Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 141165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 706(@200wpm)___ 565(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 706(@200wpm)___ 565(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
My muscles flex, and I take my arm off her shoulders. Her eyes flit to the cut of my biceps in my gray shirt.
If we were alone at night, I’d already be knelt at her feet.
She tries to elbow a piece of hair off her cheek, since her fingers are sheathed in the gloves.
I push closer, my chest brushing against her body, and I tuck the strand behind her ear.
Jane blushes more and crosses her ankles.
How wet is she? I breathe harder through my nose. Arousal fisting my cock.
She motions to me, thunking my chest with her glove. “Oh, I…”
I almost smile. Christ, it’s a thousand degrees in here, and I glance back at Maximoff. He’s busy talking to his brother and Farrow.
Not filming.
So I can’t kiss her yet. I’ve already been pushing my luck with the practicing excuse.
Jane raises her chin. “Beckett…my brother, he should be more careful in public. With the you-know-what.” Key bumps.
I nod once, both of us ignoring the heat. “No one on the team wants to see your brother’s mug shot.” It’d be slapped on the front page of Celebrity Crush.
She smiles up at me. “It’s a good feeling knowing you all care about us so…deeply. Some deeper than…others.” She traps a breath as though I’m nine-inches deep inside of her. Thrusting hard. Right here. Right now.
She murmurs, “Like Farrow to Maximoff.”
I stare into Jane. “And me to you.”
“Yes…please.” She’s melting against the boxing bag, and it takes all of my control not to lift her up in my fucking arms.
I inhale strongly. Her spring scent floods my senses. Trying to overpower the last restraint I have. “Jane,” I say in the core of my chest.
I hear the click of a door shutting. My reflexes buzzing, and I see a familiar face sauntering out of the Studio 9 office like he’s the number one draft pick in the NFL. I do a literal double-take.
To the point where Jane follows my boiling gaze.
He’s not a football player. He has a self-important swagger, slicked-back, dark-brown hair, thick eyebrows, olive skin, and light stubble along a narrow jaw. He looks like he could be a soccer player for Italy. But he acts like the most expensive socket wrench in a fucking toolbox.
Tony shouldn’t be here. He’s not on the security team. He’s not on the med team.
He’s not a part of the famous families.
If I were a lead, I’d know what the fuck he’s doing here. This lack of knowledge stabs my eardrums. A shrill ring in the pit of my ears.
I hardly blink.
“You recognize him?” Jane whispers to me.
“Yeah.” My muscles are tensed.
He should be in LA. It’s too early for him to be home for Christmas since it’s still October. I’m about to clarify to Jane, but Tony catches sight of me.
“Moretti!” He grins and saunters over with outstretched arms. “I thought I might bump into you.” He gestures to my chest. “Heard you’re the talk of South Philly these days.” South Philly sounds like Sow-Philly .
“What are you doing here?” I ask bluntly. I’m not shooting the shit or playing patty-fucking-cake with someone I can’t stand
“Flew in from LA ‘bout an hour ago. All anyone has been asking me is have you seen Thatcher and Jane?” He’s still approaching us. Still talking a mile-a-minute. “Should’ve known you two were a fake couple. She’s not anything close to your type.”
Jane shifts uneasily beside me.
Goddammit.
Lethal agitation and hate tighten my eyes on Tony. He just told Jane that she’s not my type. And on top of that, I’m concerned.
Because he shouldn’t know I’m fake dating Jane.
He was told. By who?
Tony stops short of us, his gold cross thumping against his chest. He sticks his hands in his green aviator jacket.
I need to fill in Jane, so I introduce him first. “This is Tony Ramella.”
Realization washes over her face. She’s smart, and I don’t need to add more for her to connect the pieces. “I see—”
“Moretti and I go way back,” Tony cuts her off. Which is a fucking sin in my book. “We both went to Saint Joseph’s High School, same grade. Same age. We used to ride our bikes down the street together.”
“When we were eight,” I clarify. “We’re not friends.” We haven’t been since early childhood. We grew apart like most kids do.
Jane slides off her boxing gloves. “You’re Michelina’s grandson.” She met Michelina Ramella in the fabric store last month and recognized his last name. “Your grandmas play cards together.”
He looks her over with quirked, smug lips. “My grandma said she met you.”
“She’s a sweet woman.” Jane sounds more guarded than usual, and she has to be feeding off my mistrust. She hasn’t homed in on his striking light-blue eyes. What most people usually notice first about him.
Tony cocks his head at Jane. “Not sweeter than you—”