Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 121764 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 609(@200wpm)___ 487(@250wpm)___ 406(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121764 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 609(@200wpm)___ 487(@250wpm)___ 406(@300wpm)
And that’s all it ever was, a few nights max.
She always went back.
Which meant I had to go back, too.
“Let’s play a game,” Grace said, smacking her thighs.
I jolted a bit at the interruption of my thoughts, glancing over just in time to see her tucking the half-eaten bag of worms away. She then sucked the sugar from her fingertips in the most innocent, I do this all the time way.
But all my dirty ass mind saw was those pink lips wrapping around her digits and sucking them clean like it was happening in slow motion.
I tore my eyes away and back to the road, fists whitening a bit where I held the wheel. “Let’s not.”
“Oh, come on,” she pleaded on a pout. Then, she narrowed her eyes on a knowing smile. “It would make me feel better. I was sitting here, getting all sad, thinking about Trent…”
She let out an exaggerated sigh, proving she could be an actress as tears glossed her eyes.
I shook my head. “You are a nuisance.”
“That’s what he said, too,” she said, her voice soft and quiet.
The words felt like a kick to my chest, and when I looked over at her, she was staring out the window, hugging her knees to her chest.
Fuck.
“What game?” I asked.
And the little rascal whipped around with a huge smile, clapping her hands together.
I held the wheel with my left hand so I could reach over and tickle her with the right. “You think you’re so fucking clever, don’t you?”
Grace wiggled out of reach, sticking her tongue out as I put both hands back on the wheel.
“Hmm,” she said, tapping her chin with her fingertip. “Oh! How about the picnic game?”
I cocked a brow at her.
“So basically, I’ll start by saying that I’m going to a picnic. I’ll tell you a few things I’m bringing, and you ask me if you can bring something, too. But you’re trying to figure out the category of what you’re allowed to bring. So, as you ask me if you can bring things, I’ll say yes or no, and you have to put the pieces together to figure out the requirements.”
I blinked. “And you find this fun? Sounds to me like torture equivalent to watching video in a room full of smelly hockey players.”
She waved me off. “Stop being so grumpy. I’ll give you an example. If I said I was going to the picnic and I was bringing strawberries, a tomato, and hot sauce, you’d say…”
“Gross.”
She laughed, swatting my arm. “Come on,” she whined, and then she leaned across the console, her top gapping in a way that made me work a little harder to keep my eyes on the road. Her next words were slower, softer, and laced with intent. “Play with me, Jaxson Brittain.”
I cracked my neck on a slow and controlled exhale, refusing to look at her and see the wicked smile I knew she was wearing.
So much for those boundaries we’d set.
“I’d say… can I bring a red bell pepper?” I ground out.
“And I’d say yes, and you’d say, ‘is it things that are red?’ and I’d say YOU WIN and then it’d be your turn to throw the picnic.”
She sat back down and shimmied her shoulders on a little victory dance, and I just shook my head.
This fucking girl.
In my normal day-to-day life, I was rewarded for being serious. I had to be serious — about hockey, about my team, about my career. I had to be serious when it came to negotiating my contracts, or finding the right trainers to work on my body, or about what food I ate.
My father had instilled that in me from the first time I held a fucking stick.
I didn’t have time for games.
Yet here I was, on a road trip with no final destination, with a girl housing gummy worms and goading me into playing a game meant for children.
And the most unfamiliar feeling was sinking into my bones, lightening my chest, releasing the wrinkle that almost always rested between my brows. It was a foreign feeling, both soothing and anxiety-inducing, like I was enjoying the best meal of my life not knowing I had a fifty percent chance it would give me food poisoning and a night of hell later.
It was the kind of feeling that made you pause, that made you wonder if it meant something.
I didn’t know whether to run from it or straight into its clutches.
An hour of the drive passed easily, Grace telling me what she was bringing to her stupid fucking picnic while I tried to guess what I could bring along. Eventually, I figured out that her category was things that start with s and end with e, and then it was my turn.
I was much less creative, bringing only fruits to my picnic.