Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 97667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
“Do you want me to heat that up for you? If you’re going to blow your diet, you might as well do it right.”
Jezus Christ, did I just say ‘blow’?
Without a reply, he very tentatively hands me the bowl. His hands are not only large, but the fingers are long and his knuckles even, the nails clean and short. He has beautiful hands. Then I notice he can’t straighten his pinky all the way.
I turn the gas burner on low and pull a flat pan out of the cupboard. After dumping the pasta in, I cover it. Braving a look, I find him leaning that spectacular six foot four frame back against the edge of the marble countertop with his fingers curled around the edge. He and modesty are not on friendly terms. He doesn’t seem to care a lick that he’s basically naked. Those tissue thin boxers are not concealing much from what I can tell in the periphery of my vision.
I will not look. I will not look. I will not look. So of course, I look.
“What happened to your finger?”
He holds up the pinky and flexes it. “Broke it––didn’t have it set right away and it healed like this.” My gaze lifts to his and I’m surprised to find it open and warm, the corner of his lips slightly lifted.
“Is that your throwing hand?”
“Nope,” he answers, his head shaking slowly.
“Why didn’t you have it set right away?” I check the pasta and turn the heat off, the scent of butter and cream infusing the room. After pouring it into a dish, I turn to hand it to him and am met by his intense, unblinking gaze. I’m already uncomfortable around him and this level of scrutiny makes me want to curl up like an armadillo to protect what’s left of my already shredded ego. That ice cream is not sitting well in my stomach right about now.
“No money.” He’s moved to sit at the counter and is heartily digging into his midnight meal.
“What does that mean?” The question rolls off my tongue inadvertently. At present, he doesn’t seem to mind, so I go with it.
“I broke it in college, couldn’t afford to go to the emergency room. I didn’t have a dollar to my name until I was drafted. ” He watches me intently while I absorb this information. I know he was drafted second over all. That money must’ve been a windfall for a penniless young man. “I’ve also broken four ribs, lacerated a kidney, torn an mcl, and had two concussions that I know of. And that’s not counting the day to day bumps and bruises.”
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. “Sounds like you’ve been to war. Ever consider retiring?”
He scowls as if I just called his mother a whore. “They’ll have to carry my dead body off the field.”
The thought is a jarring one. I feel the beginnings of a panic attack creep up on me. “Don’t say that, not even as a joke.” Taking the now empty dish from him, I turn and begin to wash it and the pan in the sink, scrubbing aggressively while I struggle to tame my racing heart. A large, warm hand lands on the exposed skin of my shoulder blade and my breath stutters. I stiffen and the warmth is gone just as quickly.
“I didn’t mean––”
“It’s all right,” I interrupt, suddenly anxious to end this conversation. “I know you didn’t, Mr. Shaw.”
“Enough of that.”
Drying my hands on a paper towel, I turn and take him in… a mere few feet separating us. He’s standing against the counter again with his arms crossed, pects bulging over his forearms. I try like hell to keep my eyes from wandering.
“What are you proposing?” I ask, mustering a weak smile, my spirits lifting at the change of topic.
“That you call me Cal…what should I call you?”
Cow? Yes, that’s right. That’s the first word that pops into my mind as I’m standing there staring into the clear gray eyes of a man that, before this evening, never had a nice word to say to me. And I swear on all that’s holy that he knows exactly what I am thinking because I see the edges of his mouth wanting to lift. Standing in the presence of all that…whatever that is that’s coming off of him…manliness? Manthing? I feel a pressing need to clear my throat.
“Umm, Cam or Camilla. Definitely not Camillia.”
“Well, Cam, thank you for the delicious meal,” he says quietly. Then he walks around the island and moves toward the stairs. “Y’all have a good night.”
I stand there for a full twenty minutes before returning to my bedroom. I can’t, as of yet, figure out how it happened, but I’m hoping I made a friend.
I have not made a friend. Not even close.
The gruff demeanor is alive and well. And he’s always home––always. This house is probably around ten thousand square feet. Mathematically speaking, it should be easy for me to avoid him. But it’s not. You know why? Because he’s always frigging home! I get up to cook breakfast––he’s in and out of his office. I cook lunch––he’s in and out of the gym. I cook dinner––he’s in and out of his office. I don’t get it. Is he on house arrest? Most guys travel during the offseason, go on vacation. Shaw? Nope, he’s home.