Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 56887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 284(@200wpm)___ 228(@250wpm)___ 190(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 284(@200wpm)___ 228(@250wpm)___ 190(@300wpm)
“Hey, handsome,” she purred, sidling next to me at the island. She pressed her ample bosom against my bicep and snaked her arms around me. “I’m feeling very overdressed.”
“Unfortunately, I need to put some clothes on.” I untangled from her grasp and stepped into the living area.
“Don’t be shy. Let me see you again.” She yanked the towel from my waist with a deft flick of the wrist and tossed it onto a barstool, leaving me stark naked and a little irked. “God, you’re hot. Are you sure you don’t have time for something more?”
My affable smile dipped, but I kept my cool. I set the glass of OJ on the island and reached for the towel. “I can’t. I have plans.”
She batted her outrageously long eyelashes and puckered her lips in a pretty pout that should have worked wonders on my cock. Sadly, Mr. Johnson remained uninterested.
“That’s a shame. I’d love to suck your—”
Buzz. Buzz.
Phew. Saved by the bell.
I sighed an apology and headed through the beach house to the foyer, wrapping my towel and tucking the corners to hold it in place. The clip-clop of heels rang off the hardwood floor behind me. I tossed a quick glance at the now irritated-looking young woman before disabling the alarm system and opening the door.
“Hey, you must be Christopher,” I boomed in my friendliest voice.
“Um. Yes, I am.” He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and nodded.
“Come on in.” I ushered him inside and held the door for my guest.
She didn’t move for a long moment. She gave Christopher a thorough once-over, then squinted in confusion. “Really?”
“Really,” I replied sharply. “Chris here is helping me write a paper on the supernatural elements in Beowulf. This man is a renowned genius…and he’s costing me an arm and a leg. I’m sure you understand.”
She didn’t. Although now her confusion seemed authentic. “But you’re a football player. I saw you play with the Rams last year and—”
“I got cut from the team.”
Wow. I’d ripped the Band-Aid off again. I’d said those six little words, and I hadn’t keeled over in shock or dismay. My life as I knew it had ended last spring, but apparently, I’d survived. And my reflection in the round mirror above the table in the entry revealed that other than a serious case of bedhead, I was doing a damn good job at this studied nonchalance business.
Fuck, maybe I should just chuck it all and become an actor.
“Oh. So, you’re not a football player.” Her mouth twisted as though she’d swallowed a lemon.
“I am, but…I’m not currently with a specific organization. Disappointing?”
“Yeah, it is. I mean, for you, of course,” she added quickly. “I’m sure you’ll find a new team soon.”
“Hope so.” I opened the door a tad wider, wordlessly giving her a small push.
Her smile wobbled a bit, but I gave her an A for effort. And for not saying what she was really thinking, which was probably something along the lines of “No wonder it took you so long to get hard.”
“It was nice to meet you,” she said, shooting one last curious look at Christopher before stepping outside.
I closed the door, locked it, and reset the alarms. Then I put my hands on my hips and sent a prayer to whatever spirits might be listening as I turned to properly greet my brother’s friend. Christopher…I forgot his last name…was cute in a professorial nerdy kind of way, right down to the glasses, short-sleeved button-down shirt, and perfectly pressed khakis. He was a good six inches shorter than my own six five, with curly light-brown hair, and brilliant green eyes behind his thick spectacles.
A lock of hair fell over his left eye, partially shading his expression. I couldn’t tell what he was thinking, but I was too caught up in my own mental spiral to tax myself.
When in doubt, offer libations…
“Sorry, Chris. My timing has been off for a couple of months.” I raked my fingers through my messy hair and gestured toward the great room. “Can I get you something to drink? OJ, Diet Coke, water, tequila?”
“My name isn’t Chris. It’s Christopher. Christopher Thornton,” he said primly, scanning the high ceilings and the collage of black-and-white photography in the foyer. “My friends call me Topher or Toph.”
“Cool. Pleased to meet you.”
“We’ve met,” he blurted. “It was a long time ago. You probably don’t remember. I was at your parents’ house for a small party for George’s birthday. You were there with a bunch of…football people.”
I smiled. I probably had met him. But I’d met a lot of people, and names were not my forte. “That could be—”
“Beowulf? Did you really say Beowulf?” He sighed heavily, awkwardly clutching the strap of his computer bag as he paced from one corner of the small foyer to the other. “I’m very rusty on my Old English poems.”