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)
“Nope.”
“You were playing a word game that first night I came over. What game was it?”
I wave a hand dismissively. “Just some app. Like a word find. Nothing fancy like you play.”
“You think I’m a smarty-pants,” he says with a smirk, then takes another drink of his coffee, sighing contentedly.
“Kind of.”
“You like that?”
“You know I do,” I say, then take another bite of the eggs. “What do you listen to when you work out?”
“Beethoven, alt-rock, Bob Ross, or heavy metal,” he says.
This guy is so unpredictable, and I like it. “Those are the Beck Cafferty four basic food groups when it comes to music? Also, Bob Ross? That’s so you.”
He lifts his chin defiantly. “And what do you listen to? Wait let me guess. ‘We Are the Champions’ by Queen? ‘Time of Your Life’ by Green Day?”
I scoff. “Thank you for mocking my musical taste. For that, you’re going to need to suck my dick to see my playlist.”
He wiggles a brow. “I’m in.”
I laugh, then toss one question his way. A question that has me on the edge of my seat, hoping we can pull it off, hoping he’ll want to try. “Do you want to go to Hazel’s book signing next week?” He tenses immediately, and I quickly finish the request. “We can go as friends.”
His shoulders relax. “Like a date. But not really.”
“It’s better than nothing.”
He smiles, his tension gone now. “It’s something,” he says, and he sure likes that something.
Me too.
When we’re done eating, he stands, moves behind me, sets his hands on my shoulders, and rubs. I might purr. It feels so good. “I need to tell you something, Jason,” he rumbles near my ear.
“That sounds intense,” I say, but I’m not worried. Not yet, at least. Not as he massages my neck.
“You know my BMW?”
“I do,” I say as he moves to kiss me, sliding his mouth over to my ear.
“I got it for this.”
“What do you mean?”
He’s cautious, taking his time as he answers. But hopeful too. “After the first time I was here, I wanted to come over again. I was hoping we’d do this. See each other again that is. I didn’t get a red Porsche for many reasons, but this was the main one. I got a generic black car with tinted windows, that looks like every other car, so I could come over, spend the night, and leave unseen. Maybe that’s presumptuous.”
My stomach flips in a good way.
I spin and curl my hands onto his hips. “No. I love that,” I say, ready to cozy up to him again when I glimpse the clock on the wall. I wish I could stop time, but my dream morning is over.
“Come over Sunday night when you return. You play Los Angeles in the afternoon.”
“You know my schedule,” he teases.
I roll my eyes. “And you got a car, so we can fuck.” I slide a hand into the waistband of his jeans.
“You got me coffee,” he retorts.
“And you got a car so we can fuck,” I repeat.
“You win.”
We both win when I get down on my knees and give him a taste of what I’ll be thinking about in bed the next few nights.
30
DIRTY LITTLE LIAR
Jason
A New York lineman lasers in on me. He’s snarling, hellbent on knocking me to my knees.
No way.
I am not losing my first game after fucking Beck.
I’m just not.
We’re down by three, and time is running out. Less than three minutes left.
I scramble, hunting for an open receiver. C’mon, Nate. Where the fuck are you, Orlando?
But then, Devon darts past a Leopard cornerback, arms up, hands beautifully ready. I gun the ball to him in a gorgeous spiral, and the rookie hauls it into his arms, right as the defensive lineman barrels toward me.
Andre, my left tackle, swings around and catches the lineman’s thighs, and we all go down in a pile.
My head rings. My teeth rattle.
For several horrible seconds, the ground feels like my new forever home.
But Andre took the brunt of the hit. He’s made of concrete, so he’s pushing up, offering me a hand.
I grab it and pop to my feet, exhaling hard as my body resets.
“You okay, McKay?” Andre asks.
I nod, then blink. “Thanks, man. Yeah, I’m fine.”
That’s football.
You get knocked to the ground. You get back up. You go into the huddle then you run the next play.
And when my short pass lands in Nate’s big hands, my buddy carries it all the way into the end zone.
Sweet!
As I trot to the sidelines, Xavier’s the first one to greet me. “You all good, bro?” he asks, draping an arm around my shoulder. “That looked bad.”
“You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”
He smacks my shoulder. “We’re gonna keep that lead you gave us,” he says, his tone fierce. And I believe him.
After our kicker nails the extra point, Xavier leads the defense onto the field, and the man keeps his promise.