Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 94579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 378(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 378(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
It’s a short jaunt, and then he crouches, plucking the empty water bottle out of my hand, still squatting when he lobs it. Tosses the bottle so it’s soaring in an arch to the garbage. Hits the back of the can, bounces, and disappears inside with a swoosh.
Knees bent, Rowdy squats in front of me, getting in nice and close, a mere three inches from my face, warm breath blowing on my lips.
All his features are shadowed by the dark.
“Promise not to tell?” His deep voice is a conspiratorial whisper.
“Is it a secret?”
He shakes his head. No.
I swallow the lump in my throat, giving him a cheeky, “It’s not all over the internet?”
This time he nods, his white teeth playing peekaboo through his lips. “Yeah—it is all over the internet, but it appears you’re the only one who hasn’t looked it up.”
“I’m looking for it now.”
“I can see that.”
And he can, so up close and personal, breath fanning against my skin. I can smell the beer he had earlier, and the cold pre-winter air clinging to his skin.
“It’s Sterling.”
“Sterling,” I say back breathlessly, unable to stop myself.
I repeat it to myself, romanticizing the sound of it.
Sterling. Yes. He looks like a Sterling.
It’s a strong, masculine name. Moody, and kind of dreamy, the name of the hero in a romance novel.
Sexy.
Meant for low moans and breathless sighs in the bedroom.
Rawr.
“Is that what you want me to call you?”
“You don’t have to.” Unless you want to. He doesn’t speak that last part out loud, but somehow, I know that’s what he means.
I squirm on the ground as he remains crouched in front of me, legs parted, hands hanging between his thighs, balancing on his haunches.
Blood rushes through every vein in my body, nerves vibrating, when he tucks a knuckle under my chin to lift my gaze and caresses the side of my jaw with his giant thumb.
“What are you doing?” I whisper.
“I don’t know.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch sight of the wooden swing at the end of the porch swaying in the gentle breeze. Back and forth, creaking. It’s old, suspended by rickety, rusty chains, the paint having worn off many years ago and never been refinished.
I break the moment, damned if I don’t because my nerves are freaking the frack out, unprepared for this heated moment.
“W-Want to help me up?” My voice quivers. “I’m going to hop on the swing.”
Rowdy rises, extending his large, open palm toward me, and before taking it, I study the pads of his fingers: rough, callused, and sturdy.
The hands of someone who works hard, who pushes.
I slide my hand across the sensitive skin there, hooking my thumb around his, and he pulls with an undemanding tug until I’m standing on two feet.
Sizzle. Zing.
I shiver. “Thanks.”
He silently stares down at our clasped palms. Squeezes my petite palm in his mammoth one, and I note the contrast in our skin. Dark and light. Rough and soft.
Then, he pulls me to the swing.
Together, we plop down, my feet just barely touching the ground, and with some effort, I give it a nudge with the toe of my brown boot.
“Where are you from?” I’m insatiably curious about him.
“Florida.”
“Florida!” I almost shout. The Atlantic Ocean. Sand. Sun.
Sea life.
Coral and clownfish.
I give him a shy glance, brushing back a lock of hair. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to yell.”
“Right, I get it.” He laces our fingers together and I want to die. “You and your ocean fixation. If you said you grew up at Dodger Stadium, I’d have yelled, too.”
Cute.
I bite back a smile, teeth tugging on my bottom lip, watching as my feet hit the floorboards, giving the swing yet another boost.
“What about you? Where are you from?” he asks in kind, shooting me a sidelong glance, examining my profile. I can feel him skimming the side of my face, so I force my eyes straight ahead, cheeks burning.
“I’m from here, about two and a half hours north. I guess that makes me local?”
Here is Iowa. Long stretches of highway and soybean fields. Corn.
Landlocked.
“Why didn’t you stay in Florida?” I ask the night sky, searching out the stars among clusters of gray clouds. “Isn’t their baseball program decent?”
Better than decent, it’s phenomenal. I’ve heard my dad wax poetic about it a dozen times, when my family expected me to attend FSU.
“Tallahasse? Yeah, they’re decent.” He’s being modest; the university is top five for baseball in the nation. “But they didn’t offer me enough to play there.”
“What part of Florida are you from?”
“Tallahasse.” He chuckles ruefully. It’s throaty and deep, so deep and sensual, I’m grateful for the shadows shielding the heat creeping up my cheeks and the noises from inside the house drowning out the sound of my beating heart.
“You wanted to get the hell out of there, huh?”