Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 119005 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 595(@200wpm)___ 476(@250wpm)___ 397(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119005 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 595(@200wpm)___ 476(@250wpm)___ 397(@300wpm)
I saw the moment he recognized me.
His green eyes narrowed. “You.” He said the word like he was confronting his ultimate nemesis.
My lips twitched, but I remembered who he was and how irritated I felt just in time to halt the smile. Hands on my hips, I jerked my chin toward the sofa. “Well? Lift?”
“Wait, what? Who is she?” Man Bun asked Callan.
“Can we maybe do the introductions once we have the sofa in Keen’s apartment?” Middle Guy grumbled.
Keen.
Callan was my new neighbor.
“Well, Miss Smarty Pants.” Callan glared. “The sofa doesn’t fit in the lift, so this was the only way.”
“You’re a professional footballer. You couldn’t afford to hire movers to do this?”
“Unlike some people, I don’t throw money at every problem.”
I rolled my eyes at the dig about my privileged upbringing. “Well, Captain, you’re blocking the way to my flat, and I’m running late.”
“Did she just call you Captain?” Man Bun asked on a snort.
“He’s your captain, is he not? And as a captain of a major football team, I’m sure you can figure out how to get the heck out of my way so I’m not late.”
“Sorry about that, but I’m sure you can call the spa to cancel your facial. Or better yet, use the lift.” Callan turned to his friends. “Up and over our heads.”
I crossed my arms and watched as they struggled to grapple with the sofa. Eventually, with lots of intriguing grunts and groans, the three of them elevated the sofa above their heads. All those biceps bulging and straining definitely made me feel a wee bit less grumpy about being late.
And were also probably the reason I did not, in fact, use the lift.
There was a rough moment when I was worried Middle Guy might crash into the window along with the couch.
“So, who are you?” Man Bun asked on a grunt as they got the sofa around the bend in the stairwell.
I was right behind them. I knew at this point I should take the lift, but there was a part of me hoping that Callan would announce he was kidding about moving into my building and this was all a very bad dream.
Also, I hadn’t seen him in years—other than on TV and in ads—and I couldn’t help the way my eyes kept drifting to him as they carried the winner of the Ugliest Sofa of the Year award upstairs. Nostalgia flooded in, momentarily distracting me. I could still see him bending his head toward mine in class, murmuring funny comments under his breath to make me laugh. How every moment he gave me his attention had made me glow from the inside out.
“Well?” Man Bun pressed.
Shaking myself out of memory lane, I answered, “I’m Beth. This is an interesting choice of couch.”
“Don’t start,” Callan snapped.
Middle Guy grinned. “We’ve already given him shit for buying this ugly-ass thing.”
“Fuck!” Callan let out a curse as his head disappeared behind the sofa and the whole thing slid precariously toward Man Bun.
I rushed forward to help, bracing myself against it.
“Sorry,” came Callan’s muffled voice. “Tripped.”
“Thanks.” Man Bun’s dark eyes glittered flirtatiously down at me.
“No problem.” My tired muscles strained to hold the damn thing up with them, but I stayed put and helped as Callan centered himself.
As his head popped up and he saw me holding the sofa, his handsome features tightened. “What the hell are you doing?”
“She’s helping,” Man Bun answered, frowning incredulously. “What’s your problem with your hot neighbor?”
I beamed, flattered. “Thanks. You’re hot too.”
Man Bun grinned. “I know, but thanks.”
“No!” Callan released a hand from the sofa to point at us. “You are not friends.”
Shrugging, I looked up at Man Bun. “I don’t know. It feels like we could be besties.”
“Definitely,” he agreed. “I’m Baird, by the way. I’m the Caley goalie.”
That makes sense with his height and size, I thought, pretending I knew anything about football.
“Not that anyone asked, but I’m John.” Middle Guy smirked at me. Now that he was closer, I was surprised to discover we had remarkably similar coloring. Olive skin, dark blond hair, pale blue eyes. We could pass for siblings. John cocked his head, smirking, as if he’d noted the similarities between us too. “I play center forward.”
I had no idea what that meant but nodded. “And you’re American or Canadian.”
“Hey, most people just say American. I’m from Toronto.” He dropped the last t in Toronto.
“And you’re Beth?” Baird asked.
“And my arms are killing me,” Callan huffed. “Didn’t Beth say she was running late for a facial?”
“I never said that.”
“Aye, you did.”
“No, I said I was running late. You added in the facial.”
“Facial, nails, whatever. Can we just get my fucking sofa upstairs?”
“Wow. Nice way to talk to your friends.”
“You’re not my friend.”
A tiny flicker of something I wouldn’t call hurt zinged in my chest. I gave him a tight smile. “Baird and John are.”