Total pages in book: 174
Estimated words: 173355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 693(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 173355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 693(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
Maybe I should just live my life.
So I did.
I lived my life that night and I drew him.
His face. His eyes. His long-ish hair.
That clenched jaw.
I drew his shoulders, his gleaming silver watch, his suit.
And then I decorated him.
I made fluffy clouds around his gorgeous face, rainbows around his shoulders. I wrapped his tall body in a chain of roses and thorns. I sat butterflies on his fingers and dropped stars on his shoes.
By the end, it was a mess of colors and shapes behind which his beautiful face was hidden like a secret code.
My Mystery Man.
The one I never thought I’d see again.
But I am.
I am seeing him.
He’s standing on the soccer field, in front of me.
Somehow, on my heavy limbs, I’ve managed to walk to the edge of the field where the crowd has gathered, and somehow my heart, which had slowed down like my legs, has also picked up speed.
My heart is beating and pounding as I stand here, staring at him.
But how is he… What is…
My racing thoughts vanish when a second later my best friend, Callie walks up to him.
I see her smiling up at him, happily and brightly.
At my Mystery Man.
I even see her touch him on his arm as she says something to him. And he listens.
And then I hear something, his deep soothing voice, in my head: I’ve got a sister your age.
His words are followed by another set of words, spoken by Callie: What if they make trouble for him? Because he’s my brother…
Holy…
Holy shit.
He’s the brother.
Him.
Holy fucking shit. And Callie is the sister.
Callie’s the reason why he wouldn’t let me walk home all alone that night, why he stopped to check on me in the first place. Because he’s a big brother.
He’s Callie’s big brother.
He’s…
“Conrad,” I whisper to myself, my eyes wide as I watch them together. “His name is Conrad.”
Something twists in my chest then.
At finally finding out his name.
At finally, finally finding out who he is.
Conrad. Conrad Thorne.
Con. Rad.
Con.
That’s what Callie calls him, doesn’t she?
My brother, Con. Con this, Con that.
Conrad is my Mystery Man.
How is that possible? How is…
A shrill noise breaks through the air, making me wince and stealing my thoughts. It alerts us to the beginning of practice, and so not only does Callie leave, but I also have to gather myself and pay attention.
I’m not sure how I do it but I manage to tear my eyes off him and focus on the moment. On Coach TJ. On Salem and Poe, who find me in the crowd and come to stand next to me. On forming a line when Coach TJ asks us to and putting one foot after another until I find my place in it.
And then the entire group settles down and I have nothing else to distract myself with.
I have nothing else to focus on.
Except him.
I take a deep, shaky breath and wipe my sweaty palms down my soccer shorts before daring to look up at him again.
It’s a punch to the gut, my chest. A sharp sting to my heart and my lungs.
The sight of him.
And my eyes can’t stop staring at him. My eyes can’t stop feasting, gorging on his face. Even when Coach TJ begins talking, introducing him as our new coach. Before telling us to come forward in turn and introduce ourselves and what position we play one by one.
I can’t take my eyes off his hair. Dirty blond, thick and rich and short. Much shorter than it was that night, making me wonder what happened to it. Not that it takes away from the beauty of his face, but I find that I miss his long strands. I miss them grazing over his brows, fluttering over the fine bones of his cheeks.
His cheeks.
That’s another thing I can’t take my eyes off of. The height of them, the arch. The hollows. The shadows that they do cast — as I thought they would — on his jaw. Which is clean-shaven and square.
So unapologetically beautiful and masculine.
And then there’s his body.
The suit that he was wearing that night was too small for him. Too constraining.
Of course it hid his size, his power.
Which is fucking breathtaking in his light blue t-shirt and black track pants.
His clothes not only mold to fit his muscles, they showcase them.
The breadth of his shoulders, the globes. The bumps of his biceps, which are even more enhanced because he has his arms crossed over his chest. Those lean hips that then flow into powerful thighs.
He stands on the soccer field, watching girls coming forward one by one as they introduce themselves.
And I realize I’m going to have to do the same.
I’m going to have to introduce myself. Or re-introduce, rather.
Because we’ve met before, haven’t we?
And then there’s no controlling the beats of my heart or the buzz on my skin. No controlling my breaths and my anticipation until it’s my turn.