Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 88895 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 444(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88895 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 444(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
Fucking grow a pair.
Passing by those gathered in the upstairs loft, drinking or dropping giant pieces into an oversized Connect Four is wordlessly done as is peeking into the cracked doors I come across, continuously disappointed to find people casually fucking or on their way.
Defeat grows more and more rampant with each passing step only to abruptly stop when I pop my head into the rec room at the end of the hall. Folded over the blue felt covered pool table is the left wing who I hate for having the balls to not only come after me but to not stop coming after me.
Off the scoresheet?
Where no one will ever see these notes?
He’s a total Gordie Howe fucking hat-trick.
A deliciously rare feat in spite of his man whore choices.
He’s undeniably attractive.
Dirty blond hair, bright blue eyes, script tattoos, cut muscles, and an accent that I’ll never openly admit actually is irresistible.
He speaks my lingo.
Jock talk is its own foreign language that he speaks, appreciates, and adores me for doing the same.
And lastly – along with most painfully – he can give as good as he can take.
Most dudes I’ve crossed paths with don’t want a woman with a mouth on her that isn’t just for sucking their cock, yet Frosky does.
He goads me.
He challenges me.
He invites me to talk shit and speak my mind and be the most intelligent person in the room without issue.
I hate him for that.
For all of that.
Almost as much as I hate him for committing the biggest sin I can never forgive.
Fucking my sister.
“There’s the pylon I’ve been looking for,” I juvenilely coo upon entering the room.
There’s no hesitation for him to stop mid shot and quirk an eyebrow in question. “Am I dreaming?” He doesn’t wait for a response. “Wait. No.” The stick is effortlessly sent forward into the nearby billiard ball. “You have on clothes.”
Gagging occurs at the same time I shut the door behind me.
“You looking for me means you must need something quite badly.” Frosky props the item straight up and slides one hand into his light – almost white – suit pants. “Work or personal?”
“What would I ever need you for personally?”
“An alibi?” His crystal stare sparkles with mirth. “Perhaps hiding a body?”
My sauntering doesn’t stop until I arrive at the opposite end of the table from him. “And you know where to do that?”
“I know people who know where to do that.” The waggling of his eyebrows – a weird signature trait – successfully gets me giggling. “Quite the difference, Arden.”
Ugh.
Add another stat to the hate department.
The way he says my name.
Particularly my first.
Agreeing to let him use it whenever we’re alone, alone was definitely a rookie mistake.
Kind of like getting turned on from watching his mouth lower to make the A sound in his native tongue.
Placing my purse on the edge of the table occurs in tandem with my announcing, “I’m here against my will.”
“What else is new?”
His snarky retort receives a sneer as well as a flash of my middle finger.
“Here?” He fakes a gasp while clutching onto his chest. “On the table?!” His fake appalment needlessly deepens. “What sort of man do you think I am?”
“A horny one.”
“Often.”
Laughter over his rebuttal is barely swallowed.
“However, our first time together will not be on an uneven pool table.”
“Correct.” Removing my phone from my handbag precedes me adding. “It’ll be in your dreams because that shit is never happening.”
“I disagree.”
“I see I need to start covering my beverages around you.”
“Dark.”
“Hot Rocket wants me filming you out in the wild, so here I am.” A small shaking of my work phone is executed. “Here to capture you doing whatever it is you do – with your clothes on – at this thing.”
“Contrary to media belief I do not shag a broadskie at every social activity I attend.”
“So that wasn’t you at the club foundation’s masquerade ball earlier this year getting a hummer in your car from a bunny in a Venetian mask?”
Guilt instantly spreads through his complexion. “That…did…happen…yes.”
“And did you or did you not motorboat that trailer park princess skate chaser at the St. Patty’s Day parade?”
“She put her tits in my face.” He innocently shrugs. “Her tits assaulted me.”
“Uh-huh, and the flight attendant who gave you a reach around at one of the charity Christmas parties?”
“That was Becks!”
“That gave you the reach around?” I playfully poke.
A small shake of his head is attached to him asking, “You are loving this, aren’t you?”
“I’m not, not loving the fact that I can disprove your previous claim.”
“I am not always pads deep in pussy. More often than not – especially at this particular gathering – this.” Frosky tips his chin at the table. “This is what I do.”
“Lose to yourself?”
“Play pool.”
“Alone?”
“Sometimes.”
“Why?”
“Why am I alone or why do I play pool?”
“You’re probably alone because of whatever bunny smell you forgot to bathe off you before coming here,” I easily jab, grateful to see another small snicker shake his French blue jacket bearing shoulders. “But I meant why do you play pool? There are a shit ton of other – much more social – activities you could get into.”