Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 64238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 321(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 214(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 321(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 214(@300wpm)
Well…that and thirty laps around a dark rink, chasing after a professional hockey player in his prime.
I slowed to a pathetic stop at center ice, balancing my borrowed stick across my knees as I bent over at the waist, gasping for air. I’d done a decent job of keeping up, but I’d officially reached my limit. I was going to need oxygen if I didn’t take a break.
“You okay?” Riley skidded to a halt to my right, shaving ice on my boots.
I translated a snide remark from French to English in my head, sighing heavily as I straightened, and— Mon Dieu, he was exquisite. Anyone could see that he was model handsome, but I had a feeling that few people saw his boyish exuberance and the sheer joy that poured out of him like sunbeams pushing through clouds. He quite literally took my breath away.
But it was safer to blame my condition on exercise than to admit I’d developed a troubling case of infatuation.
“No, I’m not okay,” I gasped. “My lungs are shutting down.”
He narrowed his eyes. “That’s not funny. Are you hurt?”
“Hurt? No, I’m just…old and I like carbs.”
Riley pursed his lips. “You’re not that old, and what do carbs have to do with anything?”
“Carbs are still the foundation of my food pyramid. I don’t apologize for loving bread, but it’s made me a little, um…” I patted my stomach and shrugged, adding, “Center heavy.”
“Center heavy?”
“Yes, pudgy like pudding. Feel.” I grabbed his wrist and pushed his finger at my belly. “So let me recover, eh?”
He burst out laughing and swatted my arm. “You’re an idiot. And you’re not pudgy, you’re—”
“Flubby?”
“Perfect,” he intercepted, his lips curled in a lopsided smile. “How do you say perfect in French?”
“Parfait.”
“Isn’t that a dessert?” he asked.
“Yes. A frozen merengue with layers. Très bon.”
“Oh, I thought it was yogurt and granola and berries and—why are you making that face?” His eyes crinkled merrily.
“That’s an American healthy breakfast item, not a true parfait,” I huffed derisively. “It’s fine, but I don’t think anyone really thinks yogurt is perfect. Do they?”
Riley shrugged. “I have no idea. And why are we talking about yogurt anyway?”
“You tell me. You brought it up.”
“No, I didn’t. I said—”
“Continue,” I prodded. “I liked what you said. Maybe I should hear it again.”
“You’re a dick.”
“Nope.” I made a buzzer noise and shook my head. “That wasn’t it. Though, perhaps you were talking about my dick.”
“That must have been it.” He tapped his stick on the ice and beamed. “You ready to get out of here?”
I glanced up at the overhead clock. “You still have fifteen minutes. I’m fine now. I can help you—”
He kissed me, quick and sweet. There and gone in an instant. Standing at center ice made it seem like a bigger deal than it probably was, but hey…it was a first for me. And knowing it was for Riley too sent a thrill through my veins. This man liked playing with fire.
“Let’s pick up the pucks and go somewhere private so you can show me your parfait cock. What d’ya say?”
He didn’t wait for my reply, which was good since my tongue was tied in knots and my heart rate had skyrocketed as if I’d done another dozen laps around the rink. Hmm. I didn’t like this feeling.
It wasn’t healthy to want someone this badly. It was the sort of deep craving that came with an inevitable crash. Yes, I’d happily go along for the ride, but this…this wouldn’t end well for me.
7
RILEY
Walking had become my main mode of transportation since my concussion, but Elmwood’s streets seemed longer than ever this afternoon. Far too long. I felt like a live wire tied by an invisible string to the bear of a man striding beside me.
I was ultrasensitive to every move he made—from the brush of his arm against mine to his taciturn expression as he shot daggers at the crosswalk signal at the corner of Main and Blossom.
“This is a silly place for a light,” Jean-Claude grumbled. “Why is there traffic? There’s never traffic in Elmwood. Why today?”
“You in a hurry?” I drawled.
“You could say that. My dick is very anxious, anyway. Yours?”
Damn, that sultry side-eye fucking melted me. I’d never wanted anyone like this. I was less freaked out about being sexually attracted to a man than anyone might have guessed. But I couldn’t help wondering: Why now? Why him? And why was this pull between us so strong?
Jean-Claude was rough around the edges with a sharp wit and a biting tongue. He could be generous and kind, and unexpectedly thoughtful, but he spoke his mind and made no apologies. He wasn’t traditionally handsome and while he was obviously athletic, he wasn’t exactly in shape. I liked him just the way he was.
He was so fucking…real.
So perfectly real.
He’d lived a full life—played hockey, partied and had fun, gotten engaged, come out, become a chef, moved to the States, and was thriving in this tiny town.