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)
Dad and Candi return to their seats, while Caleb takes the one to my left and Brock to my right. I notice Candi instantly lean to her left, slipping ever so subtly into Brock’s personal space, and the movement grates on my nerves even further.
After glasses of water and a bottle of fine wine is delivered to our table, Dad and Caleb immediately start discussing the upcoming season, while Candi does everything she can to engage Brock in conversation about his transfer to the Ramblers. Funny how Dad wanted to have dinner with me yet talks quickly turn to football, which doesn’t include me at all.
Typical.
I keep myself busy by browsing the menu. It has everything from the finest steaks to fresh lobster and salmon. Usually I prefer comfort foods like baked lasagna or lobster ravioli to get me through an evening with my father and wife number four, but tonight I might actually take a slab of beef that costs more than my car payment just to get by.
I’m jolted from my thoughts by a thumb gently caressing my back. Casually, I glance to the side to find Brock’s arm tossed over my chair back. He looks completely relaxed and positively edible as he leans back in his chair and listens to whatever Stepmommy Dearest is droning on and on about. He glances my way with the briefest of looks, flashing me a hint of a grin that sets my blood pumping and causes my mouth to water, before returning his attention to Candi.
“Josephine?”
“Huh?” I ask, glancing up and finding my father and Candi’s gazes riveted on me.
“What?”
“Candi was just asking you how work was going,” my dad says before reaching for the bottle of wine.
“Oh, uh, fine.” I make sure to avert my gaze to try to mask my features. I’ve always been a horrible liar, and I know my family—especially Caleb—will see right through me.
“Well, I’m glad you were able to get time away to see us. Family is the most important, you know,” my dad boasts proudly, almost making me roll my eyes. Richard Henderson is not someone I’d call a family man.
I slink down in my seat, wishing I were invisible, as Dad pours three glasses of wine. He hands the first to his darling wife and the second to me, before taking a healthy drink from the third glass. I steal a glance at my brother, who’s sipping on ice water with lemon. “You’re not having wine?”
Dad speaks for his son. “Caleb knows not to drink alcohol during the season. It affects your endurance, your game, and your mind. This way, he won’t wind up as some tabloid fodder.”
“Or with a baby from a football groupie in nine months,” I say, unable to stop the jab from spilling from my lips.
A slight gasp sounds from across the table, most likely from my dad’s betrothed, while a chuckle can be heard to my right. You know, that awkward laugh that is quickly covered to sound like a cough? Yeah, that’s Brock beside me, making me grin as I chug some of the expensive wine in front of me.
“That was uncalled for,” my father reprimands, clearing his throat and returning the conversation to football.
I relax in my chair, eager to just get through this dinner with as few tongue lashings as possible. Just as I bring my glass up to my lips once more, I feel Brock’s hand gently squeeze my shoulder. His fingers are warm, his palm slightly rough, and it leaves a wake of tingles behind that seem to go straight to my ovaries.
I risk a quick glance over, only to lock gazes with those mesmerizing blue eyes. Brock gives me a slight grin and a wink before relaxing his hand back on my chair. He may not touch me directly, but I can feel the heat of his skin so very close to my own. Having him so close is messing with me. I can’t think. I can’t breathe. I can’t concentrate on anything around me.
Just him.
How close his hand is.
How badly I wish it were caressing my bare skin.
I have to get through this dinner. Just another hour, and I can retreat to my bedroom and try to forget about the way my body hummed with anticipation and desire.
Yeah, fat chance of that happening.
A knock on my door wakes me from my Brock-filled dreams. I glance at the clock and find it’s just after eight. Too early when all you have to do is sunbathe by the pool and figure out what you’re having for breakfast.
“Joey, you awake?”
I turn toward the door and sit up. “Yeah, I’m up. Come on in,” I tell my brother, who hesitantly pushes the door open.
“Sorry to wake you, but I wanted to let you know we’re heading out to get ready for the game. I left your ticket on the counter downstairs, as well as a parking pass for the back lot. This way you don’t have to worry about the tailgates and fans,” he says, leaning against the doorjamb with his large body.