Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 89883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
I’ve got my twenty ready for the skates, but Brooks’s hand clamps down on my wrist when I try to give it to the girl at the register.
“No.”
“Yes.” I try to raise my arm, but his grip is firm, almost vise-like. Waves of sensation move up my skin from where he touches me, waves that hit my heart and knock it off-balance. My pulse zips around inside my veins, and I know my cheeks must be bright pink because Brooks rakes his gaze over my face, catching on my lips before moving back to my eyes.
“This is a fight you’re always going to lose, Greer. Let’s go lace up.”
I put my beer on a nearby table and sit beside Brooks on a carpeted bench. It hits me just how long it’s been since I’ve done this when I attempt to lace up my first skate. It’s not hard, it just requires focus—something I find in short supply sitting next to Brooks. My body is still thumping from his touch, my wrist prickling with the memory of how tightly—confidently—he held me there.
The lights go down, and the glow-in-the-dark shapes on the walls and ceiling come to life. It’s like something right out of the eighties, and I love it.
“Need help?” Brooks nods at my skate. He hasn’t put his on yet. Instead, he’s draining the rest of his beer, chin up so in the half-darkness I can see the sensuous way his hard jaw slopes into his neck. He’s muscle there, strength. But there’s also a softness in the way his skin moves over the sinew. I know if I pressed my lips to that spot just beneath his ear where his stubble ends and his skin begins, I’d find velvety warmth.
“Greer? Help? You need it?”
I blink, drawing a sharp breath through my nose. “Sure. No, I’m good—”
“I’ll help.”
Oh, God, now he’s crouching down in front of me, knees cracking pleasantly as he shoves the sleeves of his blue sweater up to his elbows. He lifts my socked foot and puts it into the skate. He gives the laces a hard, almost savage pull, fingers working deftly as he hooks the laces over the metal grommets.
Those fingers.
Forearms, rippling.
Shoulders, straining.
Thighs. So big. Jeans—they’re going to rip—
He’s standing now, offering me his hand. “Careful.”
“Okay.” I slide my hand into his, my pulse doing that zapping thing again as I let him pull me to my feet. “See? I got it.”
His eyes lock on mine. “You sure about that?”
He’s too freaking close. I can make out the specks of slate that pepper his irises, making the blue appear darker. Deeper.
Honey, you are not being careful.
Pulling my hand away from his, I reach for my beer. “Yup.”
I finish it while Brooks laces up his own skates. My chest contracts watching him bent over, the muscles in his back bunching beneath the fabric of his sweater as he makes quick work of the laces. He’s an expert at this. Which means he’s skated often.
How sweet of him, to show up for his sister like this. To honor her in a very thoughtful, adorable way. He loved her.
I imagine he loved her well, considering how thoughtful and adorable he’s been with me. I can’t imagine how much he misses her. Just thinking about losing George makes my throat close up, and we’re separated by a decently sized age gap.
Lizzie was Brooks’s twin.
I’m gripped by the urge to give him a bear hug. But that would be weird, so instead I grab the glow-in-the-dark necklaces I bought and give them a crack, lighting them up. I drop a green one over Brooks’s head, and the side of his mouth quirks into a grin.
“Cute,” I say.
“Hardly.” He presses a hand into his knee and rises. “Ready to make me look good?”
Like you need the help. “Always. Let’s do it.”
“Need a hand getting onto the rink?”
“Nope, I got it. I think.”
On skates, Brooks is so tall he’s practically a giraffe. A very athletic giraffe, effortlessly gliding over to the little gap in the waist-high wall around the rink as if he’s been skating all his life.
I, on the other hand, gingerly wobble in that general direction like a drunk turtle, using whatever I can get my hands on to steady myself. A table. A woman wearing a pair of really great sequined pants.
Brooks immediately intervenes, skating back over to gently take my elbow, steadying me. “I got you.”
“I’m okay.” Even though I’m clearly on the verge of a face plant. “This is . . . yeah, much harder than I remember.”
He flattens his palm across my stomach. My body pulses so hard I worry I might black out. “Firm your core. There, that’s it. It’ll help you stay upright.” Keeping his other hand on my elbow, he guides me out onto the rink. “Start slowly.”