Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 117201 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 586(@200wpm)___ 469(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117201 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 586(@200wpm)___ 469(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
He dropped his chin. “I’m afraid I can’t let you do that.”
“I can’t not order it.”
“Be strong.”
“Be strong,” she mimicked, adorably. “You can’t do a French braid, but you can concoct a whole scheme to funnel me into an apartment of your choosing?”
“You’re not even going to wait until we order our smoothies to address this?”
“The fact that you’re making light of it—”
“I’m not making light of it,” he rushed to say. “That being said, I came up with the idea knowing full well that if you found out, you would hate me, but at least you were going to be somewhere safe. It was a conscious trade-off.”
“That’s . . . why I’m having trouble being as mad as I would like to be.” She gave a sharp cluck of her tongue. “It’s very annoying.”
“I’ll take annoyed over you hating me.”
“I don’t hate you. And it’s not your fault that I’m apartment hunting.”
“Yes it is.” His voice scraped like gravel. “You’re scared of me.”
“I’m scared of a lot more—” She snapped her mouth shut. “It’s not only you.”
Burgess had the most inappropriate urge to pick her up and hold her. He couldn’t think of a better use for his strength than wrapping it around her after an admission like that. It wouldn’t be welcome, though, so thankfully the smoothie shop employee chose that moment to pop up from behind the counter.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
“The usual for me,” Burgess said after a moment. “Don’t give her that peanut butter and espresso smoothie.”
“Give it to me.” She shielded her mouth with her hand, whispering to the smoothie shop employee. “Extra espresso, please.”
Smirking, Burgess tossed a twenty on the counter. “Can we sit down?”
“Maybe.” She sucked her teeth at him on the way to a table. “Is this one good or do you want to choose a different table behind my back?”
He squinted an eye. “I’m picking up on some sarcasm.”
“Good.”
She sat down, crossing her legs . . . and he heard the slightest creak of her too-tight jeans. Felt that sound deep in his Adam’s apple. It would take some work to get that denim peeled down her legs. He’d have to rough them down her hips, probably taking her panties along with them. Now that was a task his hands could perform without watching a tutorial. Because he’d been undressing Tallulah in his dreams since meeting her last summer.
Burgess took the seat across from Tallulah, ordering himself to act natural, despite the semi he was sprouting in his briefs. “I assume you took the room with Chloe, regardless of my meddling.”
“No, I did not,” Tallulah answered, very succinctly. “That room is worth four times the rate advertised. Renting that room for seven hundred dollars a month would be a crime. I’d be taking advantage of you both.”
“A small price to pay for . . .”
Jesus, he was revealing way too much. She’d come here to hand him his balls and here he was, making his admiration of her painfully obvious. He might as well be wearing a sign around his neck that said out of practice.
“A small price to pay for me being safe?” she supplied, quietly.
Burgess grunted at the table, no idea how to respond without sounding ridiculous.
Tallulah remained silent for several seconds. “Maybe I just don’t have a lot of experience with athletes, especially hockey players, but you come across as such a contradiction, you know? Is it possible to have so much aggression inside of you and still be so . . . worried about someone you’ve only met twice?”
More than possible. It was reality. “Yes.”
“I wish I could know that for sure,” she whispered, seeming to surprise herself by letting that slip. “Um. Could you satisfy my curiosity about something?”
“Shoot.”
She squinted one eye. “Do you feel bad about breaking that guy’s nose?”
The question caught him off guard. “Do I feel bad?”
“Yes.”
Burgess let his breath hiss out slowly, knowing he couldn’t be anything less than baldly honest with this woman, at all times, even if that honesty probably wouldn’t earn him any points. “He’d been high sticking all night. I’ve been playing against that jackass for six years—he should have known me well enough to know a warning was coming and protected himself better.” He really wasn’t doing himself any favors here. At all. But he didn’t know how to do anything but impart the ugly truth. “I guess I didn’t mean to break the damn thing. If it makes you feel better, I sent a six pack to his hotel room after the game.”
That made her sit up straighter. “Did you really? What kind?”
“Sam Adams. Obviously.”
She snorted. “A beer originally brewed in Boston. So really, it was just another dig.”
“How can I explain this . . .” He drummed his fingers on the table. “If I’d sent him an apology, it only would have made the broken nose sting harder. Sam Adams was a way of saying I’m sorry, man, but also fuck you. He keeps his pride that way. Much better. See?”