Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 95776 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 479(@200wpm)___ 383(@250wpm)___ 319(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95776 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 479(@200wpm)___ 383(@250wpm)___ 319(@300wpm)
If I’d thought the living room was trashed, this is ten times worse. Even Beck, who is usually unflappable, skids to a halt.
“Well, shit.” His hand goes to the back of his neck as he surveys the damage.
“My thoughts exactly,” I snort.
Bottles of booze, bags of chips, empty pizza boxes, plates of half-eaten food are strewn about the room and take up every bit of counter space. Even the long expanse of island is covered with debris.
“What time are the parentals arriving home?” I ask.
He slides his hand through his hair, mussing it more than it already is. “A couple of hours.”
“Alrighty then.” I clap my hands together. “We better get to work.” I have no idea if we’ll be able to get this place cleaned up in time, but anything is better than them walking into this shitshow. We haven’t even assessed the damage outside.
When Beck fails to respond, I turn to him. “Where are the garbage bags?”
“I appreciate your offer to help, but you don’t have to. You’re not the one who made the mess, you shouldn’t have to clean it up.” His lips quirk into a smile. “Don’t stress. I’ll take care of it.”
It’s a tempting offer. The idea of going home and crawling into bed for a couple of hours is enticing.
But…if I leave Beck to his own devices, there’s no way he’ll get done in time.
“It’s fine,” I murmur, mentally committing myself to three or four hours of cleanup, “I’ll stay and help.”
Emotion flickers in his eyes. “Are you sure you feel all right?”
Heat slams into my cheeks. Every shift of my thighs reminds me of what we were doing thirty minutes ago. “I’m fine.”
He jerks his head into a nod. “Okay, thanks.”
Breaking eye contact, I glance around. “I guess we should get started.”
“Whatever you say, boss.” Beck heads to the pantry and grabs a box of garbage bags and gloves. Without a word between us, I slip the latex over my hands and take a couple of white bags with me to the living room. Beck handles the kitchen as I tackle the other spaces. After all the bottles and random items have been disposed of, I make a sweep of the first floor. At least one good decision on his part was to lock the matching offices.
By the time I’ve finished straightening up, I’ve filled three garbage bags with remnants from the party. I’ve found everything from underwear to baseball caps. Satisfied with the cleanup, I return to the kitchen and find that Beck has cleared all the surfaces and has loaded the dishwasher. I grab the vacuum and run it through the first floor as Beck sweeps the hardwoods in the kitchen.
When I glance at the clock on the microwave, I’m surprised to find that almost two hours have slipped by. I survey the kitchen and two-story family room with a critical eye. “It looks pretty good in here.”
Beck leans against the broom. “Teamwork makes the dream work.”
“It’s entirely possible your parents won’t realize you invited the entire senior class over last night.”
“They’ll know. I’m sure Dad has already watched the security footage.”
“Oh.” I shoot him a frown. “Why would you have a party if you knew you’d get caught?” That makes no sense.
His lips lift into a lazy grin. “Mostly because I don’t give a shit.”
And there you have it. Beck’s motto in life. I don’t think he cares about anything other than football.
When I remain silent, he adds, “I’ll get in trouble regardless, so might as well do exactly what I want and have a damn good time doing it.”
That’s one of the many differences between us. The idea of doing something I would get in trouble for is a foreign concept.
“I don’t get you,” I say.
Not the least bit offended, a slow grin spreads across his face. “It’s not possible for you to make a move without carefully weighing all the consequences, is it?”
“It’s called being responsible. Why are you trying to make it sound so bad?”
“Because spontaneity can be a beautiful thing.” His eyes ignite with heat. “Don’t you think so?”
An answering desire kindles to life inside me. “There’s a difference between impulsiveness and spontaneity.”
“True.” He steps closer.
My breath catches when he reaches out and twirls a lock of hair around his index finger before staring at the dark strands as if fascinated by them.
“Don’t you ever get tired of being so damn good?” He pauses. “Aren’t you ever tempted to break out of the little box your parents have put you in?”
Nerves scuttle through me and goose flesh rises in its wake. “No one has put me in a box. They give me the freedom to do what I want. Unlike you, I make better choices.”
“You don’t think I make good decisions?” His fingers continue to grip my hair as he invades my personal space.