Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 99545 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 498(@200wpm)___ 398(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99545 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 498(@200wpm)___ 398(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
It only takes one bloke to pour a beer, and yet they always put two or three behind the counter.
Rookies, usually.
Freshmen.
Can’t say I’m not surprised they haven’t stuck me behind there as well, given I’m new to the school and to the team.
From what my brother has told me, there is plenty of hazing taking place at this school. That is how he met his girlfriend.
Er, wife.
Or maybe Ashley is the reason I haven’t been made to do menial tasks, like take out the trash or clean the bathrooms the morning after a kegger.
I’ve picked up on American terms quickly, loving the slang and the crude way the words are formed. How lazy the speech is. How informal.
“Hi,” one of the blondes says, tossing back her hair. I’m positive even that isn’t real. “Phillip, aren’t you going to introduce us?”
My teammate puffs out his chest, tasked with the role of playing host. “Ladies, this is Jack Jones—he’s a newbie but comes from a long line of illustrious players.”
Long line of illustrious players, long line of illustrious players—say that again three more times.
I can hardly believe Phil just spoke those words without stumbling.
“Hallo, ladies.” I grin, eager to make their acquaintance, lust and attraction pulling my mouth from ear to ear.
“Oh my god, Paige,” one gasps, clutching her friend’s arm. “He’s Australian.”
Oh lord. “British actually.”
But honestly? Her IQ matters little to me.
Paige and her friends are a dime a dozen here, the same as all the rest, always wanting something. I thought when I moved here that I would go ham and sow my wild oats. Shag anything that moved. Itching to fuck and casually date my way around campus, wasting no time in the process.
That never happened.
I tried; oh, I tried. Just last weekend as a matter-of-fact, snogging this beautiful brunette at a party, chatting her up, doing my best to get aroused. Shake the hollow hole that I thought casual sex could fill.
No pun intended.
We hadn’t even gotten back to her place before I realized I couldn’t do it. I needed to know more about her; feelings and all that blasted inconvenient bullshite getting in my way.
I’m getting in my own way of getting off.
“Wait,” the one named Paige says. “Are you the royal British guy?”
“Am I the what?”
I know what she means—I just want to hear her say it. The fumbling never gets old.
“Shoot, what’s it called? Blue bloods?” She tilts her head to concentrate. “Darn it, what do they call that? Aris…the aristocksy?”
“Aristocracy?”
“That’s it!” She squeals with a giggle and claps. “Are you an earl or something?”
The fuck?
No.
Where do they come up with this stuff?
“Well,” I begin an explanation I’ve given no less than a hundred times since moving here. “My father is a baron, but my brother is the one inheriting the title—he moved back to the UK a few months ago.”
He moved out, I moved in.
Same house, same landlord, same furniture.
Only difference? I have zero flatmates. He had one, and it was a she, and he married her.
“So you’re not going to be an earl?”
“That’s not how it works. You can’t be an earl unless you inherit an earldom, and you can’t become an earl if your father is your baron. Or if you’re the second son.”
The girl lowers her head. “Oh. That’s so sad.”
Her delivery is far more appropriate for a funeral setting or, say, someone failing a college level course than what one would normally give after simply finding out a guy isn’t set to inherit a title.
These American girls never cease to amuse me.
“Does this mean you wouldn’t want to date me?” I laugh, already knowing the answer: of course she would still want to date me—I’m the hottest commodity this campus has seen in months, if you don’t count my brother Ashley gracing it with his presence.
Title or not, I’m still from Britain, I still possess an accent, I’m still big and brawny and strapping.
Apparently, the ladies in America love that shite.
“Are you asking me on a date?” asks the blonder of the two, twisting a lock of her long strands around a pink fingernail.
“I don’t even know your name.”
“It’s Kaylee,” she says, over-pronouncing it as if I’m hard of hearing or don’t speak her language.
Oy.
“I’m Jack.” I extend a palm and she extends hers, but instead of shaking it, I raise it and plant a soft kiss to the top of her hand.
She exhales a breathy “Oh my god,” and I know I have her hooked. Kaylee practically fans herself with her free hand, eyes glazing over in love at first sight.
If her expression were an emoji, it would be heart eyes.
I’m shocked she doesn’t have drool coming out the side of her pouty, pink mouth.
Putty in my hands.
“What year are you?” Kaylee asks me, still staring at the top of her hand where I kissed it.