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)
“I’m not staying in your room,” I announce as I slide into the now unoccupied seat.
“And what is your other option?”
“The lobby.”
“They do not allow slumbering in the lobby.”
“How do you know that?”
“The signs.”
“Well,” picking up a hunk of the braised short rib occurs between thoughts, “the front desk dude went to make me an exception to the rule.”
“You are an exception to many rules, Arden,” he defeatedly coos under his breath. “You are the only one who doesn’t seem to understand that.”
“What’s that’s supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.”
“Don’t nothing me.”
“Don’t need to be nothinged.”
“You’re such a fucking pigeon,” I grumble, sloppily tossing the piece into my mouth.
“Says the fucking plug that won’t scratch her bloody pride so that she has somewhere remotely decent to sleep for the night.”
“I can scratch my pride!”
“You can’t even bench it!”
“I can so bench it!” Gravy is flung off my finger and onto his gray athletic sweater. “And I will stay in your room tonight to fucking prove it!”
“Fine!”
“Fine!”
Snowman smugly smirks, waits for the realization that I’ve been played to seep in, and then victoriously grins again.
Motherfucker.
Alright.
The first goal of the night goes to him.
But that’s the only one he’s getting.
Guaranteed.
Chapter 12
Arden
I always thought I possessed a reasonable amount of regrets for the average person.
Not going to prom because no one “proposed”.
Skipping the stage walk when I graduated college because it gave me the wrong gladiator in coliseum vibes.
Moving into a mansion I didn’t want, didn’t ask for, and doesn’t really feel like I belong in simply because my parents bought it for me.
Never would’ve guessed wearing Snowman’s All-Star conference shirt to bed was going to be added to the list.
Tossing my balled-up clothing on top of my black suitcase that’s right outside the bathroom door as I round the corner is followed by a heavy, frustrated sigh. “Seriously?” My palms fall onto my green cheer shorts covered hips. “Why isn’t there shit on the floor for me to sleep on yet?”
He doesn’t bother glancing up from the edge of the bed where he’s texting. “I was busy.”
“You couldn’t pause sexting the slut of the week long enough to toss a pillow and blanket on the ground?”
“I don’t have a slut of the week.”
“Day then.”
“Not that either.” Snowman finishes up his message and meets my glare. “And-” Whatever he was originally going to say is swiftly replaced by his smug statement. “That’s my All-Star conference shirt from last year.”
“So?”
“So, why are you wearing it?”
“Because I sleep in it.”
There’s no denying the arrogance that grows across his complexion. “You sleep in my number?”
“I sleep in Dalvegan t-shirts.”
“Do they all have my number on them?”
More than I’m going to admit to his fucking face.
It’s not my fault he’s my favorite player to watch!
It’s his!
He shouldn’t be so goddamn good at what he does!
“Can you just,” my hand gestures to the bed, “give me a blanket and pillow and I’ll fuck off by the window so you can go back to word banging Candy or Cherry or Cinnamon or whatever mountain bunny fell for your bullshit pregame.”
“I have never actually slept with a Cherry.”
Curiosity – unfortunately – gets the better of me. “But you’ve wheeled a Cinnamon?!”
“Both a C-y and an S-y.”
“Both strippers?”
“C-y teaches horseback riding classes at Wilson’s Horse Ranch in Middlebrook, which is right outside of Highland, and S-y sells homemade soap at craft fairs in Sunshine Bend.”
Amazement brazenly battles appalment for the right to be seen.
“Why do you care who I wheel?”
“I don’t.”
“Yet you clearly do.”
“I really don’t.”
“That’s why all you’ve done since you’ve been in my room is interrogate me about it?”
“You’re,” the remainder of the sentence gets contorted behind gritted teeth until I force them apart to spew, “such a fucking pylon.”
His head shaking irks me more than the accusation. “And you’re such a fucking pest.”
“One of the best.”
“That was not a compliment.”
“Sounded like one coming from one.”
“Why do you do that?” he grunts in obvious annoyance. “Why do you deflect? Why do you refuse to have a real bloody conversation with me?!”
“Why do you keep wanting to have one?!”
“Why do you keep not wanting to have one?!”
“Why are you yelling?!”
“Why are you yelling?!”
“Because you’re yelling!”
“I’m yelling because you’re yelling!”
Our mutual conclusion regarding the escalation of the situation pushes me to lower my volume to something far below game announcers, “Can you please toss me a blanket and pillow? I wanna crash.”
“You can crash beside me in the bed.”
My arms defiantly fold across my chest. “Fuck no.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m not sleeping with you!”
“How is falling asleep together side by side on some hotel bed really any bloody different than when we fall asleep together side by side on your lumpy couch?”
“First off, my couch isn’t lumpy.”
“It is like lounging on a pile of mashed potatoes from color to consistency.”
“Second off,” another small glare is delivered, “falling asleep with you on it, is never something planned, it just sort of happens.”