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)
“My father had a favorite athlete growing up—do you know Pedro Martinez?”
“Tallulah, he played for the Red Sox. Of course, I know him. I’ve met him.”
“Really?”
A pause ensued while he shook his head. “You are totally clueless about anything sports related, aren’t you?”
“I’m only there for the snacks.” She laughed under her breath at the sheer indignation she could sense radiating from the man. “But I do know that Martinez played for the Red Sox. It’s part of the reason I looked for a grad school in Boston, apart from BU having a stellar marine biology program. Boston was this glamorized place in our household growing up.”
“Because of Pedro Martinez.”
“Yes. So since you’re his best friend, you must know that he had a lot of injuries during his final season. But my dad never saw him as anything but a baseball god. Pedro never stopped being his favorite player. His triumphs didn’t stop counting because he strained his calf or tore his rotator cuff. That’s just a human being a human. Sometimes we break a little.” She dragged all ten of her fingers down the rocky terrain of his back and pressed her thumbs into those twin dimples, savoring the way his breath shook free at her touch. “Will you at least go see a private doctor?” she near whispered.
“Nope.”
Her nose wrinkled in disappointment. “Not even if I promise to do this for you every once in a while?”
“Promise to do it every night and you’ve got a deal.”
“Done. Wait, what?” Tallulah’s hands dropped away, accompanied by a disbelieving gasp. “Why does it feel like I just got maneuvered?”
He turned around, sporting a grin. “I’ll make the appointment tomorrow.”
Respond. Say something. Fast.
Stop looking at his mighty, Zeus-like chest.
And his stomach. Was it even a stomach? It was more like a flesh-colored egg carton.
Our Father, who art in Heaven . . .
Apparently flip-flopping between Greek mythology and Christianity was the final proof that she’d been overwhelmed by the sight of him. The six foot three inches of brawn and masculine beauty that was Burgess Abraham stood before her looking like he should be holding a boulder over his head. Or crushing a village beneath his feet.
“What does your tattoo mean?” she said, winded, sounding like a sorority girl who accidentally stumbled into a biker bar. Humiliating with a capital H.
Burgess didn’t answer right away, because he appeared to be scrutinizing her reaction to his naked chest with . . . surprise? Had no one clued this man in that he was a panty dropper? “It’s uh . . . yeah.” He shook himself slightly. “Syracuse team logo. We all got it after winning state.” He rolled the shoulder in question and she could see, in her mind’s eye, how that ink on his back was rippling. “Seemed like a great idea at the time.”
“It’s good. I think it’s good.”
“Are you feeling all right, Tallulah?” His gaze ran down to her throat, up and over her cheeks. “You’re a little flushed.”
“No. I mean, yes. I am feeling all right. I get a little emotional talking about Pedro Martinez.” She ignored his lip twitch. Pull it together, girl. “So you’re going to call a doctor tomorrow and make an appointment to have them look at your back?”
He ran his tongue along the inside of his bottom lip. “Are you going to use those hands on me every night?”
Mark this as the second time Burgess had made her panties wet. Like, wet wet. Last time hadn’t been a one-off. This guy got her hot and bothered, no use denying it. But who wouldn’t get worked up around a man in peak physical condition? She was excused! “If that’s the only way to make you healthy,” she murmured, still feeling the delicious ridges of his back against her palms. “I suppose I can learn to sacrifice.”
Mirth twinkled briefly in his eyes. “Then I’ll call the doctor.” He sauntered forward slowly, so slowly that she could feel her stomach tendons knitting tighter with every inch of space he eliminated between them, until his mouth and her forehead were separated by the barest of spaces. “But only for you.”
A flare went off in her chest, like someone signaling for a rescue. Which couldn’t have been more accurate. “Only for my massages, you mean.”
His warm breath bathed her forehead, a bull preparing for the gate to open. “Is that what I mean?”
They remained like that, time suspending itself while they started to breathe faster. He wasn’t moving, though, was he? No, he was waiting for her to do it. To . . . engage. And what else was she supposed to do when her hands were warm from his skin and he was carved from granite, going around saying things like “but only for you.” Was she not supposed to kiss him?