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 knew it!” He turned back to a group gathered at the other end of the bar. “It is him!”
Their faces all lit up as they ambled closer, and I internally groaned, all while putting on my best fake smile. I could learn a lesson or two from Grace in that department.
“It is me,” I confirmed.
“Man, you’re a fucking beast,” the guy said, clapping me hard on the shoulders as if we were family. “I used to watch you even when you played for the Assassins.”
“Appreciate it, man,” I said, clapping his shoulder in return. I was just about to tell him to kindly fuck off when he waved his friends closer.
“Can we take a pic?”
He asked, but by the way they were all crowding in, I knew it wasn’t a question I could say no to.
“Sure,” I said, already standing, but it was at the same time Grace said, “Tell you what.”
Every head swiveled in her direction, as if they’d just noticed she was there. How they managed that was a magic I wanted to learn how to harness, because I was nothing but aware of that woman any time she was near.
“If you can beat me at a game of quarters,” she said, standing on the footrest of her stool long enough to swipe a shot glass from behind the bar. She slid it between me and the fan, arching a brow. “You can have a picture and an autograph. But, if you lose, then you have to pull up the Ospreys website and buy a Jaxson Brittain jersey right here at the bar.”
Grace dug a quarter from her clutch next, flipping it between her fingers with a dare in her eyes that was fixed on the guy beside me. I had to bite back a smile as I turned to face him again, watching as confusion bent his brows, his gaze flicking from me to her and back again.
She was like a little bulldog when it came to me. I’d seen it earlier when she took a picture for a couple of fans then, too. She’d glared at anyone else who tried to come close, and now here she was again, doing what she could to protect my peace.
Fuck, that turned me on in a way not even slow grinding with her in a crowded Austin bar had.
When I just cocked a brow at the man — not jumping in to say it was fine and I’d take the pic regardless — he shrugged, looking back at his friends, and then at Grace.
“You’re on.”
She grinned like the Cheshire Cat. “Fabulous. Ladies first,” she added, handing the quarter to him.
His friends chuckled a bit at that, the circle thickening around us. I heard someone call the guy Ben, so I assumed that was his name. And Ben lined up his shot, quarter balanced between his thumb and forefinger, before he slammed it on the bar in an attempt to make it bounce into the glass.
He missed.
His friends razzed him, and Grace slid the quarter toward her with a little smile. She framed it in her fingertips just like he had, and then closed one eye, her tongue sticking out as she bobbed her hand in the air.
One, two, three…
And the fourth time, she slapped the quarter down against the bar, and it popped up in a perfect arch before sailing into the shot glass with a satisfying tink.
The little crowd around us reacted in a mixture of cheers and groans, but Ben wasn’t deterred. He fished the quarter out, pulling up a seat at the bar with determination etched in his brows.
“Best two out of three?” he asked.
Grace shrugged. “Sure.”
Then, she winked at me, and the devilish smile she wore almost made me feel sorry for the guy.
Almost.
Little Nova
Jaxson
Watching Grace mop the floor with grown man after grown man who challenged her at quarters was better than being front row at game seven in the Stanley Cup playoffs.
It was probably also more profitable, considering the amount of jerseys the Ospreys had sold tonight thanks to her.
Ben lost his best two out of three in less than sixty seconds, and then his friend was shoving him out of the way saying, “Let me try.”
He lost just as quickly.
Soon, we had the attention of the entire second floor — including the bartenders, who watched from behind the bar with folded arms and smirks on their faces. Other than warning us not to scratch the bar top, they seemed content with the entertainment, too.
Grace slammed quarter after quarter into that shot glass, goading her opponents when they failed to challenge her. She even started asking the bartender for shots, claiming that she’d have to get her own ass drunk since no one could beat her.
It was fucking hilarious.
And somehow, stupidly hot.
It wasn’t even the way the strap of her dress kept sliding down over her shoulder, or how her tits bounced a little in that thin material every time she threw the quarter down. It wasn’t the winks she’d throw at the guys before handing their asses to them, or the way her lips caressed the shot glass every time she decided to get a little more drunk.