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)
But then, I press the brakes.
I don’t know Beck from Adam. Don’t know his agenda, so it’s best to assume it’s truly just this TV show he’s staying for.
“I’m getting the distinct impression you have a crush on my dog.” The feminine voice from the TV show reconnects me to reality. Well, TV reality.
Shit. I didn’t even pause the show when Beck left. The clicker’s in the middle of the couch, so I scoot over and grab it, point it at the screen, and back up thirty seconds.
Beck returns to the living room, circling the couch. To get back to his seat, he has to go by me, and his dark eyes are on mine as he slinks past. “You stole my cat,” he says, his tone teasing, flirty, his eyes sparkling.
What is going on?
He sits down.
Closer to me.
He’s a whole cushion closer.
I don’t know what to do.
“Anything good happen while I was gone?” he asks.
I swallow, trying to form words. “I rewound it,” I say, stating the obvious since the screen is paused.
Then I hit play, and I do my damnedest to watch Unfinished Business. When Jamie and Zoe stop in the stairwell, I don’t move. I laser in on the screen. The kiss gets a little hot, a little heavy.
No idea what Beck is doing, and I refuse to peek, even when Bandit leaves my lap to curl up in his.
Lucky cat.
When the episode ends, I bet he’ll say thanks and take off. But once the credits roll, he clears his throat, takes a breath, then blurts out, “Want to watch another?”
His question is Mach speed, as if it’s fueled by hope.
A spark slides down my spine. I’m supposed to be in control. But I don’t feel that way right now.
And I like that feeling too much.
“Sure.”
5
I LIKE TO GAMBLE
Beck
I should leave. Really, I should. But I can’t seem to find the will to say a simple goodbye. Thanks for the advice, man. I appreciate it.
I just don’t want to.
Maybe this is what happens when you meet your crush, and he exceeds your expectations. Jason sure did this morning, saving me from those reporters, all uber-competent and kind-hearted at the same time. In one swift move, I went from crushing from afar to crushing in person—on a guy who clearly cares about others. Then my crush ballooned when he invited me over and freely shared pointers.
I came here because I needed his help. But I stayed because he’s so easy to talk to.
And easier to look at.
And fun to hang with.
I glance at the clock on his wall. Curfew’s in two hours. I need to get back to the hotel soon.
But not yet.
We finish two more episodes, the cat purring in my lap the whole time. When the last one ends, Jason gestures to Bandit. “It’s official. The cat prefers you.”
I smile, petting the soft creature. “Like I said, I grew up with animals. I think they know I’m an animal person.”
I’m not that social. I’m not good with crowds. I relied on my older brother for so much growing up. As a result? I have an easier time with animals. And animals seem to know it. Animals also make great fodder for conversation, and I need that sometimes. Like, right now. “But is Bandit the name you’re keeping?”
Jason arches a brow. “You harshing on my cat’s name now?”
Maybe a little. “It’s a good name, but . . .”
He growls in mock annoyance. “But what, Cafferty?”
“It could be better. I’m just saying.” I tease him a little and enjoy it far too much.
He wiggles his fingers, the sign for me to give up the goods. “You already romanced him out from under me. Now you’re challenging my cat’s name?”
“Yes, yes I am,” I say, and I don’t make a damn move to leave. This night feels too good. Even though one voice says, Go, before you do something dangerous, another voice whispers, Go on. Do something dangerous. “I’m saying there are better names.”
“Such as?”
I glance at the sleeping cat. “He kind of reminds me of a supper club singer, with his tux.”
“Hmm.” Jason lets that sink in. “So, Leisure Suit Larry?”
“I like that. Or Frank Sinatra,” I offer.
He tilts his head, considering the name. “Frank isn’t bad,” Jason admits. Then he grabs his LaCroix can from the table, waggles it. “I’m going to grab another. Want one?”
I want to spend more time with you.
Instead, I say sure, then set down the cat on the couch and follow the host to the kitchen. He stops short in the doorway. “Shit.”
The counters are a mess, full of plates and dishes, tubs of half-eaten food, and bowls of mostly finished salads. “I forgot I need to clean up,” he says as he enters the room.
“Let me help you,” I say in a split second.