Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 58992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 295(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 295(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
She pats my shoulder. “You’re managing. I’m following.”
“Must do sex again,” I grunt, caveman style.
“Okay, you’re de-evolving,” she says with a laugh.
“Sex and tacos. Must have sex and tacos next time,” I continue.
“Well, that’s clear.”
I go back to normal. “Forgive my appetite. Great sex makes me extra hungry,” I say, coming in closer to drop a tender kiss on the back of her neck. She smells like us.
She leans against me, seeming to savor the soft kiss too. “You’re forgiven,” she whispers.
But then she returns her focus to the food. As she pushes the veggies around with a spatula, she says, “Want to know my secret? To tossing the veggies in the pan so quickly?”
“I really do.”
She drops her voice to a stage whisper. “The veggies were pre-chopped.”
I whistle. “Damn, woman. And that’s a good trick but it doesn’t detract from the brainpower required to remember you had them. You are a surf angel rock star attorney goddess,” I say as she takes the frying pan off the heat, setting it on a trivet.
I steal another kiss. Her post-sex scent is like a hit of sunshine on a rainy day. Then I steal another. And now, one more on her ear.
“Drew, you have to behave. I want to season the veggies,” she says as I kiss her collarbone.
“That means I have to stop kissing you?” I ask, appalled at such blasphemy.
“Yes. For twenty seconds.”
“Fine, fine. Focus on the food instead,” I say, faux dismissively.
She turns around and gently swats my arm. “Your stomach was growling. You’re the one who was hungry.”
“You made me hungry! And I have no regrets.”
Laughing, she shakes some salt and pepper and rosemary on the risotto, then tells me to grab a beer or a LaCroix from the fridge. Don’t want to overstay my welcome, so I pick the LaCroix, snagging one for her as well, then we sit at the counter and dig in.
Holy shit. Brooke can cook. I groan in appreciation.
“Oh please,” she says. “It’s just from a bag from Trader Joe’s.”
I scoff. “Doesn’t make me like it less. This is tasty.”
I appreciate the grub—food and I are good friends—but I like the company even more. So much, I don’t want to go. But I should. Soon.
Very soon.
I just want to lock in another date first.
I clear my throat. We agreed to talk about work later, and now is later. “I feel like I played hooky today. Sunday always feels like a workday to me. I’m used to working pretty much every Sunday during the fall. I play football,” I say, then take another bite, relieved to finally be forthcoming about who I am.
She smiles softly. A hint of a secret lingers in her grin. “You’re the quarterback.”
I pause, my fork midair. “Um, yeah.” I feel like I hit my head again. I wasn’t expecting her to know, so I add stupidly, “For the Los Angeles Devil Sharks.”
She squeezes my arm, smiling again. “And you had a hell of a season. One of those where-did-he-come-from years. Your passer rating was in the top eight last year, and your touchdowns thrown were in the top six.”
I set the fork down so I don’t drop it from shock. “You know all that?”
“Drew, I love sports. I work in the sports business too. And to be clear, I didn’t help you because of that.” She fidgets with her napkin. “I didn’t even realize who you were until we’d been sitting on the sand and talking for a while.”
Oh, shit. I didn’t mean she has to justify herself. “It never entered my mind that you only saved me because I’m a player,” I say, grabbing her hand from my arm, threading my fingers through hers. “I was surprised you knew, not annoyed. Also, kind of amazed at the depth of your knowledge.”
She lets out a long breath. “Good. It felt weird knowing who you were and not saying anything, but it seemed like you didn’t want anyone to recognize you. So, I went along with it.”
I grimace, worried I might have come across as foolish as I feel now. “Did I sound like I assumed you were a football groupie?” God, I hope not. “I never want to sound like that kind of sexist jackass. Like I think I’m a star or that I assume all women want…” I can’t even finish the sexist thought. “I swear I don’t think that.”
She shakes her head, reassuring me. “I’ve worked in this field for five years now. I understand players value their privacy. I wanted to make sure you had yours. I figured you had your reasons.”
This woman. She’s some kind of luck, falling into my lap. And the next time I see her, I am going to feed her tacos and go for a walk on the beach and then fuck her to six, maybe seven orgasms. “Have I mentioned you’re a rock star? Because you are.”