Total pages in book: 184
Estimated words: 186756 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 934(@200wpm)___ 747(@250wpm)___ 623(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 186756 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 934(@200wpm)___ 747(@250wpm)___ 623(@300wpm)
He finally, finally gives me what I asked him for.
A year ago.
On my eighteenth birthday.
A kiss.
A soul-wrecking, gut-clenching kiss.
But it’s not going to happen.
He’s not going to kiss me.
He’s probably not even looking at me right now.
First because this isn’t a movie. He’s not a tortured hero and I’m not a tragic heroine. Our love isn’t star-crossed or written in the wind. And second because it’s been a year now and he hasn’t done any of those things. In fact, he hasn’t even spared me more than a passing glance. So instead of making up scenarios in my head, all cinematic complete with a background score, I should focus on the present. I should focus on what I’m actually doing right now.
And what’s happening around me.
I’m on the dance floor and I’m kinda being watched.
Not by whom I want but by Jupiter.
Okay, don’t quote me on this, but I think, I think, she has a little crush on the man I’m dancing with. I’ve caught her staring at him a few times but haven’t broached the subject with her.
Because well, he’s with me.
I mean, he just claimed me in front of everyone.
That’s what he did, didn’t he?
He claimed me.
This isn’t the first time he has done that, though. He’s offered me his hand, his arm to hold on to; he’s pulled out chairs for me; he’s opened doors for me. One time, he even carried me in his arms because my heel broke while we were walking down the street, and instead of letting me limp along, he bent down and carried me to the restaurant we had been headed to, to meet his teammates.
And I’m not going to lie, I’ve encouraged it.
I’ve encouraged his hand holding, hugging, carrying me around.
His claiming.
Because it served a purpose.
A very selfish purpose he’s unaware of.
“Are you ready for the season?” I ask.
I know it sounded abrupt.
Given that we haven’t said a single word to each other ever since he dragged me out here on the dance floor with several other couples who are swaying in each other’s arms to slow music.
Which is very unlike us.
If we’re both good at one thing, it’s the talking.
Sharing jokes.
Making each other laugh.
Something that was apparent the very first time I met him at my eighteenth birthday party. The moment I found him by the pool chatting with some of his teammates and asked him to dance with me, I knew. I knew from his arrogant smirk and the impish look in his eyes that we were going to be best friends.
Oh, and then there were his words: Let me guess, you’re trying to piss someone off. Your dad, most likely.
And when I asked if he’d help me, he went, Fuck yeah. Not a huge fan of your daddy.
Instant best friends.
It was like I found a kindred soul.
Ever since then, we’ve been inseparable. And it would be amazing if our forced proximity was only because I very unexpectedly found a best friend in him when I was, in fact, trying to piss someone off—just not my daddy.
But it’s not, is it?
And it’s becoming increasingly difficult to bear that burden.
“Are we making useless chitchat now?” he asks instead.
My eyes snap up from his Adam’s apple—the spot I’ve been looking at all this time—and go to his face. His dark eyes shine with mischief. Thick, curly lashes, that mussed up hair he runs his fingers through. That arrogant nose and those lips, always on the verge of smirking. Like he knows a secret joke no one else does.
Shepard Thorne is a quintessential bad boy.
A rule breaker. Fun, irreverent.
Popular and arrogant.
Life of a party.
And a complete and utter opposite of a certain someone I can’t get out of my head.
I wave all that away, though.
“What?” I try to pinch his arm but fail. “It’s a legit question. The season’s starting next week. Are you ready or not?”
He gives me a look. “All right then. To answer your question, Miss Holmes, yes. I am ready. The entire team is ready. We brought home the trophy last time and we’re doing it this time too. Because we don’t fuck around when it’s something that belongs to us.”
I raise my eyebrows. “That was a little arrogant, don’t you think, Mr. Thorne?”
“Arrogance is just confidence with a few extra inches,” he shoots back. “And if you know anything about me, you know I’ve got a lot of those.”
“Are you saying you’ve got a few extra inches?”
“I’m saying I’ve got a lot of few extra inches.”
I shake my head, trying to curb my smile. “Maybe you’re not aware, Mr. Thorne, but you’ve just made a double entendre on national TV.”
“Oh, I’m aware, Miss Holmes.”
“I don’t know if it’s appropriate for our delicate audience, however.”
“Well, you’re just going to have to bleep me out, then.”
“I guess so.”
“What about you, though?”