Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 97667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
An army of red ants is suddenly crawling up my neck, which irritates the crap out of me. Next, I start to feel everything south of my waist grow suspiciously warm. What the…I avert my eyes from those pesky dimples and work the muscle next to one.
“I grew up sharing a two bedroom trailer with ten people. I had no idea what privacy was until I bought my first house. You get over being shy real quick.” The last few words are colored by a twang.
Aaand I just got double barrel kicked in the sternum. Ouch. This is starting to become a habit. I don’t even know what to say to that, so I keep my fat mouth shut.
“How long did you play softball?” he continues in that panty melting deep voice of his.
“Until my senior year at Boston College.”
“What position?”
“Pitcher.”
At this, his eyes crack open and study me closely. “You must’ve been really good.”
“Hmm. I had an ERA of 1.82 and 237 strikeouts.” Softball had always been easy for me.
“That makes you one of the best in the league. Why’d you give it up?”
For the first time in years, I’m tempted to tell the truth, the truth that I can barely admit to myself, let alone out loud. And yet for some reason, it feels like if anyone would understand without judgment, it’s this man.
“The official answer is chronic shoulder pain.”
He scans my face, his sharp, intelligent eyes reading every nuance. “And the unofficial?”
“I didn’t have the heart for it anymore. I’m not a competitor like you. The time spent practicing and traveling, the dedication it takes. You know––” At this, he gives me a commiserative nod. “I played because I was good at it with very little effort, but I never had a passion for it.”
He’s now staring at me like he wants to say something and doesn’t know how to begin. After too much time spent in silence, I add, “And if you ever repeat that, I’ll get Amber to murder you in your sleep.”
At the mention of Amber, he groans. Just then, Sam shuffles awkwardly into the room and mumbles something about his new Lego set.
“Sam––do you know how to play Madden?” Calvin asks him. Sam nods vigorously. “Wanna play a little with me?”
Hiding my shock is out of the question. Calvin has never actually asked Sam anything, let alone to play a game. The smile this produces on my face is just plain silly. I point it directly at the big man lying on his stomach and he kindly answers with an eye roll and a headshake. Two hours later, I’m groaning, “Can’t you just let him win once in a while? Sam? Are you listening?”
Both of them ignore me. Sam is as relaxed as I’ve ever seen him while Calvin looks like he’s about to smash the television into a thousand pieces.
“How can you suck this badly?” This question is directed at Calvin in genuine bewilderment. “And how the hell did they pick you for the cover? Do they know how bad you are?”
In response, I get a look intended to melt the skin off my body. “I’m not that bad. It’s him!” he says stabbing his index finger at his eight year old nephew.
“Have you played this game a lot?” I ask Sam.
“Yeah.”
“With your friends at home?”
“By myself.”
My stomach clenches as I realize the subtext; he’s hinted at how lonely he is at home on more than one occasion.
“You have this game at home?” Calvin adds.
“You got it for me.”
A detail that Calvin seems to have forgotten because his gaze swings back to Sam in surprise. Then Cal’s eyes meet mine. In them I see regret and embarrassment.
“If I would’ve known you were gonna beat my butt like this, I woulda sent you another Lego set.”
A huge, white grin spreads across Sam’s face. Be still my beating heart.
Chapter Fifteen
“It was so much easier to hate him.”
It’s a busy night at the lounge and since I only have one table left, I’m helping Amber clean the back bar while she serves the stragglers. Amber’s face goes unnaturally still. I don’t like it one bit. It’s the same face she gave me when we were in junior high and I had a crazy crush on Sonny Lynch and she found the doodles in my binder I had drawn of our initials. Yeah, she never let me live that one down.
“You like him, you like him,” she sing songs.
“I don’t like him. I respect him––which is far worse.” She raises a blonde brow. “Okay, maybe I like him a little.”
“He’s a man. He’ll do something real shitty in no time and you’ll be back to hating him.”
“And I wonder why you’re still single.”
“’Cause I’m smart, that’s why.”
“Don’t you think it’s time to let Parker go, Ambs,” I say as gently as possible.