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 turn in. The whole driveway is blacktop, and there are lampposts lining the road about every seventy-five feet. It’s only early October, but someone has already tied corn stalks to the black columns in preparation for fall, and a few of them have large pumpkins sitting next to them on the ground. I pull up to the turnaround and sit facing a large red vinyl Wisconsin Badgers flag that’s flapping in the breeze off the basketball pole next to the garage. Next to that hangs another red flag with a large number 19 on it.
I reach forward and turn the volume down on the radio then cut my engine. I give my legs and back a good stretch before I open the door, then stretch again once my feet hit the ground.
The walk up to Molly’s front door isn’t long, but by the time I reach it, my palms are good and sweaty. I feel like I’ve just skated a few practice laps in the heat. Why am I so damn nervous? My hands are fidgety, so I shove them inside my pockets.
Then I take them out.
Crap. What do I do while I’m standing here? I bounce a few times on the balls of my feet and loosen my shoulders like I’m preparing for a mixed martial arts fight. Then I stop, because shit, if someone’s watching from a window, they probably think I look like a complete jackass out here.
I wipe my hands on my jeans and raise my fist to knock.
Almost immediately, a dog starts barking wildly inside the house, and I can hear someone shouting for it to ‘go lay down.’
The door opens.
A woman who is so obviously Molly’s mom looks back at me with a pleasant smile on her face, and wow does she look like her daughter. She is on the taller side and slender, with the same brownish red hair as Molly’s. She even has freckles on the bridge of her nose, too. She’s very pretty—not as pretty as Molly, obviously, but still…I would put her at MILF status for sure.
“Weston, I presume?” she asks casually. That small smile still pinned to her lips, Mrs. Wakefield assesses me, her eyes taking me in from head to toe until I can feel her staring holes into my tattoo-covered arm. I resist the instinct to cross my arms. Still, her face remains impassive, and if the sight of my tats offends her, she’s hiding it well.
Cool.
“Yes ma’am, pleased to meet you.” I stick my hand out for her to shake, which she does, and I pray to God it isn’t clammy. Damn, maybe I should have wiped them on my jeans again. “Is Molly home?”
Her mom chuckles softly, giving me another once over and shaking her head from side to side as if she can’t believe I’m standing in her foyer. “As if she’d miss this. Come on in.” She motions me in with her hand, and the door widens as she steps aside to let me in.
“Thanks.” I don’t know what else to say. “Those UW flags outside are great.”
“Ah, yes, the flags. Mr. Wakefield had those made when Matthew, our son, signed his letter of intent to play for Madison a few years ago, but let’s not talk about him. I hear you’re a player yourself.”
Player myself…? Oh! She means I’m a hockey player, not that I play girls. “Yes ma’am. I’m a forward.”
“We haven’t been to any of the games at the high school lately, but we hear you’re very good. Maybe we’ll have to come cheer you on. Mr. Wakefield loves hockey, as you’ve probably guessed.”
“Yes ma’am.” Shit, I sound like a freaking idiot. “Sorry I keep repeating myself. I don’t do this very often.” Mrs. Wakefield cocks her head and smiles like she’s talking to a child.
“Don’t tell me you’re nervous?”
“You have no idea.”
“Well, I won’t torture you any longer. I’ll go let Molly know you’re here, even though I’m sure she’s listening from upstairs.” She pats me on the arm.
“Thank you, Mrs.Wakefield,” I say as she starts walking up the beige carpeted stairs. Then, as if she just can’t help herself, she turns back and glances at me standing in her foyer. I swear she mumbles, Holy crap, Molly, but it’s either my ego messing with my head or a case of nerves.
Upstairs, some faint chatter is soon followed by footsteps padding down the hallway, and my senses go on alert as Molly rounds the corner.
Barefoot, she is dangling a pair of shoes by her index finger.
I blink.
Coming down the stairs, Molly looks incredible in her tight-ass skinny jeans. They’re dark, ending mid-calf, and damn if even her ankles are sexy. She shoots me a shy smile and flips her long wavy hair. Her fitted top is white and strapless, setting off her golden skin and flaring out at the bottom. Around her waist is a thin belt. Molly’s smooth shoulders and arms are completely bare, and I try hard—I really do—but I can’t stop myself from checking out her cleavage.