Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 94687 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94687 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
I smiled. “I’ll try.”
“All right, I guess I’ll go back and tell my wife she was wrong. I love doing that. Good seeing you, son. Don’t disappear so long.” Virgil patted Tyler’s shoulder and shuffled back to his table.
When we were seated again, Tyler dug into his breakfast.
“He seems like quite a character,” I said.
“He is.”
“Think you’ll go over to the high school like he asked?”
“Nah. They don’t want me over there.”
“I thought you missed baseball.”
“I do.” He picked up a slice of bacon and tore a piece off with his teeth.
“And you aren’t sure what the next move should be.”
He gave me his best menacing glare as he chewed.
“You don’t think you have something valuable to offer the next generation of players?”
“I know I do.” He quirked a brow at me. “I never said I wouldn’t be good at it.”
“So what are you afraid of?” I pressed.
“I’m not afraid of anything.”
I said nothing, just picked up my coffee cup and took a sip.
He rolled his eyes. “I’ve decided. You are officially worse than my sister.”
“At what?”
“Pushing my buttons.”
“Does that mean you’ll stop by the school before you leave?”
“If I do, will you stop trying to boss me around?”
I grinned and picked up my cinnamon roll. “I’ll consider it.”
Nine
Tyler
After breakfast, I dropped April off at Cloverleigh Farms and headed back to my hotel to get in a workout at the gym. It was still raining, and I wondered if Sadie was going to panic about that. April had been fretting on the ride back, checking the radar app on her phone with her bottom lip caught between her teeth.
I wanted to bite that lip too.
I hadn’t thought anything could be more difficult than keeping my hands off April in the car last night, but watching her lick icing off her fingers this morning made me want to flip the table between us, throw her legs over my shoulders, and bury my face between her thighs.
Probably not the kind of behavior the crowd at Coffee Darling was used to, but hey, it would have been fun.
I was hoping a good hard weight session and some serious inclines on the treadmill would help me work off some of the sexual tension, but they didn’t. I kept thinking about her while I worked out, imagining how she’d taste. Sweet, no doubt—like that cherry ice cream last night. But she’d be warm, not cool.
I’d go slow at first—I bet she liked it like that—so slow I’d drive her crazy. She’d moan and she’d sigh and she’d plead—Tyler. Just like that. Don’t stop. And she’d put her hands in my hair and dig her heels into my back, and I wouldn’t stop until I made her come.
Then—I had all the details worked out because I’d spent a fair amount of time last night jerking off to them—then, I’d move up her body and slide my cock into her while she was still wet and hot and murmuring softly. Yes, she’d say. Fuck me, Tyler. You’re so big. You’re so good. You’re the best I’ve ever had.
Suddenly I heard myself groan out loud, and I quickly turned it into a cough so the other two people in the gym wouldn’t think I was a fucking weirdo.
But Jesus. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been unable to get a woman out of my head. Was it because she was so completely off limits? Did I just want what I couldn’t have? Was it because she reminded me of the me I used to be, and actually gave me back some of that feeling? Or was she just gorgeous and sexy and totally my type? I was a man, not a machine—a man in the middle of a tragic dry spell. Why wouldn’t I find her tempting?
After I showered and dressed, I texted Sadie and asked her if she wanted to have lunch with me. I needed a distraction. She replied that she had to run a few errands downtown, but she’d meet me afterward, and gave me the name of a diner on Main Street.
I was sitting at the table waiting for her when I heard a voice.
“Excuse me. Tyler Shaw?”
I looked up and saw a young woman standing beside my table with a notepad and pen in her hand—a reporter. I’d learned to recognize them. “No,” I told her.
She laughed like I’d said something really clever and tossed her Barbie hair. “My name is Bethany Bloomstar, I’m a local reporter for—”
“I’m not interested.” I gave her the menacing glare.
“I was hoping to ask you a few questions.”
“I know what you were hoping.” I’d dealt with these people day in and day out in San Diego. “And I have nothing to say to you.”
“Well, we’re doing a story on you, and we’d like to give you an opportunity to comment. Any idea what caused your mental breakdown?”