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)
The zing is on. The chemistry is real. And I am ready to finish what I started on Friday over boba.
This is my new plan to lock in a time to see him—as soon as the show ends, I’ll say goodbye to Megan. Then, Beck and I will head down the hall. I’ll point to the stairwell. Once the door shuts, I’ll jerk him against me, kiss the hell out of him, then invite him to spend the night.
But when the show should end, Megan’s still sporting a devilish smile rather than signing off. “Guess what, guys? We have two special guests for you today. Are you ready?”
Not one bit, but I fake it with a sure.
“I guess we better be,” Beck says, but the uncertainty in his tone tells me this is news to him too.
“Hold on just a second,” Megan says, then the studio door pushes open from the other side, and whoa.
Nadia strides in, looking sharp and stylish in a red blouse, black slacks, and her signature Louboutins. I sit up straighter. “Hey boss,” I say.
Right behind her is Wilder Blaine, the owner of the Renegades, a sharp-dressed man with the cuffs of his crisp white shirt rolled up to reveal his ink, which is nice and all but nowhere near as sexy as Beck’s.
“Hello, sir,” Beck says, and it’s adorable how Beck talks to him. I dip my head to hide a grin.
The owners settle into extra chairs, the studio cramped now. Once they quickly put headphones on, Megan says, “Well, what brings you two here?”
As if she didn’t engineer this.
“Ladies first,” Wilder says.
“Aww, you’re sweet, but I say age before . . . brains,” Nadia says.
“Ouch. You wound me,” Wilder says like these two practiced this repartee.
“Seriously though, this whole rivalry thing got us thinking about attendance. If the Hawks can beat the Renegades with attendance at our home game this weekend, I’ll donate one hundred thousand dollars to the city’s local animal shelters,” Nadia says.
“And if the reigning Super Bowl champs have more fans next time we’re home—and we will—we’ll match the donation,” Wilder says, not to be outdone.
“How about that?” Megan says, clearly impressed. “Listeners, be sure to share your thoughts on social media, and thank you, Nadia and Wilder, for coming in.”
When she signs off, Nadia turns to me and asks if the four of us can grab a cup of coffee.
So much for my stairwell fantasy.
At Republic of Caffeine, I sit like there’s a ruler down the back of my shirt. Beck sits even taller while Nadia does the talking. “We have a lot of interest in the auction already. The clicks on your profiles and the pre-bids are quite high.”
Wilder clears his throat. “We’d like you both to attend a pre-auction cocktail and mingle with sponsors and attendees. Would that be something you could do?”
“Of course,” Beck says since that’s the only acceptable answer.
“Yes,” I add. I don’t dare look at Beck. I don’t risk a glance.
When we’re done, I head to the parking garage with two team owners and the guy I was going to ask to stay the night.
Sure, I could get in my car and fire off a text inviting him over.
But this morning feels like the boba shop all over again when there wasn’t an easy moment to ask him.
Nothing is easy about my situation with Beck, and at some point, shouldn’t feelings and shit just be simple?
It’s fourth down right now, and I don’t know what play to make, so I call my own timeout. I need to spend a few days figuring out where the hell I want this dangerous game with Beck to go.
For now, I go home.
On Wednesday afternoon, I swing my five-iron high, putting every ounce of my ample frustration into the stroke.
I fucking miss the little white ball.
I groan to my golf companions. Nate’s here on the links with me at my favorite course outside the city. Luke has joined us, and our friend Hazel’s in town too. The romance writer is ridiculously good at all games.
“I hate golf,” I whine.
Nate chuckles, enjoying my horrid game far too much. “And golf hates you, Jay.”
“May it keep on hating you so hard,” Luke says, casting his gaze heavenward along with the prayer.
Hazel frowns. “Maybe I should just play solo? I’m thinking I might do better without you as a partner, Jay.”
I growl. “You’re stuck with me. You’re my only chance of winning.”
Nate scoffs. “Hate to break it to you, Jay. But I doubt you can win even with Hazel on your team.”
Hazel squeezes my arm, trying to buck me up. “C’mon, you can do it. You know how much I hate losing at golf.”
“You hate losing at anything,” I point out.
“We all do,” Nate says.
I haul in a deep breath, doing my damnedest to focus on the game. Not on Beck. Not on seeing him tomorrow at my party. Not on the fact that I can’t stop thinking about him.