Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 58992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 295(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 295(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
“Of course. What is it?”
“There’s this woman,” I begin. I tell her most of the story—the PG version, that is. “So…what should I do?”
With a thoughtful smile, she says, “Well, have you told her how you feel? That might be a good way to start.”
I stop walking. Stare at her.
Damn.
She’s right.
She’s so stinking right.
Maybe Brooke was noncommittal because I haven’t put my heart on the line. Now that I’ve realized that, I want to tell her right now. Run to her house. Wake her up if she’s sleeping.
Okay, maybe tonight isn’t the time to do it. But I at least want to chat with her. To hear her voice. To keep sharing our days with each other.
When I get home, I click open my texts and find a message from her there waiting.
Brooke: You melted all the hearts in Los Angeles tonight with that post of you and your mom. And mine a little more.
I’d been looking for a sign. This seems crystal clear. I take a deep breath, open my emotions a little more.
Drew: Yours is the one I want.
Screw texts. I call her.
“Hey, honey,” I say when she answers. That term of endearment feels different, as if it has new weight and meaning. “I hear you’re going to the game night this week.”
“Your sources are correct.”
I stare out the window at the Pacific, a fuzzy warmth in my chest. “Then in our parallel universe, it should be a date.”
Maybe somehow in the real world too.
“It definitely should be,” she says, but her tone sounds a little distant.
“You okay?”
“Getting a migraine. So I took a pill. I’ll probably fall asleep while we’re talking,” she says, apologetic.
“I might put you to sleep even without a headache,” I tease.
“Very doubtful.”
“You want me to let you go?”
“No. I like hearing from you.” She yawns now, sleepy.
“I won’t keep you long. Were you in the suite tonight?”
“I was. I enjoyed every second of it,” she says. “How was time with your mom after?”
“It was great. Wish you could have had dinner with us.”
“That would have been nice,” she says with a soft sigh.
“Maybe someday,” I say with hope.
“Yeah?” Her pitch rises too.
I’m this close to saying I’m falling for you. But with her starting to fade, now isn’t the time. “I should let you sleep.”
“Night, Drew,” she says.
“Night, Brooke,” I say.
But when I end the call, I’m not tired. I’m amped up with thoughts of her, and us, and our deal.
The deal I need to make good on. I pace in front of the window, staring at the dark sky, thinking.
What makes Brooke tick in bed? Dirty words. They’re guaranteed to get her out of her head.
That gives me an idea.
What I need is a sex hack.
17
THE PROOF IS IN THE WHAC-A-MOLE
Drew
Silas taunts me ferociously on Tuesday at the High Score Arcade in Santa Monica. “Prepare to lose once again, Drew!”
The seventh grade baseball player I’ve been battling in Whac-A-Mole is a tough competitor.
“Don’t count me out yet.” I lift the mallet and send a wooden mole into oblivion.
“Nope. You can’t catch up,” Silas says fiercely as I chase the vicious little moles in the game.
The tenacious kid has soundly whipped my ass in every game of Whac-A-Mole tonight. His baseball team was a rag tag bunch of middle schoolers with old equipment playing on overgrown fields until the Mercenaries helped out through Every Kid, an organization that helps fund sports for underprivileged youth.
As my round ends in another loss, I lift my hand. “Silas, you are the king of Whac-A-Mole,” I say, knocking fists with the young warrior. “Feel free to brag to all your teammates that you kicked my butt at Whac-A-Mole. Can you do that, my man?”
He beams. “I can do that. Can you win again this weekend against the San Francisco Hawks?”
I laugh, then clap him on the shoulder. “I’ll do my best.”
He heads off to join his buddies, and I return to the arcade game for a quick solo round.
As I clobber a mole, someone says in a pretty and familiar voice, “Careful. I hear we might ban Whac-A-Mole next.”
Slamming the padded hammer down on the wooden weasel, I answer with a grin. “The GM runs a tight ship,” I say as the next mole submits to my speed with the hammer.
“But Skee-Ball is still safe,” Brooke says.
“Whew. I was worried,” I say, then sneak a glance at her.
Damn. Brooke is so pretty. Her tight red dress hits above her knees, and she looks good enough to eat.
All I want to do is kiss her. Go home with her. Take her out to breakfast and make her mine.
And just like that, I know tonight’s the night to tell her.
A dopey grin spreads on my face. The moles pop up and I don’t bother to hit them.
“I thought you were a Whac-A-Mole pro,” she teases as she eyes the game board.