Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 80314 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80314 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
“Umm…” I bite my lip, and Aiden turns to face me. “I think I’m just going to stay. It looks like they have it covered.” I take a step back toward my door. Really, the idea of being around so many people is too much for me, especially if they hear I’m the one who helped the kid. I don’t want or need that much attention. “Will you let the officer know where I live if he needs any information?”
Aiden’s gaze pings between me and the group of people down the block a couple of times before he focuses fully on me. “I’ll stick by your side if you’re worried about the attention.”
“No,” I blurt, feeling panicked, because that will for sure not help. I mean, I’m on edge being around him. Add to that the crowd of people, and I might just hyperventilate and pass out. “Sorry, I just mean....” My words taper off when sirens start up, and I look back down the street just in time to catch the ambulance doors closing right after the mom of the little boy gets into the back of it.
When my gaze moves back to Aiden, his expression is soft but filled with concern. “You sure you’re okay?”
“I’m sure.” I nod, and he lifts his chin ever so slightly.
“All right, then I guess I’ll see you around.”
“Yeah,” I lie, then whisper, “Thank you for helping today.”
“For sure.” He tucks his hands into the front pockets of his jeans, then leans back on his heels, looking like he wants to say something, but then he shakes his head. “Later, doll.”
“Later.” I open the door to my house and go inside, shutting it behind me. As I head for my room with plans to get into the shower, I feel like I’m missing something. Like something huge just happened… and that something has nothing to do with saving that little boy.
Chapter 3
Aiden
EXITING MY RENTAL, I strip off the hoodie and carry it with me to the truck. It’s hot—too damn hot. After spending years in London, I’m no longer used to the heat, especially not the heavy, soggy heat of Florida. After grabbing my bag, I head up the sidewalk to the house my friends Troy, Lincoln, and Carlo rented for the week. Before I even reach the door, it’s swung open, and Carlo is there with a grin on his face, holding a soccer ball under his arm.
“Took you long enough,” he greets in his thick Spanish accent.
“Had to wait for my car.” I give him a one-arm hug as I step into the house and look around.
“Nice digs.”
“Only the best for mi amigos.” He tosses the ball that was under his arm toward the couch in the living room, then I watch it bounce off of it and roll across the floor as he takes my duffle. “Your room’s down here.” He leads the way down a hall and pushes open the door at the end.
“Where are the guys?” I ask as he drops my bag on the queen-size bed that is covered with a bright floral bedspread.
“Beach, hanging with the chicks that are staying a few houses over.”
“Nice,” I mutter, because I know it’s what I’m supposed to say, even if I have no fucking desire to hang out with anyone of the opposite sex. Especially when I can’t get the brunette from back home out of my head.
May.
I would think that’s too cute of a name for such a beautiful woman, but it somehow fits her.
“They’re cool, and none of them know who we are, so that’s even better.”
I catch his smirk and roll my eyes. In London, or really anywhere in Europe and the rest of the world, people would stop us on the street, in the middle of dinner, or just walking down the sidewalk to tell us they either hated our guts or how much they loved us. In the US, that’s never really been an issue. Soccer overseas is like American football here; it’s a lifestyle. Maybe one day it will be as popular here in the US, but right now, it’s not. Not that that shit matters anymore—my soccer career is over.
“Are you ready to hit the sand?”
“Yep.” I kick off my shoes and take off my shirt.
“I see your mama’s been feeding you well since you’ve been home.” He pats my stomach as I walk past him.
“You know my mom doesn’t cook. This body is built on takeout.” I run my hand over my stomach that is still flat, just not as contoured as it used to be when I was playing ball every day.
“How are your parents?”
“All right.” I shrug. I didn’t come here this weekend to talk about how fucked up my family is; I came to get away for a few days and pretend like everything in my life is peachy.