Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 84065 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84065 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Not the same type of fulfillment, of course, but still pleasurable.
“I take it you two weren’t out for a leisurely stroll and just lost track of time,” Harlow says, eyes glittering with laughter.
“I think your dog intentionally stalled so I wouldn’t get back into bed with you,” I grumble, hanging the leash on the hook by the door. “You know he kicked me in the face this morning.”
Harlow snickers as she scrambles the eggs. “Now, you know that’s just not possible. Dogs don’t think that way.”
“Your dog does,” I insist, rounding the island and moving behind her as she cooks. My arms slip around her waist, and I rest my cheek against the side of her head, looking down at the pan brimming with golden, fluffy eggs.
And it hits me… I’ve never stood with a woman like this before. I mean, sure, I’ve had women cook meals for me. I’ve even had a few semi-serious relationships that were monogamous, but never built on a prior friendship. But I’ve never held a woman in this affectionate, easy way because it’s never felt natural.
With Harlow, it seems like I’ve been doing this for years. In fact, it would seem odd if I weren’t taking the time to show her affection while she’s taking the time to make me breakfast.
“What do you need help with?” I ask.
She leans her head back against my shoulder briefly, tipping it to look up at me. “You’ve done enough taking my duplicitous dog out for a half-hour potty. Get some coffee and I’ll serve up the food.”
I lean around her so my lips can touch hers. Just a brush, a good-morning kiss, and while I’ve got no orgasms on this morning’s agenda, I realize this is just as good.
CHAPTER 22
Stone
The team lounge in the Titans’ arena is much different from what we had in Boston. And we didn’t have a team lounge in Cleveland.
As with everything this organization does for its players, they spared no expense on the luxurious interior of the space where players go to relax before games. Thick carpeting, dark-paneled walls, and sconce lighting that provides a quiet, almost Zen-like atmosphere. There are no TVs, and everyone speaks in low tones.
I’m currently cocked back in a recliner with my headset on, listening to some Soundgarden. It’s not exactly meditative music, but it gets me pumped up for the game, which will be starting in a few hours. My music is interrupted by an incoming text.
I lift my phone from my chest, assuming it’s from Harlow since anyone else who would text me is in this arena right now. Instead, I grit my teeth and lose all my relaxed vibes when I see it’s from my father.
I’d been enjoying several days of quiet from him, and it’s been a relief. Prior to that, he was utterly manic in his demands for me to give him money, give him season tickets, give him respect because he’s my father.
Every bit of it deepened the divide between us.
I grimace as I read his tirade.
This is getting ridiculous, Stone. Your continued denial of what is due your mother and me is bordering on criminal. I have been in talks with an attorney and if you are not willing to split more of Brooks’s estate with me, I’ve been advised that we can press charges.
I actually laugh out loud at the desperate, untruthful, and fanciful words. First and foremost, my brother’s estate has nothing to do with the criminal courts. I would no more be at risk of going to jail than I would be of winning the lottery.
The fact that he thinks he can scare me with that tactic, though, is disconcerting, and my laugh dies. My father is not a stupid man. He knows I would never fall for something so ludicrous. It tells me that he may be losing it altogether. He sounds desperate, and desperate people do tremendously dangerous things. I think my father has bought into the ultimate fantasy that no one in this world is more important than he is.
Part of me wonders if I need to have a conversation with my mother about my father’s mental health. Maybe this isn’t about my dad being a narcissistic asshole, but perhaps he has some underlying mental issues.
My text chimes again, and I can see he’s switching tactics.
I wouldn’t expect you to understand. Your brother was a champion, and you are nothing but a loser who mooches off his brother’s success. And now you’re trying to take all the credit and not give me and your mother our due for raising and sacrificing everything we had for you and your brother. It borders on ungrateful.
Mental issues?
Nah… my dad is just an asshole. These are the same tactics he used on us growing up. Always bullying, always intimidating to get his way.