Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 70152 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 351(@200wpm)___ 281(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70152 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 351(@200wpm)___ 281(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
I adjust the volume on my iPod, turning it down a tad. It’s at that moment that I look up and almost choke on my food.
Standing in the entry of the dining room, holding a plate of his own, is Weston. I can’t figure out if he’s some figment of my imagination I’ve conjured up because I can’t stop thinking about him, or if he’s really standing there. I almost rub my eyes in disbelief but stop myself.
Unfortunately, I’m not hallucinating.
Fortunately, I don’t think he sees me yet, so I slouch down and hold my book up in front of my face, hoping to conceal the fact that I’m both chewing and swallowing frantically. Why does this damn book have a young couple holding hands on the cover of it? Curse Jenna and her smut.
I literally have noodles hanging from my mouth, and I can’t suck them in fast enough.
Shit, shit, double shit. This is humiliating.
Well, it’s not like I’ve never been humiliated before. I mean, I could tell you about the one time on April Fool’s Day a few years back when Jenna cut boob holes in the front of my gym shirt. Yes, it was just like Regina George from Mean Girls, but ugh! Never mind. That is so not my point here.
“Hey. Mind if I keep you company?”
Please god let the earth just open up and swallow me whole, I pray, like, as in right freaking now. Seriously.
I look up to see Weston standing there in his masculine glory, staring down at me with expectation in his eyes, one hand holding his dinner and one hand stuffed in the pocket of his black Adidas athletic pants. His hair is wet, presumably from the shower he took after his game.
There is a red gash in his bottom lip that’s obviously new.
Holy shit is it hot.
Stop staring at his lips, Molly. Stop it.
I must hesitate for too long, because those amazing lips hitch up into a small smile and he shrugs. “It’s cool. I didn’t mean to bother you.” He says the words but makes no effort to walk away.
“No, no. It’s fine. You surprised me, that’s all.” I shut the book, slam it down, and push it upside down to the corner of the table. “I usually have the place to myself.”
“Yeah?” That one uttered word has a lilt to it that sends heat racing through parts of my body that have long been dormant. I resist the urge to visibly shiver as I invite him to share my booth.
“Yeah. Here, sit.”
Weston slides into the booth with a grace you wouldn’t expect from a guy his size. Setting his plate down, he unrolls his utensils from the paper napkin and places his fork on the left side of the plate, knife on the right. He shocks me even further by laying the napkin across one knee.
My, my, such good table manners.
He clears his throat then says, “I don’t think we’ve ever really been introduced. I’m Wes.” He’s holding his hand across the table for me to shake, and I stare at it like he intends to shock me with a Taser. Large and calloused, this is the hand of a guy who’s seen his share of hard work.
I unintentionally slide my hand slowly into his palm, sending a ripple of sensations through my body. His hand is steady and warm, and suddenly I’m in no rush to leave.
“I’m Molly.” My voice is soft, just above a whisper.
“Hi, Molly.” His voice is like satin sliding across my skin.
Say my name again, please…just once more…
I don’t think I’ve ever met a boy with a voice this baritone and erotic. Take Bryan Bossner for example. At seventeen years old, his voice still cracks when he’s shouting in gym class. Suddenly, it makes more sense to me why girls always seem to be fawning over Weston McGrath. It’s not because of the hockey, and it’s not because he’s so damn good-looking. Nope. It’s because his voice could charm the pants off a nun.
I mean, if nuns wore pants.
Finally releasing my hand, Weston points at his ears. “What are you listening to?” He is already digging into his pasta, which has steam rising from it.
“Huh? Oh my gosh!” How rude of me! I quickly remove my ear buds and wind them around my iPod, setting them on top of my book.
He chuckles, low and deep in his chest, and I can’t help it—I shiver.
“Cold?”
Oh my god, shoot me now.
“Um, sort of. I left my sweater in the car.” To validate my lie, I rub my hands up and down my arms a few times and say, “Brrr.”
I am such an idiot. The action must have drawn Weston’s attention to my shirt, which is a navy tee bearing the logo of the resort where I work. He raises his eyebrows.