Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 117872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
Think what, Beck? That you were stalking me? I understand context clues, and yours are coming through loud and clear—you’re not into me.
But I’ve got to let go of my stupid resentment over being ditched. “I’m not going to pull my switchblade and tell you to get off my turf,” I say casually.
“Shit,” he mutters, dragging his hand down his face. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
The two of us are getting off to a great start, putting that hookup in the past. But someone has to try to make this exchange easier.
“Caff, go get yourself that facial. Hit the driving range. You’ll love this place, and don’t think twice about joining, okay?” I say with a smile. No matter what went down with us—or didn’t—I don’t want to make any guy uncomfortable just because he’s not as attracted to me as I am to him.
At last, Beck gives a playful nod, chased by a smile. “Okay. I’ll think about the driving range, even though I suck at golf.”
“Stay in the league long enough, and that’ll change. Golf is life,” I say.
“If you say so.”
“I do.” We’re finally having a nice enough moment, so it’s time to go. End on a high note. “And, I’ll see you around,” I say, turning to leave.
“Have fun tonight,” Beck calls after me.
It’s not till I exit the locker room that I remember I told him I was off for a date with a very special someone tonight.
Too bad it’s not in the way he thinks.
I smile as I leave the gym.
Darn, I’ll just have to let him picture me as a man about town.
Maybe I’m not always such a nice guy.
6
ANOTHER DAY, ANOTHER GIN JOINT
Beck
I’m climbing my thirteenth floor when I spot him.
Seriously? He’s an early riser too?
Jason strolls into the gym the next morning, swipes his card, and then scans the equipment. When he spots me, he rolls his eyes. He’s smiling too, acknowledging the irony of the universe’s sense of humor. He gives me a chin nod. I nod back as he claims a treadmill in the row in front of me.
Great.
Fucking great.
I get to watch him. He’s probably logging his second round of exercise for the day after a morning workout in bed with his special guy.
With Beethoven blasting in my ears, I shove thoughts of his date aside and stare out the window instead, cataloging this block of San Francisco. There’s a card store, the kind that carries stationery with quirky sayings like You deserve orgasms and cake. Next to it is Pups and Cups. Caffeine- and canine-lovers gather at the sidewalk tables with their mugs and contraptions for their pets. I’m amazed at the things people use to tote their small dogs—a purse, a grocery bag, a BabyBjörn, even the kangaroo pocket of a sweatshirt.
Next to that is a candle shop. Maybe I should get one for Portia as a thank you. It’s probably not open this early, but I can come back after our practice today.
Am I done yet? It’s been forever. But when I check the machine readout, I’ve only hit eighteen floors.
Dammit.
As the stringed instruments swell, my traitorous gaze returns to the man in front of me.
My pulse kicks, not from the pace on this machine or the intensity of the classical music blasting in my ears.
Jason’s on the treadmill now, walking slowly, adjusting the settings. And I can’t help but admire the shape of his back, the outline of his shoulders, the way his muscles stretch that teal-blue T-shirt, and how his waist tapers into his gray shorts.
But even as the heat stirs in my chest, so does that unfinished feeling from yesterday. The desire to say something more, starting with—I’m not closeted.
But do I want to say that to him? Or to others?
I grit my teeth, annoyed. The nagging sense that I need to do something lives right next door to this inconvenient lust for my rival.
I deal with the lust first by tearing my gaze from his body, then fiddling around on my phone. Clicking over to YouTube, I tune into a Bob Ross video and turn off Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. I finish the cardio watching the curly-haired artist paint tiny trees, his mellow voice wrong for a workout. But he gets me to the fiftieth floor on this StairMaster, helping me ignore my lust.
When I finally leave the gym, I don’t say goodbye to Jason. I don’t even see him on the machines.
As I head up the block, I catch the scent of roasting coffee, and the rich aroma lures me to the door of Doctor Insomnia’s. Once inside, I weave around comfy, rumpled couches and go straight for the counter, my eyes on the menu. When I drop my gaze, though, it lands on . . .
. . . Are you fucking kidding me?