Total pages in book: 160
Estimated words: 155798 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 779(@200wpm)___ 623(@250wpm)___ 519(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 155798 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 779(@200wpm)___ 623(@250wpm)___ 519(@300wpm)
“I think that’d be perfect,” Brett said.
“I know the owner. I’ll give them a call ahead.”
“Thank you.”
The divider went up after that, and it was just Brett Broudou and me in the backseat.
And my horniness.
“I know who you are, you know.”
We were still in the back of the SUV. Brett had been looking out the window, letting me sit with silence, which I was grateful for. That’s the kind of person I am, and it was like he could sense that and give me what I needed.
Major points there, on top of everything else about him.
I swallowed over a nervous knot and picked at my seatbelt with my fingers. “The football you. Your career. I know all your stats. I know who scouted you for Cal U, that you never played in high school. I know all of that. I just felt like you should know since you’ve made your interest known. You know, your interest in maybe seeing me naked.” I rushed on, ignoring how he’d gone still after that last statement. “I’m a football person. It’s something I like to watch.”
He remained quiet, an eyebrow raised.
I frowned. “I don’t know what that look is for. I’m putting my cards on the table.”
“I don’t think it’s fair.”
I frowned again. “What?”
“You know all about my career, and I know almost nothing about you.” He grinned. “Except that you love chickens and also Sylvia Rivera, who I will learn everything about now that you’ve gotten me intrigued.”
I perked up. “I can tell you all about her.”
He leaned toward me, across the seat. “I’d like to know about you.”
I slumped down. “Well, that’s the problem.”
“What do you mean?”
I shook my head, my tongue feeling heavy. What was there to say about me? Trust issues galore? Baggage to the excess? “The chickens are kinda my selling point,” I admitted.
His head leaned back, and he laughed.
I never would’ve expected that response, and I was fascinated by the sound of it, wanting to hear it more, hear it often, and let it settle over me like a warm blanket—on a cold night, not a warm night. That’s an important difference.
“Do it again,” I breathed.
He stopped. “What?”
“Laugh. It sounds amazing. Do it again.”
He didn’t, but he did give me a rueful grin. “I’m not a laugh-on-command type of guy.”
“You should be. You could make millions on Cameo.”
His next laugh was abrupt, as if it was out before he knew it, surprising himself.
I grinned. “I’m telling you, millions. Not that you need more millions. You’re one of the best defensive ends in the business. You and Chase Hart, but you have longevity. He won’t be where you are at your age.”
“Thanks.”
“Not that you’re old. You’re not, but for football and for your position, you’ve lasted a long time. The average is a little over three years. For linemen, it’s just slightly longer. Unless you’re a first-round pick, which you were. Then the average is nine years, so you’ve exceeded that by three years and counting.” I noticed a peculiar look on his face and stopped. “What?”
His voice was soft, just as the vehicle came to a stop. “You love female icons. You love chickens. You just rattled off stats that a normal person would not know without looking them up, and you sit here and say ‘what’ like you have no idea how you’re wrapping this entire package up for me.” His eyes went hard. Cold.
Shivers went down my spine.
His tone was deep, a warning. “The tripping? It was a nice meet-cute. The fanboys? I can’t decide if they were a plant or not. They seemed real, but all of this? You stepped too far over the line. Here’s something you missed in your research. I grew up with criminals, but I must be losing my touch. It took this long for me to spot the con.”
The door opened, and Brett got out.
I was too stunned to move.
He turned to the driver. “I’ll find my own way home. Please take Miss Harm back to her vehicle.”
What?
It felt like he’d calmly walked up to me, stone-faced, lifted his leg, and kicked me deftly in the sternum.
Again. What?
3
BILLIE
“Pssst, Billie!” Lo fake whispered, laughing as she climbed into my bed with me. The whole thing rocked from side to side and she landed against my hip, still laughing. “You’re famous! And not because of your past, but because you’re gorgeous and who knew the hotness Brett Broudou had hiding under those pads and helmet. Wowza, the second clip is giving me steam factor.”
I rolled over. “What second clip?”
The first one, where I tripped, was still trending. I was pretending it hadn’t happened, which was easy because none of my clients knew my real name and I barely went out. My plan was to hide at my place, continue working, and take care of the chickens. In a week or two, the clip would blow over. No one would remember me until the next anniversary of when the Midwest Butcher was apprehended. I’d go into hiding again.