Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 117872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
Carter should be here any minute, so I settle into the beanbag and read till he knocks, a deafening sound. I set down my phone and head to the door, letting in my friend.
And . . . whoa. “I just went blind,” I say, shielding my eyes from the intensity of the fuchsia.
He’s wearing black shorts and, I think, an upside-down pink thong. “What the fuck is that?”
The bearded receiver groans, plucking at the pink nylon strings on his shoulders, or maybe they’re straps. “I’m the Super Bowl stripper.”
Oh, right! A dude in a bright pink mankini and black shorts streaked across the field a couple of years ago during the big game. “If Jason is having a costume contest, you win,” I say, then I want to kick myself. I make a mental note to call the host McKay next time.
But Carter is too busy fiddling with the crotch of his get-up to care. “This thing is too loose. Do you have a sewing kit?”
“I do,” I say, heading for the kitchen. Griffin loved to camp deep in the woods, so he taught me to always be prepared, including a sewing kit. “But I’m not sewing your mankini.”
Carter sighs, relieved. “I can sew. I just need a needle and thread. I forgot to try this on when it arrived in the mail, and my balls are dangling.”
I hold up a stop sign hand. “I didn’t need to know about the free-ranging.” I find the kit in a drawer and toss it to him. He catches it one-handed, naturally. “And maybe do your nude sewing in the bathroom or bedroom.”
“Will do.”
As Carter repairs his costume, I flop onto the beanbag again, about to click over to my book when I catch the time. Shit. We’re going to be more than fashionably late.
I should let Jason know. That’s just polite.
But when I thumb over to my texts, my phone buzzes.
It’s like it can see inside my soul. The name Mister Social appears at the top of my screen.
I click on his note so fast, then groan in anticipation as I read.
Are you coming? I can’t stand not seeing you here. I need to see you. I need to talk to you. And I need to touch you.
I read it again, once more, then I have to close my eyes and experience the heat flashing through my body.
It’s bone-rattlingly good.
I wasn’t waiting for a note from him. I tried to stuff any hopes on a top shelf in the closet, far out of reach.
But I can’t lie. This is the greatest text message in the history of the cellular world. As I’m about to respond, the bathroom door swings open, and Carter marches out. “Say it! I look good.”
He saunters through my living room, his costume fitting now.
“You look good. Let’s go.” I stuff my phone into my back pocket, and we take off.
Even though I’m the passenger in his car, I don’t risk replying as Carter drives us to Jason’s house. I don’t take a chance, either, as we park and walk down the street in the October night.
I don’t dare respond as we bound up the steps.
The second Jason opens the door, my pulse skyrockets. I’ve never been so affected by a person. I don’t know if it’s the residual effect of that text or what he’s wearing.
Or not wearing.
Either way, my brain is toast.
Jason McKay is not a friend. I am not detached. I didn’t shut down a single emotion. They rage inside me. They rattle their cages. They fight to escape my mouth. Any second, I’m going to tell him he’s mine.
First, though, the host admires Carter’s costume. “You. Win,” Jason tells the Super Bowl stripper. “But word to the wise—do not post a pic of that on your Date Night profile.”
Carter pumps a fist. “I don’t know about that, McKay. Some women like mankinis.”
“No. No, they don’t,” someone calls from the living room. A pretty redhead in a tennis skirt laughs at Carter as he struts past us and joins the sea of race car drivers, team mascots, and umpires downing shots in Jason’s home.
The other guests seem so far away they might as well be on Mars. Here in the doorway, it’s just the quarterback and me.
Two shirtless guys in their costumes. I want to pounce on him. He wants me too.
His blue eyes are flames. He parts his lips to speak but barely gets out a sound beyond, “Hey, you.”
He’s all rasp and fire. He looks like he’s about to combust. Good. His lust thrills me, and I take charge. “How’s your cat?”
Jason blinks at the question, but I don’t need an answer. It’s only a means to an end.
“Is he in the downstairs guest room?”
Understanding jolts Jason into action. “Let me show you.”
“I know the way,” I say as a mirage of heat wraps around me. I weave through the crowd as if heading into the downstairs bathroom, but instead, I duck into the guest room beyond, snicking the door shut.