” he jerks his head at me “—all lovey-dovey with my little sister.” He pretends to shudder at the thought.
“You’re just jealous,” I say, pointing out the obvious. I let their ribbing roll off my shoulders. There is nothing they can say that can make me change my mind about being, as Jones put it, “wifed up.” Joey is my entire world. They would be so lucky to find what we have.
“Pfft.” Jones leans back in his chair. “No jealousy here, brother. You’re stuck with one pussy while I get the buffet,” he says. At the exact moment, a group of jersey chasers walks by our table. They giggle and wave and exaggerate the shake of their hips in their too tight, too short dresses.
“I can’t believe you’re letting him live. Hell, you didn’t even give him a black eye,” Jeff Rogers, our starting left tackle, speaks up. “When she was in town a couple of years ago, you issued death threats. What gives?”
I take a sip of my water and pretend like I’m not interested in Caleb’s answer when in fact, I’m hyper-focused on the sound of his voice, waiting to hear how he’s going to respond.
“He’s my best friend.” He shrugs. “If I’m going to trust my little sister with anyone, it’s going to be him.”