Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 90682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
“The one in the military?” I snark, unable to help myself.
“No.” The old biddy notches her chin. “The hedge fund manager who works downtown. Went to the University of Southern California.”
“Oh, la-di-da, USC,” I mumble. “Their football team sucked.”
It didn’t suck, but my pride won’t let me admit it.
Posey swats at me, but I hear the giggle.
Rising, I stand behind her, chest almost pressed against her back as she chats with the neighbor lady.
“That’s very kind of you, Mrs. Galvin—but I’m sure he’s a very busy man.”
“So busy.” The front of my hand brushes the back side of her legs, just below the frayed hemline of her sexy little jean shorts.
“I went to Madison, you know,” I feel the need to say. “That’s nothin’ to sniff at.”
All Colter men go to Madison—well, us boys, anyway. Dad went to Clemson because he couldn’t get into Texas A & M and he never got over it. Clemson is one of the best but my Pop’s held a grudge, bitter that he went there, a staunch Texan till the day he died.
“Why are you breathing down my neck?” Comes Posey’s reply. “I can feel your boobs against my back.”
My boobs? Men don’t have boobs. “My pecs?” I flex so they move up and down. “These?”
“Oh my God, stop it.” She laughs. “Don’t be weird.”
“Sorry, you made it weird when you told that joke about flowers on your vagina.”
She snickers. “I don’t have flowers on my vagina.”
Mrs. Galvin clears her throat, still lingering, still watching, still unimpressed.
“Well.” She hmphs. “Have a good night.”
“Oh, we will.” I step sideways and forward so I’m next to Posey, my arm going around her shoulders. “Just two kin sharing a few laughs.”
Mrs. Galvin looks thoroughly disgusted, and when she’s hobbled her way out of the frame, Posey steps out of my hold and gives me a good whack.
“What the hell was that? I have to live here when you leave, you know!”
She’s a cute little thing when she’s riled up.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” I go back to the hammer and resume my task, two more cookies on the plate to occupy my mouth. “There more of these?”
“Obviously.”
Good.
Suddenly, I have an appetite for something sweet.
9
posey
I have to get out of this house.
Have to get away from Duke, dear Lord.
Day by day, he swallows up the oxygen in this house with his presence. His cologne. His height. His muttering. His firm muscles and thick neck and insanely strong forearms.
The brush of his hand against the underside of my butt cheek this afternoon; it had me wanting to shiver.
Definitely sent a tingle between my legs.
Duke’s body was warm behind mine. Big and tall and warm.
We have now been living together a full week—I’m gone during the day, and he’s had a handful of video calls with his agent and a Brett O’Bannion, whom I had to Google to find out he is the coach for the Dallas Steers.
Is that what the big hoopla is?
They sounded chummy, those few snippets I overheard the other night when I’d come home early and Duke’s door was ajar.
I wasn’t eavesdropping.
I just happened to hear that Brett guy say, “Lucky to have you, son.”
Son.
I wonder how he felt about Brett O’Bannion calling him that.
Mr. Colter died a few years ago from a heart attack, I read. The family took it pretty hard if the rumors were true. Duke was still at school playing at Madison in his senior year. He went for a fifth year because his studies fell behind, and he couldn’t play in a few games.
Entered the combine and the rest? Is history, as they say, and now the man is holed up in my spare bedroom.
My mind wanders, and I take my phone to begin researching—sleuthing—looking at pictures of Duke in his football uniform. Damn, he’s good-looking.
Virile.
So serious.
Helmet off, hair drenched in sweat, face red.
Rawr.
“This feels so wrong,” I tell myself.
I feel like I’m spying on the guy, and he’s in the next room!
Not only that, but I get to see the man live and in person. I shouldn’t have to look at images of him on the internet.
Regardless, I can’t seem to stop.
The pictures of him from his college days look entirely different than he does now. Younger. Grumpier, if that’s even possible.
I don’t find too many photographs of him with women—virtually none to be found. Nonexistent.
He must’ve had girlfriends?
The man looks like a god. He must’ve gotten laid anytime he wanted. Isn’t that what college guys who play sports do? Have sex all the time and bang? It’s definitely something I want to ask him; I wonder how he’d react. The thought makes me giggle, like I was giggling after I told him those jokes today. The look on that man’s face…
Priceless.
These photographs shouldn’t be turning me on either, but they are. Much as I hate to admit it? I’m totally attracted to Duke Colter.