Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 62128 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 311(@200wpm)___ 249(@250wpm)___ 207(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62128 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 311(@200wpm)___ 249(@250wpm)___ 207(@300wpm)
“And you got the job with references from these two,” Nash says, motioning to Monroe and Blakely where they stand on my other side, in and out of conversations with Paxton and Lawson.
“Yeah, having their referral gave me an edge, but I also had the numbers from my sister’s business to prove I knew how to market.”
“Oh yeah, I didn’t mean you only got in because of your connection,” Nash says quickly, an apologetic look in his eyes.
The look is new and endearing as hell, but I smile and wave him off. “I know you didn’t,” I say. “How did you get into hockey?”
“I had somewhat of a late start,” he says. “My family couldn't afford to get me into the league until I was about nine, but the minute I stepped foot on the ice there was a talent no one could deny. I fell in love with the sport, the teamwork, all of it. I threw myself into getting better every single day and never looked back. Once I got drafted onto the Badgers, I knew all my hard work paid off and all the monetary sacrifices my parents made for me would be repaid.”
Something serious flashes over his features, and I wonder where the thought just took him. He just as quickly smooths it away.
“Did you catch me lifting that keg?” Baylor asks as he makes it to our group, his question preventing me from asking Nash what changed his mood.
“I caught it,” I say with a laugh. “It’ll be a highlight for sure.”
“Nice,” he says, nodding. “Maybe the brewery will want to sponsor me.”
“You better stop doing things like lifting kegs over your head,” Monroe chides him. “You've already been in my office twice this week, and it's only Wednesday. What do I keep telling you about your muscles, Torrington?”
“That I have to take care of them,” he says, flashing Monroe an apologetic look. “Why do you think I’m in the gym almost twenty-four seven?”
“Recovery,” Monroe says. “You have to let those muscles recover or all the lifting is for nothing.”
Baylor sighs. “I'll try.”
“You better,” she says playfully. “We need you healthy. You’re essential to this team.”
Baylor beams at that. “That’s the truth,” he says, nudging Nash with his elbow. “You wouldn’t have scored without my assist.”
“Won’t deny that,” Nash says.
Eventually our group breaks up, people drawn this direction or that by other teammates and guests at the party. The night winds on, and I realize I’ve got a ton of great footage, but not enough of me and Nash.
I follow him into the living area where a makeshift dance floor is set up in a hangout area. “Do you mind if I try to get some more shots of us?” I whisper, pulling out my phone.
“Sure, what do you want me to do?”
“I don't know,” I say pulling up my camera. “Do whatever feels natural. Whatever you'd be doing if you were my boyfriend.”
He cocks a brow at me. “See, that's kind of a problem.”
My shoulders drop. “Why?”
“If you were my girl?” He shrugs. “My natural instinct would be to seduce you. Always,” he says, plain and simple.
And I admire his blunt honesty.
“Even if we were already in a relationship?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“Especially if we're already in a relationship. Damn, what kind of relationships have you been in where the seduction stops after you've made things official?”
I wave him off, totally not wanting to open that bag of worms.
“Okay then,” I say. “Do what comes naturally.”
“Are you telling me to seduce you, Reese's Pieces?” His smirk is ridiculously enchanting.
“Sure,” I say. “What are you afraid of? You think I’m going to fall in love with you so easily? You've already kissed me, Stokehill, and I haven't asked you to marry me yet.”
He grins at me. “Yet being the optimal word,” he says, stepping a little closer to me, lowering his voice between us. “I told you, you’re the one who’s going to lead us when it comes to PDA, but if you want me to act natural, then my hands are going to be on you.”
Heat streaks through me at his words, at the promise in them, as if it's the most natural thing in the world.
“I'm okay with that,” I manage to say, even though my heart is racing. “If we want this to work, we need to act like this is real. I’m comfortable with you,” I say, and his eyebrows raise. “I appreciate you checking in for the consent—it’s refreshing as hell—but I'm in this with you.”
“You're sure?”
“One hundred percent,” I say, and the certainty in that term turns on a little light bulb inside of me, alerting me to the fact that I trust him. At least enough that I'm giving him permission to touch me in public. That's a huge leap, but it makes sense. Despite our ridiculous, sometimes heated debates in the past, he’s never made me feel uncomfortable in a negative way. And after he took care of me on New Years’ Eve? How could I not trust him?