Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 89583 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89583 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
I take another picture. He narrows his eyes and I take two more. “You’re a proven klutz,” I remind him.
“I’m good for it.”
“I’m sure you are.”
“I’ll feed you if you let me hold it.”
I snort. “Does that line usually work for you?” Pressing down a smile, I refocus the lens for a closeup of his eyes. Take a few more.
“I don’t have to bribe them with food, babe.”
We’re talking about his women. The smorgasbord. I can’t imagine he’s been able to do much “dating.” Between practice, games, and me all his time is accounted for. And he hasn’t mentioned seeing anyone.
Unless he’s having them come over late at night.
Shit. I shouldn’t have done that. Contemplating it makes my stomach sour. My head knows we’re only friends. My heart and the rest of my body strongly object to this arrangement.
My eyes trace down the line of his pec where it leads to the groove between his cobbled abs, to the fine brown hair that thickens below his belly button. Zoe wasn’t wrong. His body is a work of art. Photographing him naked would be amazing but I’m too chicken shit to ask him.
His eyes slide up from the camera bag, two heat-seeking missiles that lock onto mine.
“Your bedroom eyes don’t work on me, Flipper. Save it for the Speedo chasers.” He keeps staring, eyelids heavy. I hate him. “Fine. Go ahead, babe.”
He takes the cinecamera out of the foam protective case, holds it in his big hands with reverence.
“And you’ll feed me anyway.” Since the first night he drove me to study class two weeks ago, we’ve eaten one meal together at least every other day. It’s like I no longer need a food budget because he usually sends me back to the dorm with extra. “It’s mind boggling how much food you consume.”
“Imma growing boy.”
He’s six foot two inches. “I hope not. That’d be scary.”
“I need to eat around 7,000 calories a day during the season. That’s scary. You know how much food it takes in the right balance of sixty-twenty-twenty of carbs, proteins, and fats?”
“Yes, I do. I watch you do it all the time.” The man is constantly eating and I’m getting an increasingly alarming amount of texts that look like this…
Big Deal: u hungry?
Never any capitals. Never. He never capitalizes. What’s that about? Is this a new thing? Everyone too lazy to capitalize now? What’s next, are we going to do away with commas altogether and just use periods?
He looks through the viewfinder of my camera, points it at me. “You really love it, huh? Filming, making movies?”
There’s no need to even consider the answer. It trips from my tongue effortlessly. “Nothing I love more outside of my family.” Playing with the camera, he nods. “What about you, Rea. What do you love?”
He looks up, looks off. “I don’t know yet…But if I could choose anything, I’d choose to see the world.”
Of all the things he could’ve said, this one surprises me. “Haven’t you seen a lot of it already? Surely the family Reynolds summers in Europe?”
He shakes his head. “When Brian and I were kids, my parents worked nonstop. We sometimes went to Mexico for Christmas. That was about it. Once my parents started working less, Brian had already started using. We couldn’t go anywhere––not with him. So we never traveled as a family after that.” He shrugs. “Water polo was taking up most of my time by then anyway.”
How ironic. All that money and still denied the one thing he wanted. “Where would you go first?”
His head lifts, eyes focus, searching my face for God knows what. It dawns on me then that he’s searching for an answer. “Has no one ever asked you?”
He shakes his head, loses himself in thought for a bit. “Patagonia…The Great Wall of China. Iceland. Kenya…” He smiles, warming up to the subject. But that smile slowly creeping up? It’s nothing but trouble.
“New Jersey.”
“Jerk,” I grumble and he laughs. “Go ahead and laugh it up, asshole. New Jersey is not known as the Garden State for nothing, I’ll have you know.” I take more pictures while he wipes his eyes, the laughter slowly dying.
Entering the arena through the locker room door, Brock approaches. He’s a big, intimidating guy on any given day. Wearing sweats with a hoody up and a black backpack slung over a shoulder like he is now, however, makes him look a little murdery.
Seeing us, he smiles knowingly. Whatever he’s assuming, he’s wrong.
“I’m going to the store. You need anything?” he asks Reagan, stops at the bleachers where we’re hanging out.
“I’m good. Bailey and I are going out to eat.”
“Yeah? Where?”
“Neptune’s.”
“Cool. Mind if I come along?”
“Sorry, man. Just us.”
Totally awkward silence ensues. During which a flush starts at my collarbone and covers my entire face faster than you can ask what just happened.