Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 62620 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 313(@200wpm)___ 250(@250wpm)___ 209(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62620 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 313(@200wpm)___ 250(@250wpm)___ 209(@300wpm)
As I swing into the bowling alley parking lot, seconds before a bolt of lightning splits the sky, followed by a crash of thunder loud enough to make my car door rattle, I wonder why he’s been keeping his new job a secret.
Why didn’t he tell me that he’ll be leaving Furry Friends in a month and relocating to Minneapolis? I thought we were buddies. Or at least close enough that he’d want to share his good news with me over coffee.
Sure, we got on each other’s last nerve when I first came back to town this past summer, but recently, we’ve been getting along really well. We have lunch together almost every weekday, hit happy hour at his cousin’s bar on Fridays, and just last week, he offered to teach me to ride a motorcycle.
He even invited me to join him and his friends at the bowling alley tonight!
If only I’d said yes.
If only I’d spent the night hurling balls into the gutter instead of drinking tequila shots with my friend Nora while dog sitting at Barrett’s house. If I’d remained in Christian’s presence, I never would have said the things I said in that message. Even if I’d had a beer or two, I would have kept things professional.
Partly because I am a professional.
And partly because when we’re face-to-face, Christian…scares me a little.
Not in a “he’s a bad guy” kind of way. More in a “this man is way more than I can handle, and if I ever ended up in bed with him, he would probably break my heart and my vagina” kind of way. Despite the jolt of attraction that dances through my nerve endings every time Christian McGuire slides his electric blue eyes my way, we’d be a disaster as anything more than friends.
I’m a planner, a strategizer, and Christian breezes through life by the seat of his pants. I’ve never kissed a boy I didn’t love, and Christian openly tells women he doesn’t intend to get emotionally attached.
I’m a virgin and Christian is a sex god of epic proportions who occasionally slips on a man thong and does a stripper routine for bachelorettes in need in our small, male-stripper-free town.
I tease him about the “banana hammock” pictures and video I found on social media all the time, but the truth is that I look at them far more often than I’d like to admit. And when I’m looking at them, I don’t giggle or think how ridiculous he looks whipping off a cheap cop costume to reveal his yellow speedo.
I think about his powerful legs, washboard abs, and the sexy way he moves. I think about how much I want to run my fingertips over his rounded pecs, with the dusting of golden hair on top. I think about how I’d like him to tie me to his bedpost with his fuzzy handcuffs and spank me for breaking whatever laws stripper cops are in charge of enforcing.
The truth is, I have a crush on Christian. Not an emotional crush, just an “I’d like to get him naked and see if sex is as much fun as everyone acts like it is” crush.
A sex crush.
A very intense, very steamy, very ill-advised sex crush that, until tonight, I was doing a decent job of keeping under wraps.
And I can still keep it that way. All I have to do is get to his cell before he checks his messages and Christian will never know I want him to boss me around in bed.
Pulling my jacket tighter across my chest and wishing I’d taken the time to put on something other than the t-shirt and sweatpants I threw on after my shower, I grab my keys and dash out into the pounding rain.
It’s coming down so hard that by the time I make it through the front door to the bowling alley, I’m soaked through.
I stop on the mat just inside the door, gasping for air and swiping water from my face, but I only hesitate for a moment.
The reception counter is empty and none of the people inside the alley seem to have noticed my soggy entrance. If I move fast, I can get inside without being spotted.
Bending low to hide as much of myself behind the reception area as possible, I circle around to the right, darting into the ladies’ room by the row of vintage video game machines just as a boy in a Bad Dog Bowling polo shirt slides back behind the counter.
I quickly wring my hair out in the sink and drag a paper towel across my face, but I don’t waste much time worrying about the rest of myself. Nothing I can do with paper towels is going to make me look less like a deranged, half-drowned rat who runs around town in her pajamas. My only hope of avoiding further shame is to get out of here before I’m seen by anyone I know.