Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 101736 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 509(@200wpm)___ 407(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101736 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 509(@200wpm)___ 407(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
His chin pulled back, and the muscles of his jaw tightened. Oh, yeah. He fucking hated hearing that.
His tone went rough. “What do you want with my daughter?”
I took a breath to stop myself from saying something stupid, like telling him exactly what I wanted with his daughter. The time I’d spent with her in my back seat had been so hot, I only allowed myself to think about it when I was alone.
No need to embarrass myself in public.
I didn’t get a chance to answer her father’s question because Sydney appeared from deeper in the house and came bounding toward us like a ray of fucking sunshine. She wore a royal blue dress with tiny white dots scattered over it, and the top was held up by tiny straps tied in bows on her shoulders.
It’d been two days since we’d seen each other, and my body instantly whined it had been way too long. She wasn’t wearing a bra, and I didn’t miss the way her tits bounced as she strutted forward.
Fuck me. I was dying to give her my next lesson.
“Hey.” Her voice was warm. “You ready?”
Her friendly greeting was partly a performance, but it made my heart beat faster anyway. She was so sexy, and yet somehow she didn’t have a fucking clue.
Mr. Novak cleared his throat, but he might as well have told me to stop leering.
I smiled and jerked my head toward my car parked in the driveway. “Yeah. Come on.”
Displeasure rolled off her dad in waves, but she pretended to be oblivious. Her sandals flopped against the soles of her feet as she joined me on the porch and started down the front steps.
“Where are you going?” His tone was sharp, strict.
She glanced back at him, and then at me as if she wanted my support. Didn’t she know she had it? This had been my idea, and we both wanted to piss her parents off. I nodded subtly.
“We’re going to play miniature golf,” she said.
After the rain had stopped and I’d driven her home, I’d gotten her number, and yesterday I’d suggested we go mini golfing for our ‘date.’ Our schedules had worked out. She was off tonight at the restaurant where she worked, and I didn’t have any events or client meetings this evening.
“Will Colin be there?”
Some of the sunshine she’d had faded from her expression. “Why are you asking? You have a message you want me to pass along?”
Her dad shifted uncomfortably on his feet. “No. I was”—his suspicious gaze flicked to me—“just curious.”
“No,” she said. “Colin won’t be there.”
“Just the two of you, then?” He barely hid his horror.
She laughed lightly. “It’s not like that. We’re just friends.” Her tone was cavalier, but the gleam in her eyes, paired with a dark smile announced this was a lie. “Right, Preston?”
“You got it.”
I felt Mr. Novak’s hard gaze on us the whole way as we walked to my Charger, and for added effect, I opened her door for her. I acted like I was a gentleman, but I was sure he thought I was anything but a good guy.
And he was right.
The miniature golf place I’d booked was one of those indoor, high-tech ones, with neon lights and glow in the dark paint. I’d never been before, but it was fun inside. It was themed like a fairytale forest, complete with oversized mushrooms and gnomes, which for the most part weren’t totally creepy.
It was cute when Sydney got her first hole in one, but it was a lot less entertaining when she sank another one on the fifth hole. Her pink ball glowed under the blacklights as it rolled up and over the astroturf bridge and then down the slope toward the pin.
She let out a satisfied sound when it pinged off the mini flagpole and fell into the cup.
“Okay, seriously.” I’d never been so impressed and annoyed at the same time. “How the fuck?”
She bent and retrieved her ball, and when she straightened, she flashed a sheepish smile. Like she was embarrassed by how good she was. The person who should be embarrassed was me.
I fucking hated losing.
“Do you play a lot of golf?” It was less of a question from me and more of an accusation.
She shrugged. “Not really.”
My grip tightened on my putter. “Then, why are you so good at this?”
Why are you better than me, was what I really wanted to ask.
Her eyebrows tugged together as she struggled to put it into words. “I don’t know. It’s kind of always been like this. I think about what I need to do to succeed. Every time I throw a dart, or make a shot in pool, or putt . . . I evaluate what I could do to make the next attempt even better.”
Was she kidding? That wasn’t magic, or even special. “Everyone does that.”