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)
Quickly, I track down a local wheat ale that sounds delish, and I grab a six-pack.
There.
I zip through the self-checkout, then order a Lyft, inputting Jason’s address. Once I’m in the car, I peer at my reflection on my phone. Run a hand through my hair. Check my teeth. Consider my scruff.
Then I roll my eyes. It’s a barbecue, not a date.
When the Lyft turns down Jackson Street, I gawk at the sweet homes. Swank townhouses line the block, their three-and-four-story facades signaling “you need money to live here.” Must be nice to go in the first round of the draft and land a fat signing bonus.
The car arrives, and I thank the driver and climb out, then draw a deep breath as I face the townhouse. I can hunt wide-open receivers under pressure, but walking up the steps to this guy’s home makes me more nervous than anything on the field.
I do my best to slough off the nerves.
Jason doesn’t know I think he’s hot. That I’ve admired him from afar. That I sometimes wonder what makes him tick. He’s not going to find out either. Those are the benefits of having an excellent poker face and a propensity for saying little.
I bound up the steps and rap on the door, then peer through the bay window and into his living room as I wait. A big U-shaped couch fills the space, and there’s a huge screen on the wall. No one’s walking around inside, but I wait patiently.
It’s been a minute, and no one has answered.
I hit the doorbell. A loud chime rings, and moments later, footsteps echo from inside. The door swings open.
Jason fills the doorway, all good guy charm and welcoming blue eyes. With that grin and that dimple, you could put the All-American guy on a cereal box, and Cardboard Crunchies would sell out of groceries stores across the country. His gaze lands on the potato salad and beer in my hands. “Good choices. I’ll allow entry,” he says drily.
His humor relaxes me the slightest bit. “Good thing I didn’t come empty-handed,” I say.
I step inside, and he closes the door. “I would have let you in even if you had. No one else brought anything. The fuckers.”
Great. I listened to my friend and showed up with potato salad like it’s a freaking Tupperware party in 1967 Suburbia.
“Oh, really?” I hope it sounds casual, but I’m groaning inside.
Jason claps my back. “It’s all good, Cafferty. I should have told you earlier that I’d handle everything. But this is good beer. So you get a gold star.”
“Thanks,” I say, but I feel awkward. As I sometimes do.
I follow him as he heads into a state-of-the-art kitchen. He takes the salad and puts it in the fridge. As I set the beer on the kitchen island, I try not to gawk, but this kitchen is a palace. It’s all stainless steel and pristine appliances. The Sub-Zero fridge is a thing of beauty. The meals I could make here . . .
I pull myself back before I get lost in a cooking daydream. “Your fridge is to die for,” I blurt, then I want to kick myself.
Who the hell says that? You have a nice fridge? Why don’t I just tell him he has a lovely-sounding doorbell too?
As he shuts the door, he shoots me a smile. “Are you one of those kitchen people?”
Jason makes it sound like a secret club that believes aliens explored our prehistoric planet. When Kitchen People Walked The Earth. His exaggerated horror eases my “nice-fridge” embarrassment.
“Kitchen person in the house,” I declare, patting my chest, trying to muster some coolness, some chill. “I’m a card-carrying one.”
“Sweet. My brother is a kitchen person. I have zero skills in that arena, but I love good food,” he says.
I wave a hand around the room. “Why do you have all this kitchen bling then?”
He shrugs affably. I suspect he does everything affably. “Came with the place. What can you do?” The question is rhetorical, but he’s dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, and his tone is just shy of sexy.
Which makes it all kinds of dangerous.
Jason points to the six-pack. “You want one of those wheat ales?”
“Sure,” I say, mostly because I need something to do with my hands.
With the smoothness I’d expect from an athlete, he snags a bottle opener from a drawer and pops off the tops of two beers. He hands me one, then tips his toward mine. “To destroying you tomorrow,” Jason says as we clink bottles.
This I can handle—football and the trash talk that comes with it.
I give him my best dirty glare. Channeling my in-the-huddle glower makes me feel like I can manage anything, including this mix of lust and admiration. The gridiron is the one spot where I feel completely comfortable, where I don’t overthink or worry. “To you eating your words,” I toss back.