Total pages in book: 53
Estimated words: 51427 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 257(@200wpm)___ 206(@250wpm)___ 171(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 51427 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 257(@200wpm)___ 206(@250wpm)___ 171(@300wpm)
I have a whole mile to contemplate all the ways that sleeping with the too-sweet Ellie Snow is a terrible idea. It’d be a mistake at a basic level, screwing a family friend, someone I’ll see at Christmas parties, at picnics, at Thanksgivings. I just ended a long-term relationship where my ex and I were woefully incompatible in the bedroom. I knew she wasn’t into the same things, yet I stayed longer than I should have, trying to make it work, hoping it would help her trust issues.
Look where that got me.
Jumping into bed with another good girl would be repeating the same mistake.
With my luck, I’ll probably run into Ellie at my aunt’s next eggnog-tasting party, and she’ll call me a pervert under the mistletoe.
That settles it. I’m going to walk her home, shake her hand at the door, then catch a Lyft back to my place.
Now that I’m not envisioning worst-case scenarios, I have the brain space to make small talk. As we cross the next street, I nod to her helmet. “Cute helmet.”
There.
She tosses me a flirty look. “You have a thing for pink,” she says.
My gaze travels down to her pink cropped top, and I’m busted. This is what happens when I try to behave. She keys in on my preference for pink.
“Pink is pretty on you,” I say evenly, keeping my compliment girl-next-door appropriate and not letting on that I want to rip her clothes off. “Suits you. Nice and sweet.” I don’t add that the innocence of pink fries my brain and heats my skin. I have to remember she’s a family friend who I’ll probably see again soon.
Like at this weekend’s birthday party for Ellie’s aunt—my mom’s bestie.
No way can I fuck Ellie tonight, then face her at a lawn party.
Playing croquet.
No thanks.
Ellie turns her gaze to me. “So, I’m nice and sweet?” It’s a clear question, but maybe there’s an eye roll happening too. I’m not sure in the dark. “Are you saying I’m like candy, Gabe?”
“Everyone likes candy,” I say evasively, so I don’t linger too long on how much like candy she is, mainly in that I want to lick her every-fucking-where.
Great. Now I’m walking with a hard-on.
New topic—stat. “The scooter lifestyle has become a thing here in the beach towns.” I nod to her ride as we turn onto the next block, passing under a streetlamp. “You’ve taken to it quickly. Did you ride one in New York?”
She shakes her head. “Nope. I walked everywhere in New York. Or took the subway. I’m a scooter virgin. But my friend Maddox lives here in LA, and he gave it to me as a gift,” she says.
I know a Maddox. Could it be the same guy? “Don’t tell me your bud is Maddox LeGrande,” I say. This is a big city, but I’m desperate for a topic with no pitfalls.
Her eyes widen. “That’s him. How—? Oh…” She smiles brightly. “He’s a sports agent. Wait—does he rep you?”
“Nope. But he takes care of my quarterback, Drew Adams, and my buddy Carter Hendrix on the Renegades. He’s sharp. One of the best in the biz.”
Talking shop is keeping the tent in my pants down. I’m brilliant. I only need to steer the convo to where I can apologize for my too-forward suggestion, then somehow walk away once we reach her house.
Before I figure out how to start, though, we turn into a driveway, where Ellie opens the garage from her phone. “I need to let Gigi out real quick. Want to meet her?” She sounds so hopeful.
A good guy would say hi to her dog. “Absolutely.”
I’ll say hello, then jet.
Ellie shuts the garage, then opens the door to her home, and a blond blur of fur rushes at her, hopping up and down, barking enthusiastically.
The woman’s face lights up. “Hello, my little lady. I know, I know. You have to go to the little girls’ room,” she says, baby-talking the pooch.
I cannot fuck a woman with a chihuahua. Is there any more obvious sign that Ellie’s vanilla? A chihuahua is like the secret handshake of the sweet vanilla girl club.
I cannot corrupt her and then face retribution over croquet.
My mom would take me to task. My aunt would too. They’d point out the ten-year age difference between Ellie and me. They’d remind me I used to babysit her.
The dog jumps once more, then notices me. The football-sized mutt whips around to face me, transforming into an unholy terror.
Hell, her dog will have my ass too.
“Gigi thinks she’s a German shepherd.” Ellie scoops up the pup and tells her, “Gabe is a friend. You can say hi to him.”
Friend.
That’s a gut punch. And it smarts, but hell, it’s for the best. Ellie’s making it clear how she sees me. Gigi must agree, since she settles down, lip uncurling, ears swiveling forward like radar dishes. I pet the pup’s chin. The cutie lifts it higher, asking for more. “Ooh, you’re charming her too,” Ellie coos to me, then puts the dog down. Beckoning me along, Gigi heads to the back door.