Total pages in book: 171
Estimated words: 164459 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 822(@200wpm)___ 658(@250wpm)___ 548(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 164459 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 822(@200wpm)___ 658(@250wpm)___ 548(@300wpm)
He was like a masterpiece, one that everyone admired simply because of its beauty, despite its flaws. His flaws were what made him—his stone cold look and brutal appearance. His standoffish behavior. It all defined who Drake Davenport was.
His biceps bulged as he brought the dumbbell up, curling his arm, his hand gripping the iron bar. Those green eyes flickered up, landing on mine, and I stilled.
For a moment, as we stared at one another, I couldn’t breathe. He had me in a trance with those bold irises, dropping his gaze to get full view of my body, wrapping me up in his imaginary hands. And I allowed him, snuggling into the embrace, never wanting to let go.
With an upwards tug of the cheek, Drake dropped the fifty-pound dumbbell and then lifted his hand, flicking his fingers and silently demanding me to come to him as if he were tired of me standing around looking hopeless.
My breath snagged, catching in the back of the throat. He still held my eyes, green matching brown, and without much thought I walked forward, way too eager to be in his presence.
The connection was undeniable, the pull of his imaginary rope bound me, drawing me in, tugging tight. I kept walking until I was less than a foot away from him, and he sighed, running strong fingers through a bed of thick, black hair.
“Still snooping?” he questioned, one brow piqued.
“No. What do you mean?” I retorted, defensive. “I’m not snooping.”
“So why are you watching me? Why are you here?”
“At a gym that everyone at Lake Lane goes to?”
He narrowed his eyes.
I challenged him with the same expression.
“You’re watching me.”
“I was debating on if I wanted to say hello.”
“Okay.” He crossed his large arms across his broad chest, smirking down at me. “Now’s the chance. Say it so I can get back to my workout.”
I stepped away. “Why did you tell me to come over if you were just going to be a dick about it?”
That made him chuckle. “Oh, I’m being a dick?”
“Uh, yeah. A small, ugly, hairy one.”
His mouth twitched. He fought a laugh as he picked up the dumbbell again, raising it above his head and pumping. “Get your hello out and go about your way, Snoop.”
“What does that even mean?” I folded my arms.
“Means you’re nosy. Ask too many questions.”
“How?”
“Like now.” He grinned.
I wanted to slap that cocky grin right off his face. “Well, now I don’t want to tell you hello since you’re being an asshat.”
He dropped the weight, gluing his hands above his hips and moving forward. I caught a whiff of sweat, his natural scent, and a touch of deodorant. He smelled good, like a green forest with pine trees, and my insides rolled, throat thickening as he closed the gap that was between us.
“I’m kidding, Snoop.” He dropped his eyes to my feet again. “Why would you wear those here?”
I didn’t want to give him the same answer I gave Kylie, so I said, “I don’t know. I wasn’t planning on working out too hard. Plus, my friend dragged me here. Didn’t have much time to get ready.”
“Expensive,” he noted.
“I guess.” I shifted on my heels. I needed to take the attention away from my shoes. “So what are you training for?”
His forehead crumpled and he moved away, going for his gloves on the ground and moving to the punching bag only a few feet away. I followed him, hoping he would answer, put the rumors to rest.
Was he a fighter? An underground one? He sure was working out hard, doing hardcore shit, if it was just to stay fit.
“Not training,” he muttered as he tugged one of the gloves on. “Just working out.”
“So why was that guy watching you like a hawk when you were punching the bag earlier?” I pointed my gaze to the man that was talking to two boys by the weights.
Drake had both gloves on when I returned my attention to him. He grabbed the bag, positioning it for the heavy blow that was sure to come. “He’s just a serious trainer.” He looked away from me, hesitant as he maneuvered his line of sight from mine to the towel around my neck. “And he’s technically my dad.”
“Oh.” That explained a lot. My eyes traveled to the burly man in the corner again. He was bald, with arms twice the size of his son’s. He wore a tight red shirt, snug around his torso, and had tattoos all over his biceps and forearms. One hoop earring in his right ear.
This time he was spotting one of the boys, a single, thick vein bulging on his forehead. “He seems very… determined.” I tried to phrase his appearance as lightly as possible, but that permanent scowl he wore was really scaring the shit out of me.