Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 135831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 679(@200wpm)___ 543(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 679(@200wpm)___ 543(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
I breathe a small sigh of relief. At least he’s no longer saying no. “That’s me,” I say.
“I can’t believe I have a fucking drill instructor,” he says, as he drags a hand over his beard, a distracting move because his hand is so big, and his beard is so beardy, and my mind is so traitorous wondering how that scruff would feel against me.
Shake that all the way the fuck off, girl.
I fasten on a smile to counteract my dirty thoughts. “Then I suppose we should discuss when boot camp begins? Bright and early tomorrow at 0600?” I ask even though I know he won’t actually show up then, nor do I want him to. I need to devise a battle plan first.
“This is boot camp all right.”
“And I trust you’ll be a good soldier at Good Guy Boot Camp?” My smile widens, selling this most fabulous boot camp. Right. Sure. But a girl can try.
He doesn’t answer right away. Just picks up his towel, tosses it on top of his gym bag by the weight bench, then looks back at me, expression stony. I could snap a pic of him and slap the caption: The Max Lambert Glower across it right now. “Rosewood, you do know the last thing I want is a makeover, right?”
My smile promptly vanishes, and I heave a frustrated sigh. He makes it so hard to be sunshine sometimes. “Yes, Max, I picked up on that from context clues,” I say dryly, even though I know—I absolutely know—that’s the wrong approach with him. Like a GPS rerouting in a new direction, I try again, opting for straightforward and honest. “Listen, I get that this image revamp is the last thing you want. I understand it’s a personal affront to the—” I stop and wave an arm in front of him, dangerously close to the strong pecs that stretch his T-shirt quite nicely. Too nicely. I focus on finishing the thought. “…the whole fuck-off-world mystique you have going on. But the reality is—”
He comes closer, his mouth amused. “Mystique? You think I have a mystique?” It’s asked with avid curiosity.
I should be nice. I should be nice. I really should be nice. “It wasn’t entirely a compliment,” I say.
His grin turns smug. “You sure about that?”
“Umm, yes, why?”
“Mystique does mean a fascinating aura of mystery, awe, and power surrounding someone or something.”
Fuck him. “Are you doubling as a dictionary?”
“No. I looked it up the other night when I came across it in this online class I’m taking. And you did say mystique, ergo, that sounds like a compliment.”
There’s entirely too much to unpack in that statement—Max takes online classes?—but now’s not the time to delve into his hobbies so I bookmark that in my head. “Yes, I know what the word means.” Deep breath. You can do this. Don’t let him get to you. If I’m going to have to give him charm lessons, I might as well lead by being charming myself. “Max, let’s give you a whole new mystique then.” I wave a hand toward him like a magician sprinkling, I don’t know, now-you-see-it-now-you-don’t dust. “The mystique of marketability.”
He pauses for a second, his eyes hard, but then he sighs as he slumps down to the bench once again. He drags a hand through his wild, messy hair. It’s not quite shoulder-length—it’s more unkempt-length, and it works for him. It’s dark, a little long, a lot messy, like you’ve just run your fingers through it. “Yeah, I guess we have to. And I thought hell was line drills in full pads after a loss.”
I shudder. That does sound awful, and I feel a pang of sympathy for him. This really must be hard for the man. “Does Coach McBride make you do that still?” I ask.
“No way. That was youth hockey. But the memory still stings.”
Be charming. Be sweet. Be upbeat. “I promise this will be better than line drills. Just imagine you’re the Beast when he has his claws filed and hair styled.”
He narrows his eyes and snarls like a beast when he says, “No bows. I will not wear a bow in my hair.”
And I’m finding my rhythm since I say playfully, “Someone knows his Beauty and the Beast.”
“Yes, I do, sunshine.”
I pause on that word. He’s called me that a few times, when we’ve been out with a group of friends, which happens not by choice but by default because of our friends in common. But maybe it’s a good sign. It’s not the worst nickname. “Good then. You’ll know what to expect. Just think of this good-guy boot camp as a movie makeover,” I say, then stop and consider that, holding up a finger. “But not one of the sexist ones.”
“The sexist ones? Which ones are those?”
I screw up the corner of my lips, thinking. “Actually, most movie makeovers are because they show the woman being transformed from having braces and baggy clothes to a brand-new hairstyle and tight top—no glasses, naturally—so she looks sufficiently hot for the male gaze. To which I say fuck off.”