Total pages in book: 153
Estimated words: 148704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 744(@200wpm)___ 595(@250wpm)___ 496(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 744(@200wpm)___ 595(@250wpm)___ 496(@300wpm)
Willie smiles, pulling his phone to his ear when I didn’t even hear it ring. “Hey, baby. I’m at Crew’s.”
I flip him off again and step back into my room to make my bed while he’s on his call.
Like Davis, my sheets are black, but a cooling cotton in tune with your body temperature.
Never heard of them before, but that’s what you get when you send money with your buddy’s wife. She did good, though, and I like the deep-blue down comforter she bought with it.
I used it at the bar, but twin sheets didn’t even fit the cot in my office, the thing was that small, so Layla went and snagged these for me today while we picked up the mattress in Willie’s truck.
Tonight, I plan to get a full fucking night’s sleep, and I’m dying for it to be on a real bed for once. The last two nights don’t count since I spent the first one cussing out Davis in my head until I fell asleep, and the second, when I lay down, I realized it wasn’t even a mattress I was lying on, but more like something you’d lay down on the bottom of a ground tent to make camping less miserable.
It’s hard to believe she’s slept here alone for a year.
Growing up, she was afraid to be home alone, afraid to sleep with the lights off or her door closed, that’s why she found her way into my room so often.
Or so I told myself.
She’s grown now, asshole.
So fucking grown…
“All right, let’s get this bitch into the dumpster. Layla wants nachos from across the street.”
Eyeing the wall that connects my room to hers, I nod and push to my feet. “Yeah, let’s go.”
Behind the wheel of his Ram, Willie looks to me as he puts the thing in gear. “Me and Layla made a bet. I gave you a month.”
“A month?”
“Before you go caveman on the girl.”
“You know it’s not the fucking time. You should listen to your wife. She’s smarter than you.”
“She gave you a week.”
My head snaps his way, and he laughs like a maniac.
“Just drive, dickhead.”
He does.
He drives right across the street, and the first thing I see through the window of the diner is Davis Franco… smiling at a familiar black-hat-wearing asshole.
I turn mine backward on my head and walk inside.
Davis
Black Hat Guy’s eyes fall to my nametag, then quickly pop up to mine. “Were you named after the university?”
“No, my parents were huge football fans growing up, so they named me after their favorite team’s owner.” I stick my pen into my apron, drawing out a straw and lowering it onto the tabletop.
“Nice, which team?”
“Raiders.”
Before I can turn toward the voice, heavy arms snake around my middle, and I’m drawn into a warm, solid body. Soft brown hair teases along my jaw as wet, full lips press at the skin of my neck, sending a shiver shock through me. As fast as they plant, they rise to my ear.
“You didn’t tell me he’s been coming back,” Crew whispers his disapproval. “Not okay with that.”
Shifting slightly, I meet his eyes, but I’m immediately called to the brim of his hat. His Raiders hat, flipped backward on his head, nothing but short, shaven hair showing from beneath it.
He straightens to his full height, my body no longer cocooned in a fascinating mix of pillowy hardness but braced against him.
His lips leave my ear, so I peek up at him, but his attention’s locked on Black Hat Guy.
Crew releases me and slips away, walking backward until he can fall into the empty booth two spaces over and across. One by one, he raps his knuckles on the table before him, his gaze finally flicking to mine.
His smirk is instant, ill behaved, and when he cocks his head, my feet deem it a demand, one they’re clearly eager to follow, leading me right to him.
“Burger will be right up.” I excuse myself, and seven steps later, I’m in front of Crew. “That was unexpected.”
Back half leaning where the seat meets the wall, Crew has one arm thrown over the seat, the other stretched long across the table. He is the picture of carefree, but there’s a darkness in his gaze, proving otherwise.
“Did you come for lunch? The meatball sub’s on special.”
“How many times has he been back?”
My brows tug in the center. “What?”
Crew leans forward, his chin nearly level with my stomach, his eyes pointed up and focused on me through a thick layer of long, dark lashes. “How many times… has he come back in here?”
His words are delivered slow and low, very Crew-like, but they roll right over my head as I fixate on his. A thought sparks, a naughty one, and my expression must show it as his gaze narrows in question.