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)
But enough about me. There’s still so much I want to know about her. “Do you do sports law? My agent is a lawyer, and he’s pretty badass. I could see you wearing a cape and flying in to save clients from scuffles, like you did with a dude in distress in the water.”
“My job is not nearly as exciting as being an agent or a quarterback. I’m an attorney for the Los Angeles Bandits,” she says, naming the city’s baseball team. “I work on vendor contracts.”
“I love baseball. It’s the second-best sport, and those guys are having a great season,” I say, digging into the dish for another bite.
“They are. We’re hosting the All-Star Game next season, so that’s keeping me busy, working on deals in advance of that.”
We chat a bit more about baseball as we finish the meal. I help her clean up, and when we’re done, I reach for her hand to pull her close. “That was amazing. Let’s do this again—the beach, the drinks, the sex, the meal...”
“But no angry oars next time,” she says.
“I’ll do my best to avoid them,” I say.
She purses her lips like she’s holding back a smile. “I had the worst week. This has been…such an unexpectedly nice end to it.”
“Good. Then I’m thinking tacos and ice cream and you holding me to my deal. How’s Thursday night?”
“I’m in. For all of it,” she says.
It’s a promise—another time. Another night.
“There’s a great place about a mile from here. Tacos Are Life.” I grab my phone from my back pocket. Takes my text app longer than usual to open, but when it does, I say, “Give me your number.”
“Yes, sir.” She snags her own phone from the kitchen counter and opens her texts. “Hmm. I’ll enter you as My O Dealer.”
Ooh. She’s a fun one to keep up with. “I’ll have to enter you as…IOU.”
She laughs. “Yes. You do, Drew.”
I send her a message on the spot. Thursday night. Tacos Are Life. Seven-thirty. It’s a deal.
She writes back with I can’t wait…for the tacos.
With a kiss goodbye, I take off, counting the hours until the end of the week.
At sunrise the next morning, I’m peeling off miles of the beach on fleet feet, powered by the morning-after mojo of a sexy night and the promise of another one soon.
Carter keeps pace with me. At this hour, we pretty much have the beach to ourselves, the lapping of the waves the soundtrack to our workout.
“This is the best run I’ve had in ages,” I say.
“You got laid last night,” my college friend observes.
I crack up then meet his gaze. “That obvious?”
He gives an I-know-you-so-well nod. “The only thing that makes a man this chipper about running is sex. Plus, you were a surly mofo yesterday when you picked up my truck. I don’t think the waves could namaste you like a hot date would. Was she a swipe right?”
“No!” I say, punching his arm. I’m still kind of amazed I met a fantastic woman randomly. “Can you believe I met her IRL?”
He snarls. “Dude. You’re making me jelly. That still happens?”
“Evidently. I know you’re the king of the dating apps and all, but I am all for meeting a woman without the smoke and mirrors of the Internet,” I say.
Carter is easy to talk to about dating. He not only loves it, but he’s a spokesperson for romance. His partnership with the Date Night app is a perfect match.
“So I was paddle boarding,” I begin, then I tell him the rest of the story of meeting Brooke, ending with, “And I’m going to see her Thursday.”
“You suck,” he mutters.
I give a smug smile. After Jenna, I’m going to take this piece of good-dating luck and clutch it tight. “I know.”
“Seriously. You meeting a woman on the beach is like finding a Benjamin in the dryer,” he says, then glances at his digital watch. He jerks his gaze back in the direction of Santa Monica.
I wheel around, and we start the return leg of our roundtrip jog.
“Are you spending a lot of time looking in laundry machines for extra dough, Carter? If you need a loan, just tell me.”
He flips me the bird. “Why do I even hang around with you when I’m in LA? You walk ass-backward into great sex and then, without any pain or suffering, land a date with a woman you like.”
“Aww, tell me how hard your life is. Is it still rough after winning the Super Bowl?”
He hums, a long, satisfied sound, then he raises his finger and scratches his jaw, showing off one of his fat rings. “Come to think of it, that was a sweet end to this season. An encore,” he says.
Some guys have all the football luck.
“There. So I will enjoy my dating luck, while I try to figure out what the fuck is going on with my football team. The general manager has been cutting guys left and right. Practice yesterday was miserable. No one knows what kind of shake-ups there could be before the season kickoff. And it starts soon.”