Total pages in book: 55
Estimated words: 52813 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 264(@200wpm)___ 211(@250wpm)___ 176(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52813 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 264(@200wpm)___ 211(@250wpm)___ 176(@300wpm)
Chapter Eleven
Stella
* * *
I gaze at the selfie I took a few minutes ago for a few seconds before sending it to my mom.
These photos I’m sending her are supposed to be staged. In this one, I’m sitting on Ben’s lap in a chair at an outdoor table on the deck by the pool at the beach house. My arm is around his neck and our faces are side by side. We’re both smiling and sun-kissed, our expressions happy and relaxed as the late afternoon sun paints the sky shades of orange and yellow over the ocean in the background.
This picture isn’t a lie. Other than my mom thinking I’m sitting on Owen’s lap when I’m really sitting on Ben’s, this is completely authentic. Sure, I wouldn’t have been bold enough to sit on his lap if not for needing a photo for my mom, but our closeness and happiness—the things that really matter—are real.
I wish I knew how Ben was feeling. Was his arousal during our massage session just a physical reaction that would have happened with anyone? Or was it something more?
“To Tommy Wellbourne,” he says, holding his glass up. “That crazy son of a bitch kept things interesting.”
I clink my wineglass against his, taking a fake sip of my drink. My head is spinning and I’m seriously considering stripping off my top and swimming topless, both signs I need to stop drinking.
And Tommy Wellbourne was just one of Ben’s friends in high school. Ben’s so toasted at this point that he would toast a passing seagull.
“Do you really think my laugh is sexy?” he asks, standing up from his seat.
Good Lord, his body is truly a work of art. Not one part of him wobbles or shakes. He’s like a walking wall of muscle.
“Yes. Do you really think my boobs are sexy?”
“Incredibly.” He gives me a puzzled look. “Pool or hot tub?”
I’m sweating, so I say, “Pool first. Then hot tub.” I’ve had enough wine to make me bold, so my next thought spills out of my mouth. “And I’m taking my top off, so look away if you don’t want to see.”
“I’m not looking away.”
The butterflies respond to that, liking his attention. I don’t think I’ve ever had a more carefree day than this. We walked on the beach, swam in the ocean, ate the lunch of chicken salad sandwiches and chips Ben arranged for us and played several games of Jenga. Then we slept on the couch for forty-five minutes before swimming in the pool and getting in the hot tub. And all the while, we’ve been eating and drinking as much as we want.
My body isn’t perfect, but I worked hard to get into shape for my wedding dress. Still, I have to remind myself of Ben’s erection during our massage session. He likes my body, perfect or not.
I take off my top, leaving it on the patio table, and walk down the pool stairs. Ben’s between the deep and shallow ends, the water halfway up his chest, facing me. He watches every step I take, his gaze not leaving me.
“Remember all the time we spent in that three-foot pool my dad put up in our back yard?” I ask him, my nervousness making me feel chattery. “We somehow still had fun playing Marco Polo even though we were all about ten feet away from each other.”
“Water balloon wars.”
I laugh heartily at his mention of that. We’d fill buckets with balloons and haul them around, trying to ambush each other. I was able to take the screen out of my second-story bedroom window and fire them down at unsuspecting neighborhood kids, which made carrying the heavy bucket upstairs worth it.
“You nailed me in the balls a few times,” he reminds me.
“We all took our fair share of hits.”
I walk closer to him, sinking below the surface of the water to cool off. When I surface and push my wet hair back, he’s still looking at me, desire swimming in his eyes.
But is that desire born of too much alcohol and me being the only woman around? Or is it real?
“Who did you lose your virginity to?” I ask, chattering once again.
“Ah...you don’t know?”
I shake my head. Owen never told me anything about Ben’s personal life.
“Kelcie Carpenter.”
I feel an irrational flare of jealousy for the blond cheerleader who was a year ahead of us in school. “How old were you?”
“Sixteen.” He moves back a couple of feet into deeper water.
I take it as a sign to back off, so I move further into the shallow end. This conversation is like a dance. I don’t want to discuss Owen or anything about our relationship, which means Ben can’t ask me any questions like the ones I’m asking him.
“Is it hard dealing with all the attention as a pro athlete?”