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)
I sank into the seat next to Jaxson, beaming at him with a mischievous smile.
“Hi,” I said.
And this time I was close enough to see him gulp. “Hi.”
God, that voice.
He spoke in a baritone, one I felt like an earthquake in the very foundation of who I was. That one word had rumbled through his chest, deep and smooth and subtly confident. If hockey ever failed him, he’d have a career in commercial voiceover.
I’d buy anything he was selling if he told me I was a good girl afterward.
One of the players tapped me on the shoulder, handing me a beer, which I chugged in one of my favorite party tricks to the roar of the back half of the bus.
I’d made it my mission in college to learn how to shotgun a beer better than any guy who challenged me. To be honest, that was about my only mission in college. I’d never been the academic type. But the frat parties and long nights on the town with my fake ID in hand had turned out useful.
It was fun to surprise people when they saw you as just a petite little thing.
I wiped the suds from my lips with the back of my arm when I turned back to Jaxson, and my smile climbed as his eyes raked slowly over me. He didn’t do it as unabashedly as he had that first time on the tarmac, though.
This time, it was like it was against his own will, like I was something he shouldn’t look at but couldn’t help himself.
Kind of like a car wreck.
Which was what I felt like most of the time, if I was being honest.
“You shouldn’t look at me like that,” I said.
A muscle in his jaw tightened, his eyes flicking up to meet mine.
“I have a boyfriend. Well,” I amended, tapping my chin as I took another beer from someone who offered it. I cracked the top and sipped from this one rather than downing it, sitting back in the seat and crossing my legs. “Technically, we haven’t put a label on anything, but we do very boyfriend-girlfriend things.”
The truth behind that vague and awkward statement was that I’d met Trent while sharing a joint around a campfire in May, and then we’d hooked up in his van. I’d kind of just followed him around like a puppy dog since, mostly because I didn’t exactly know what else to do.
But he didn’t seem to mind having me around, and even though he told me he wasn’t looking for any kind of relationship, he got jealous when he saw other guys try to talk to me. He also showed me public displays of affection, bought me gifts, texted me all day every day, and made plans that included both of us.
Felt very relationship-y to me, but what did I know.
“Trust me — you having a boyfriend is the least of my concerns when it comes to looking at you,” Jaxson said.
I smiled at his honesty. “Ah, scared of my brother, huh?”
“I respect him.”
“Same thing.”
He chuckled, leaning back against the window as he took a pull from his own beer. “This is one of your favorite games to play, isn’t it?” he asked. “Making your brother’s friends fear for their lives.”
“Top five favorite for sure,” I confirmed. “But don’t worry, I think he’s preoccupied enough tonight that he won’t watch you too closely.”
I nodded toward where Vince and Maven were making out at the front of the bus, her straddling his lap, and him doing a piss-poor job of hiding the fact that he had a hand up her dress.
Jaxson laughed a little through his nose before his attention was on me again.
Fuck, he was hot.
Not the kind of hot I was used to, either. I’d been around hockey players my entire life. I knew the kind of hot they were, the swagger they walked with, the long, messy hair and crooked grins and scars in all the right places that made them look just bad enough to get you into trouble.
But Jaxson Brittain was a breed all his own.
His dark brown hair wasn’t long and unruly, but medium length, tamed enough to look like he tried while also being just messy enough to make you want to curl your fingers in the strands and tug.
Every angle of his face was sharp — the slope of his nose, the cut of his jawline, the angle of his cheekbones. He had a face that was almost too pretty for hockey, with scruff lining his upper lip and the span of his jaw.
I wanted to touch that scruff, to feel it under my fingertips and against my neck.
Add in the fact that he had a mouth that did things to you — whether he ever touched you with it or not — and it was maddening. His bottom lip was plump and inviting, the curl of his smirk promising he knew just how to use that mouth, too.