Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 85838 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 343(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85838 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 343(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
“All good books. Good guys too,” he says. “And it looks like you grab them when they come out. They’re all recent releases.”
“Yes, but—” I glance around like I’m checking for eavesdroppers, then I lean in to whisper, “I read them on my phone.”
That was a tactical mistake. So close to his ear, I catch a tempting whiff of his ocean scent. Is that his shampoo? His aftershave? I could find out if I got into a car with him and kissed his neck before he turned on the engine. If I took him back to my hotel later, put him on his hands and knees, and buried my face in his hair. I could ask him as I seduced him. As I touched him everywhere and got to know how every inch of his skin tastes.
Fuck my naughty brain.
Desperately, I shake off those thoughts sneaking out from the dirty side of my mind. “But I mostly listen to podcasts. Comedians. Did you know pretty much every comedian has a podcast?”
There. Maddox can get to know me more, like he wants, and I can tap into the sweeter side of me.
“I did not know that.”
“They do. I’ll watch a stand-up special on Webflix then look up the comic, and they’ll usually have some funny but sad podcast.” I whip out my phone and show him my podcast app, like I need to prove I’m a man of my word.
A satisfied grin takes over his face. “Love the evidence,” he says. “And your need to show it to me.”
I sigh, shaking my head. “Man, this is not fair. You know all these things about me and I know jack about you.” I wouldn’t mind a little tidbit. “Where do you live? I bet you’re in Santa Monica, some sweet high-rise overlooking the ocean. Or Beverly Hills, maybe.”
He scoffs. “I don’t live in Beverly Hills.”
“Santa Monica, then. I’m brilliant.”
He smirks. “I live ten minutes away, here in Venice. But not on the beach. In the neighborhoods.”
I’m getting all kinds of ideas. We could go back to his house in a flash. I could bend him over his couch, the kitchen table, the bathroom counter. “So you picked Venice because it’s close,” I say, a little flirty.
Maybe a lot flirty.
“I picked it because it’s the best place in Los Angeles,” he corrects. “It’s vibrant and lively and embraces everyone. And the food is great.”
More, I want more. I beckon for details with a wiggle of my fingers. “This is good. Serve up some more Maddox facts.”
He tips his forehead to the mystery section then heads that way. I follow. He picks up a paperback where, on the cover, a woman rides a horse and holsters a gun. “For my aunt. She loves mysteries set in the Old West. She plays in a pickleball league. Lives with her wife in Sedona. She came out at forty-nine. Now you know more about me.”
Rolling my eyes, I scoff. “Dude, that’s your family, not you.”
“But at least you know where I live,” Maddox says with a smile.
As we leave the store, a canary-yellow Ferrari Spider streaks by. I stare at it longingly as it cruises the main drag, humming low in my throat.
“Want to play?” Maddox asks.
I blink. Does he mean something about the car? Then I follow his arm. Oh. He’s pointing to a retro arcade one shop away.
“Nah. Not my thing. I like games I play with my body,” I say.
He snickers.
“Who has the dirty mind now?” I tease as we walk.
He shoots me a look that I sure hope says both of us. But his words are all business. “What kind of games do you like?”
Okay, fine. Maybe I’m the only one still thinking with his dick.
“Golf, basketball, badminton, volleyball. As a kid, I never stopped moving until I collapsed at the end of the day. That’s probably why I never got into console games. Even when I listen to podcasts or music, I’m usually running or working out.”
Maddox nods thoughtfully, and I swear the dude is taking notes.
We walk some more, and when my stomach rumbles, Maddox suggests a taco shop, then a sushi joint, then a rotisserie chicken food truck. None of those float my boat. But when I spot a salad and bowl shop, I’ve hit pay dirt. “Green food or die. Pretty much my favorite.” I shrug a little sheepishly. “I try to eat clean.”
He just smiles, and I know that’s going in his mental notebook too.
We eat at the picnic tables outside and shoot the breeze about baseball, which helps me stay anchored on the sweet side of my head. When we finish, I check the time on my phone.
Damn. I only have thirty minutes before I have to take off for the ballpark. “I have to jet at two-thirty,” I say.