Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 104745 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 524(@200wpm)___ 419(@250wpm)___ 349(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104745 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 524(@200wpm)___ 419(@250wpm)___ 349(@300wpm)
The date is better than I expected. Then again, my expectations were low; I assumed a guy like Drew would be shallow and boring, doing mostly grunting and chugging beer?
Why would I have thought that?
Stereotypes, that’s why.
I agreed to come on this date as a lark and was pleasantly surprised.
Drew is funny.
Charismatic.
Not the pompous blowhard I thought he would be, though he is certainly conceited much of the time.
He was attentive, actively listening when I spoke. Smiled and laughed in all the right places.
When we walk outside and stand at the curb, he asks if he can drive me home, citing the pickup truck parked across the street.
His hands are stuffed in his pockets, and he’s glancing down at me, the air cooler now than it was when we arrived.
I shiver.
“Let’s get you out of the cold.”
He takes my hand as we cross the street; I look down at it while we’re walking, almost tripping over the pavement. All I can think is: Drew Colter is holding my hand.
Drew Colter is holding my hand.
The thought plays on a loop in my mind, and I’m distracted by his reputation—not that I know anything about his personal life. Never would I ever have thought I’d be going on a date with a semi-famous athlete and walking away happy.
I’m holding a guy’s hand.
It’s strange—I’m not used to it. Even when I was dating someone, I don’t remember holding his hand? Do I even know how this works?
Drew opens the passenger side door for me, and I hop into the cab, glancing around its interior so I’m not caught watching him walk in front of the headlights. There is a Mountain Dew in the cup holder. A gym bag on the back seat. Football cleats on the floor at my feet.
It's not messy, but it’s also not neat and tidy.
It smells like sweaty gym socks and dirt; but then when Drew climbs in, it smells like him. Masculine—like he’d taken a shower earlier. Fresh. Outdoorsy.
A bit minty.
Drew smiles as he starts the truck, asking me directions, chatting aimlessly as he turns left. Right.
Until we’re in front of my tiny house.
Because I have no idea what to do with myself—make small talk in the dark truck where it already feels too intimate, or climb out—I leave him sitting there a few awkward seconds and remove myself from the vehicle.
I can see him wondering what I’m about to do before he unfolds his big body from behind the steering wheel and follows me up the sidewalk to the house, slowly lumbering to where I stand.
“Thanks for comin’ out with me tonight.” His deep voice rumbles low in a different tone than he used earlier in the evening.
Drew seems shy all of a sudden, and unsure of himself, unlike the guy back at the restaurant slash bar. First he jams his hands inside his pockets, then he takes them out, then he jams them back in.
He isn’t sure what to do with himself but neither do I so that makes us evenly matched.
For now anyway.
I wonder what he’s thinking; what’s going on in his head, not that I’m going to ask him. Guys hate when you do that, don’t they? Ask them what they’re thinking?
If I had keys in my hand, I would be fidgeting with them. If I had a ponytail, I’d be nervously twirling it.
“Thanks for the date. It was nice,” I finally tell him, going up on tippy-toes so I can hug him. Wrapping my arms around his broad shoulders, my boobs press against his chest; I’m immediately aware of how warm he is. His hard muscles. The breath on the top of my head.
Slowly, his arms wrap around me, too—around my waist—but only for a moment or two before they reach up and…
Cup my jawline.
Drew Colter bends, leaning in, tilting his head.
Our lips hover inches apart.
Linger.
What in the world is going on?
Is he going to kiss me? Is he going to stand here breathing on me? Is he going to make a move?
Why would he lean in if he wasn’t going to—
Our lips touch, softly at first, as if he were waiting for me to smack him across the face or tell him to stop.
Oh.
Oh shit…
Drew’s hands are on my face. Then caressing their way down my shoulders. My back.
Spine.
His giant palms stop just shy of my ass, pulling me in, our tongues mingling in the most delicious, unexpected, sublime way.
If I weren’t on my tiptoes, my toes might be curling inside my shoes.
Drew ends the kiss first, pulling back, hands around my upper arms.
“Shit,” he curses. “I shouldn’t have done that.”
My fingers are touching my mouth where his lips just were.
“Shouldn’t have?”
“No.” He rakes one of his massive hands through his hair. “I’m sorry.”
Sorry?
He’s sorry?! What the actual…
“Wow. You don’t have to apologize.” Never have I ever had a guy apologize for kissing me. It’s the most annoying thing I’ve ever had the misfortune to hear.