Total pages in book: 53
Estimated words: 51427 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 257(@200wpm)___ 206(@250wpm)___ 171(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 51427 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 257(@200wpm)___ 206(@250wpm)___ 171(@300wpm)
God, I feel like I’m ready to say that right this second.
But we can’t just jump into the sack. We made a deal to go to a party and behave. “Soon, soon,” I say.
With a huff, he lets go of me, then shakes his head like he’s resetting. He drags his hand through his thick, wavy hair, a little unkempt. The wild side of him can’t be fully tamed with clothes, and I love that the ink and messy hair are a peek into who he truly is—a little wild, a little dangerous around the edges.
He licks his lips. “Let’s play a game. Whoever gets the other to break first can pick the fantasy we’ll act out tonight.”
A hot spark sizzles down my chest. “I’ve never done role play before,” I confess quietly as a pack of teenage girls in midriff-baring tops rushes past us to the course.
“Me neither,” he says quietly, his eyes glimmering.
“But I want to,” I say, electrified already by the possibilities. Role play and I seem like a perfect fit.
“So do I,” he says, excited too.
“Then you’re on,” I say, offering a hand to shake.
Instead, he presses a kiss to the top of my hand. Then, he links his fingers through mine. As we walk toward the entrance, he looks down at our joined hands then drops a chaste kiss onto my cheek. “But holding hands with you is pretty nice too.”
I try to fight off a big grin, but it’s futile. “Sure is,” I say.
Hand-in-hand, in costume, we walk into the clubhouse.
After he pays for the game, we pick up clubs, balls, and a scorecard, and we head to the first hole where a windmill sweeps in circles.
He takes a few practice swings as I set my purple ball on a tee. “How was your day?”
For a second, I wonder if he’s trying to knock me off my golf game with small talk. So he can choose the fantasy. But the question comes out honestly. Curiously.
“It was excellent. I went to a sex-toy afternoon tea,” I say, faux primly.
He blinks. “I’m going to need to hear all about that,” he says.
“Well, let me just play this hole, and then I’ll tell you all about the latest in the world of pleasure,” I say.
“I think you’re trying to break me, Ellie Snow,” he says.
I give him a coy shrug. “Of course I am, Gabe,” I say, then nibble on the corner of my glossy lips.
My eyes drift down to his slacks, where a ridge tents the fabric.
Yup.
My strategy is working.
Then I tap the ball and send it…right into the windmill. Damn. I stomp my foot in frustration. “I’m terrible at golf,” I whine.
He laughs and takes his turn. He knocks in the red ball in two putts. This tracks. Football players often love their golf.
I finish in six swings.
As we walk to the next hole, he says, “So, the tea. Tell me more about it.”
“For real?”
He gives me a look like he couldn’t possibly be asking any other way. “Yes, for real. I want to hear about it.”
This is surprisingly nice. Talking about my day, that is. Dexter never wanted to know.
“My friend Veronica started a sex-toy subscription box,” I say. Then I catch him up to speed with Date Night for One. “And she has clients all over the country now. She’s done so well.”
“She’s an entrepreneur. That’s fantastic,” Gabe says. I’m so happy that he sees that—and that he said it. How many guys would have gone for the easy joke about her peddling sex toys?
“She is,” I agree. “After some complications at her last job, she had to reinvent herself, but it turned into something that makes her happy.”
“We should all aspire to find some happiness in what we do. From what you were telling me last night about your show, it sounds like you feel that way about your job too?”
“I do,” I say as we round a bend in the course toward the next hole. “I’m guessing it’s the same for you?”
“Absolutely. Every goddam game I play. It’s such a rush.” But he doesn’t say more about football, instead turning the talk back to me. “I know you miss your friends.”
My heart squeezes. “So much. But I’ve already made a brand-new friend in LA,” I say, then I tell him about Rachel as we take turns on the course. “What about you? You’ve been traded a bunch of times. You were in Miami, in Las Vegas, in Seattle. Was it hard to go to so many teams?”
Then I wince. Is that a sore spot?
“I guess nobody wants to keep me,” he says, with an exaggerated frown.
I bump my shoulder against his firm arm, relieved he took it lightly. “Please. I think it’s because everybody in the league wants you,” I say, upbeat. I hope he sees it that way too. “I’m no football expert, but I think it shows you’re versatile and can fit into any team. And that you can handle anything thrown at you.”