Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 90682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
“Shit. I forgot I had it on.” He pulls the headdress off, itching at his scalp. “Damn thing was hotter than a steer’s balls.”
I snicker. “You know how hot a steer’s balls are?”
Duke removes his sunglasses, bright blue eyes gazing back at me. “Obviously.”
“Wait. Seriously?”
“I grew up on a ranch, Josephine, so of course I’ve felt a steer’s balls. I castrated enough of ’em.”
He leaves the room and leaves me standing there.
“Wait. What?” I follow him to the stairs, demanding answers.
“Tell me more about the balls!”
5
duke
Tell me more about the balls!
I grin as I shut the door to my bedroom, tossing the wig and hat to the bureau drawer, laughing to myself at the look on her face.
“’Course I’ve felt bull nuts. What does she think happens on a ranch?” I realize I’m muttering to myself, removing my Mickey Mouse T-shirt and pulling on a hoodie, the weather outside a bit too chilly for short sleeves.
Once I change into gray sweatpants, I mosey on back downstairs to eat that chicken before it gets cool.
She is nowhere to be found, probably back up in that office of hers, ignoring the fact that I’m here.
I had fun at the grocery store—almost didn’t go ’cause why should I when that’s what she’s here for, but I’m glad I did. I got to see the annoyance on her face when I called her Josephine, a name she clearly doesn’t like.
Good.
Makes it more fun.
I turn on the TV in the corner, picking apart the chicken, digging into the warm deli vegetables and the hot mac ’n’ cheese.
“Shit, bud, if you keep eatin’ like this, you’re gonna be in rough shape when the season starts.”
Eli warned me on our call yesterday not to get too comfortable. All hell was gonna break loose after our little announcement, and eventually, the media would find me. Shortly after that, training camp would start, and if I’m out of shape from eating like crap, it would come back to haunt me.
I’d be wearing solar suits and drinking gallons of water to sweat it all off…
I shrug.
Whatever. I’d worry about that later.
Once I finish my chicken—the entire damn thing—I toss all my containers in the trash.
What is Posey gonna eat for dinner? She hasn’t said anything about sharing or wanting chicken. I guess I should have asked before scarfing it down.
My stomach rumbles, unsatisfied.
Leaning down once I open the fridge, I peer into it, surveying my options. Everything I just bought and we brought home is crammed inside, from the vegetables to the fruit to the milk and eggs and the few snacks I had to have—like the Reese’s Pieces I like to keep cold and the bite-sized pizza bagels.
My eyes roam the contents, settling on one thing after the next, but nothing looks or sounds good.
Then.
I spot it.
Nestled in the back corner, how did I miss it when I was rooting around in here before?
A cake.
Move the big bowl of grapes to the left. Shift the pickles to the left. Remove the almond milk.
Pull out the cake.
“Well, hello there,” I croon to it as I unceremoniously plunk it on the table, yank open the utensil drawer, and grab a fork. I sit back down before deciding where to extract the first bite.
Round and white with fluffy frosting encircling the top. Hot pink roses with intricate green leaves ornament on top that probably took her hours to perfect, get jammed into my watering mouth.
“Damn, this is good,” I say around a big, moist chunk. “Shit.”
I eat more, devouring every morsel, moaning and rolling my eyes toward the ceiling, wishing I’d gotten myself a glass of milk before I started eating.
I’m about to rise to do just that when Posey enters the kitchen. She takes one look at me and begins shouting.
“Duke!” She looks pissed. “What are you doing?! You’re eating my cake!”
“Your cake?” I’m nonplussed, continuing to eat.
“Yes, my cake! We didn’t buy it at the store. Whose cake did you think it was?” She’s fuming, madder than a wet hen.
“What’s your point?” I chew. The cake is so moist I have half a mind to moan out loud. “What was it doin’ in the fridge, then? I thought you were gonna have a welcome party for me and thought, why wait?”
“A welcome party?” She sounds so mad I actually put down my fork while she yells at me. “What would make you think I was having a party for you? No one is supposed to know you’re here!”
The cake. The cake is what made me think she was having a party for me, but I don’t say that out loud; I may not be the smartest man on earth, but I get the feeling that mentioning it would only make this worse.
I load my fork with more of the moist confection.