Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 88490 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 442(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88490 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 442(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
I frown. “Why? What happened?”
“Not sure. The team wasn’t gelling, I guess? And Blake bombed in practice so bad that Hal changed up the lines. He didn’t even want to come to dinner with us because he was in such a shit mood.”
Surprise jolts through me. Blake Riley in a shit mood? That’s unheard of. The man is a perpetual Susie Sunshine. And he turned down a chance to eat food? Very troubling indeed.
“Weird,” I say absently. “Okay, I’m going to let you go now. I need to forage for food.”
My brother laughs. “Come over tomorrow?”
“Sure.” Now that my last exam is in the can, I have a whole week off before the new term begins.
We hang up, but I don’t get up from my bed. Instead, I pull up Blake’s number and stare at the last messages we’d exchanged. They’re from the home game where I sat with Mama Riley and listened to her lecture me about birth control.
After a beat of hesitation, I take a page out of Jamie’s book and text: You alive?
I’m startled when my phone buzzes right away.
Blake: No, I’m dead.
I snicker to myself.
Me: Want to hang out tonight? Just wrote my final exam.
This time, it takes several moments for him to respond.
Blake: Not in the best mood, J-Babe. Maybe another time.
Undeterred, I type: My mood’s not great either. Let’s be miserable together. I’ll bring the ice cream if you provide the spoons.
There’s an interminably long pause before he answers.
Blake: Yeah, sure.
Okay, so it’s not the most…enthusiastic reply. But hell, I’ll take it.
Chapter 23
Pick Your Poison
Jess
When I arrive at a certain sleek condo tower by the waterfront, the doorman waves me in. But instead of getting off on Jamie’s floor, I ride the elevator farther up, to Blake’s. I’ve never been to his apartment before, and I’m not sure what to expect. There are only four doors in his hallway. I knock on the one that has a doormat depicting a Saint Bernard with a hockey stick.
Behind the door, I hear the muted sounds of TV, then the thump of footsteps. Blake opens the door wearing a cuddly-looking flannel shirt—unbuttoned to reveal his fabulous chest—and a pair of well-worn jeans that hug his sculpted thighs. In other words, he looks scrumptious. But then I check his face, and I see that something is wrong. His expression is pinched in a way that’s completely unfamiliar on him.
“Hey, Jess,” he says softly. “How are you?” He shuffles backward to let me in.
How am I? Totally weirded out. That’s how.
“I’ve had better days,” I admit. “But I brought ice cream and wine. I would have brought a chick flick too, but you’re not a chick.”
I step past him and take a closer look at the apartment. I’d expected it to look about the same as my brother’s, but it’s not the same at all. Blake’s pad is huge, and his kitchen must have been designed by a Swedish architect named Torvald. Everything is sleek wood or gleaming white. A thick wool rug pads the floor under my feet. Gentle light washes over all the surfaces from hidden fixtures near the ceiling. And there are sliding glass doors on the far wall leading to what must be a kick-ass terrace.
“Wow,” I say stupidly. “Fancy.”
He shrugs. “What kind of ice cream?”
“I have dark mocha and also coconut. Pick your poison.” I carry my goods toward his kitchen, but Blake takes the bag from me and unpacks it himself.
“Did you eat dinner?” he asks, tucking the ice cream cartons into the freezer.
“Not exactly,” I hedge. “But that’s okay.”
Blake clucks his tongue. “How about we order some Chinese? You probably haven’t eaten all that well if you’ve been studying.” His green eyes bore into mine.
“Okay, thanks,” I say quietly. “I like chicken and broccoli. Actually, I like most anything.”
One warm hand cups the back of my head for a second. Just as I register how nice it feels, it’s gone again.
Blake orders our food while I locate a pair of wineglasses on a shelf over the countertop. But a corkscrew remains elusive. I can’t figure out how to open his kitchen drawers because there aren’t any handles. Out of frustration, I give one a little push, and it slides open with a hushed click that reminds me of a high-tech device. Blake’s kitchen drawers are like something you’d find on a space shuttle.
I pour carefully because I don’t know if red wine is capable of staining his immaculate marble countertops. Then I carry our glasses over to the generous leather sofa, where Blake is just finishing up his call.
“To shitty days that end with wine,” I announce when he’s ready to toast with me.
“I’ll drink to that,” he says as we touch glasses.
We hold each other’s gaze as we sip, and it feels weirdly intimate. Although maybe I should stop finding it weird, right? How many times have I gotten naked with this guy?