Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 135831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 679(@200wpm)___ 543(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 679(@200wpm)___ 543(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
He frowns, cringing. “Dude. You won. I’m tapping out.”
I pump a fist. “Victory is mine.”
“You’re too good at this game of chicken, woman.”
“Chicken? We’re playing chicken? I had no idea.”
“What a surprise, isn’t it,” he says dryly as we walk to the bar. He opens the door for me, and we go inside.
The sound of clinking glasses and lively chatter fills the air, providing a stark contrast to the catcalls and hollers outside at the parade. As we settle into a cozy booth, the dim lighting casts shadows across Max’s face, highlighting the chiseled line of his jaw, covered in that scrumptious beard. What would it feel like to touch that beard? To run my fingers along the scruff on his handsome face? To feel him rub it against my…
I blink off the entirely unprofessional thoughts as Max spreads his strong arms across the back of the booth.
Which doesn’t entirely clean up my mind at all. The move shows off the muscles in his chest, stretching that gray T-shirt he wears. He’s so stupidly hot he makes me ache. I’m tingly all over.
“So, Everly,” he begins. “How are you going to dress me down in a social media post today?”
I’d like to undress him.
But I ignore that inappropriate thought too. “Thoroughly, Max,” I tease, tracing patterns on the wooden table with my finger. “With a rousing appreciation of all the flesh we witnessed.”
He groans, clearly aggrieved. “Right, of course. I can’t forget who I’m dealing with.”
“Never forget I’m fearless.”
“You could never let me,” he says, but there’s no taunting or teasing. It’s like he’s talking about something else entirely. But there’s no time to figure out what since a server arrives to ask for our order.
I opt for an iced tea, and he picks a beer but then he tips his forehead to me. “You hungry?”
“Sure,” I say, then choose a spinach salad while he picks a chicken sandwich. When the server leaves, I say, “Lunch on a Sunday. Isn’t that weak, as you said?”
“Nope. Because it’s not a date.”
No kidding. “You have a lot of opinions on my dates,” I say. But I probably shouldn’t linger on the way he turned down Joe for me back in Seattle, then announced he wanted a pic taken at the same time that I happened to have a date with Lucas.
Like Max knew I’d prioritize work over a date.
“I have a lot of opinions on a lot of things,” he says, evading the question. Maybe he doesn’t want to linger on the why either.
I glance around, spotting a couple a few tables over on an obvious date. “I bet you have an opinion on whether they should be here. Want to tell them it’s a bad idea for a first date?”
“Nah. Damage is already done,” he says, then clears his throat. “So where’s your date taking you next? Bingo? Bridge? Mahjong?”
His sweetness never lasts long. “No, Max, we’re having a drink next Monday night. At The Spotted Zebra. Does that meet your approval? Or do you need me to reschedule it yet again?”
He scowls but then grumbles. “That’s better.”
“Glad to have your approval.”
“I wouldn’t call it approval,” he says.
“What would you call it?”
But he doesn’t answer. Instead, he pins me with a serious stare, his eyes searching my face, his jaw ticking. “Who is this guy?”
Like he needs to know I’m seeing my former therapist for a second date. “Just a guy.”
“A nice guy?” It’s asked like that’s a terrible thing.
“Yes,” I admit. “Is that so bad?”
“If that’s your type.”
“Do you think I prefer unapproachable men? Difficult men? Grumpy men?” I counter before I think the better of it.
A flicker of a knowing grin coasts across his lips, but then it disappears. “No idea.” He holds my gaze, a new form of chicken, a new type of challenge. My heart rate stutters. My skin heats. His eyes roam over me, then he slides his teeth along his bottom lip before adding, “It’s hard to say, sunshine.”
I swallow roughly, trying to get my bearings. When he looks at me like that, I feel as if I should cancel my date with Lucas entirely.
But it’s not like I’m going to date Max. That simply can’t happen so I lift my phone, segueing to work mode. “I should post some pics,” I say.
“Have at it,” he says, looking particularly delectable right now with the lighting and the snug T-shirt and the don’t-have-a-care-in-the-world attitude.
“Can I take a pic of you here?”
It takes him a beat to decide, then he says, “Sure.”
I snap a shot, and he looks too good for my own good. All broody and intense, but somehow…approachable too. The goalie out of the office. But who is this man for real? Is he the jerk who taunts me, or is he the man who gently offers to talk anytime?