Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 93417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Presumably, Ivy was their girlfriend first. I’m not sure how Ivy, Stefan, and Hayes all came together, just that they were a throuple when I landed on the team. Maybe that’s what Rhys and Hollis mean?
Rhys shakes his head. “Nothing that serious. More like a night out, a party—that sort of thing. Well, once we realized we had the same excellent taste.”
I can’t let this go. “When was that?”
“Back in college,” Hollis answers easily.
“You didn’t go to the same school.” I point at his chest, like I’ve caught them on a technicality, but really, I’m just intrigued.
“But we played each other a lot,” Rhys says. “So…”
Translation: we hung out together after and met women.
Which, yeah. I’ve done that after games too. But never in tandem with another guy.
There’s a funny tightness in my chest. Not because they shared. But because they never mentioned it to me. “You never said—”
“Dude. We don’t kiss and tell. Or fuck and tell,” Hollis says to me, like he’s explaining how basic arithmetic works.
Then it hits me—I’m not annoyed they didn’t mention their kinks. I feel a little foolish. Like they have access to some secret room I never knew existed. A hidden library behind the stairs that they were sneaking into while I slept. “Are you two actually planning to share Briar?”
Rhys laughs, not meanly. Still, I can’t help but feel he’s laughing at me. “That, mate, is entirely up to her. It’s always up to the woman,” he says, like the cool expert who knows how sharing is done.
And, really, I suppose he does.
“It’s Briar’s call,” Hollis adds. “Whatever she wants. Whether it’s him. Or me. Or neither. It’s all up to her. Nothing…or everything. Right, Viscount?”
“Right,” Rhys confirms.
I’m suddenly getting an unexpected education. But I’m finding rules aren’t all I want to know. There’s a question that keeps repeating in my brain like a snippet of a song you hear over and over.
I should hold back. Really, I should. But curiosity has gotten the better of me. “Why? Why do you like to share?”
The question makes me feel vulnerable, but I’ve got to sate this curiosity.
Rhys smiles fondly, like he’s remembering a good night. “Because there’s nothing hotter than a woman overwhelmed by pleasure.”
Hollis clears his throat importantly. “Well, the only thing hotter is when you’re the ones to overwhelm her.”
Rhys lifts a finger his way, like he’s saying Hollis has made an excellent point. “Yes. You’re right. That. That is hotter.”
I wheel around and grab a bunch of face masks so they can’t see me as I picture our guest. Good thing we’ll have these masks tonight. Maybe underneath this pink grapefruit goo, it won’t be obvious that I’m imagining how Briar would look…overwhelmed.
When we return home, Briar is stretched out on the couch, tapping away on her laptop, a pleased look on her face. Is that how she looks when she’s devastated by pleasure?
Her gaze lands on me. “Ready, Gavin?”
I gulp.
I have no idea what I’m ready for. All I know is this next week in the cottage just got a whole lot more interesting.
22
GOING FISHING
Rhys
Do mustard flowers even work in a vase?
I’m standing in the lush front yard, asking Siri if I should cut these, but the answers range from no, you daft idiot to caramelize them with onions.
The Internet is seriously maddening, but Amira would be amused with these robot results. I’ve got half a mind to text her and tell her Siri’s reply, but I don’t want to look like I’m inventing excuses to touch base.
Like I need to send cute little reminders that I’m knocking about, still champing at the bit for a contract. Or just a morsel of intel about my future.
With scissors in hand, I try one more time to find out if I should put these flowers in a vase. Though, I suppose, what I really want to know is if Briar likes flowers. She and Gavin are busy cooking and Hollis is setting the table. Or at least, I thought she was cooking, but the rustle of feet in the grass tells me otherwise.
I catch a glimpse of her walking toward me. “Yes, you can cut them,” she says. “Yes, they look pretty on the table. Yes, you can even cook with them.”
Well, someone is a mind reader. “Are you living rent-free in my head?” Though the answer is—yes.
“No,” she says, laughing. “I saw you talking into the phone and standing there with scissors so figured I’d pop out and help.”
I shrug casually, like I wasn’t trying to impress her. “I thought they might look nice on the table. What do you think?”
Translation: do you like flowers?
“My dad used to get flowers for my mom every week.”
Used. Past tense. “Did she pass away?” I ask, since I’ve learned from personal experience that it’s best to be direct about loss.