Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 128069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
“That’s good too.”
But I feel a little guilty about touching her. Especially because I don’t want to stop even though I know I should. Setting down the pastry, I reach for her. “Josie,” I say, my tone serious as I cup her shoulders.
With a rueful smile, she nods. “I know. We shouldn’t do that again.”
“We really shouldn’t,” I say, hating myself for saying it but knowing I have to.
But an hour later after we’ve cleaned up, I’m at the door, saying goodbye, and all the shouldn’ts can’t stop me from hauling her close and kissing her hard—a kiss I want her to feel for the rest of the day.
No. I amend that. I want her to feel it the entire time I’m gone. And that is a problem I don’t know how to fix.
She hands me a huge Tupperware container full of dessert for breakfast. “For the team.”
I take it. “Thank you.”
“And good luck in New York,” she says, since our road trip ends there, against my former team. “Your first time playing them since you were traded?”
Damn. How does she keep doing this? Knowing the little bits of intel and what they might mean. My heart slams harder against my chest. All these little details make it impossible not to feel…all the things. “Yeah, it is.”
“You’d better kick their ass then,” she says.
“I plan to,” I say, then take one more kiss and go, knowing I’m not going to stop thinking about her at all while we’re apart.
Maybe that’s the real problem.
25
A FUCKING PAGE-TURNER
Wesley
Note to self: Never bring baked goods on the team plane again. I’ve gotten nothing but grief since I cracked open the container and passed it around. And there are no signs of stopping.
“We’re gonna call you Muffin Man now,” Asher decides after he polishes off a treat in record time. We’ve barely reached our cruising altitude and he’s wiping crumbs off his mitts.
I point out the obvious even though it’s pointless. “That isn’t a muffin.”
Asher waves a hand dismissively. “It’s either that or we call you Dough Master.”
“Somehow, that’s worse,” I say.
“Didn’t he make everything though? The Muffin Man?” Max barks in question from across the aisle as he waves his pastry around, then takes a bite.
“Who knows? Who cares?” Asher asks, with a satisfied smile, clapping my shoulder. “You should seriously consider opening a shop. These are fuck-all better than the way you played last night.”
Yup, this is the hell they give me. “I scored a goal, you dickhead.”
“My bad. It was one less than the number I scored. So I’d forgotten,” he says, the cocky fucker.
“Do you need a separate jet for your ego, Callahan?”
This remark comes from Chase, who’s a row behind us, sitting with Ryker, one of our top defenders.
“Not a bad idea,” Ryker grumbles.
“Come to think of it, I wouldn’t mind that at all,” Asher says, offering a smug smile.
Ryker leans forward from his seat so he’s locking eyes with the guys in our row—Asher and me, and Max across the aisle. “You know there’s an urban legend that the Muffin Man was a murderer?”
“The fuck?” Asher asks.
“Supposedly, he went around London murdering children, using muffins as a lure,” Ryker says, in the same tone he’d tell you where to get a great taco. Nothing fazes the dude.
Asher’s face goes ashen. “That’s horrifying.”
“This is why I don’t read nursery rhymes to my little daughter,” Hugo calls out from his row behind us. “I read her sports news instead.”
“Some might say that’s scarier. Also nursery rhymes are supposed to be scary. It’s literally their purpose,” a female voice chimes in from a row or two in front of us. It’s Everly, weighing in.
“Hey Ev, is it true that Max was chirping nursery rhymes at reporters? And that’s how he scared them all off?”
Max stretches across the aisle and knocks Asher upside the head. “If you played on the other team…”
Asher flashes his golden-boy grin. “But I’m on your team. You lucky bastard.”
Max shakes his head, then waves his pastry in my direction. “Here’s what I want to know, Muffin Man. Do you have an apron?”
Yes, and the team captain’s sister gave it to me. And I like the way she stared wantonly at me when I wore it. I especially like that she was sending me a subtle message with it. And I fucking love that the illustrations on it inspired a new use for lipstick.
“Remind me to never bake for the team again,” I say, mostly so I don’t linger too long on thoughts of Josie.
Everly’s still popped up in her seat, twisted around, and her eyes connect with mine. “Sounds like the cinnamon puff pastries came out great though?”
I tilt my head. “You knew what I was making?”
“I shopped with Josie. Took her to my favorite grocery store in the city.”