Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 100523 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100523 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
“No problem,” he says, then we knock fists.
I don’t talk about my ADHD with most of the guys on the team. There’s no need. I’m not interested in being a poster child for it. I’m not going to do commercials on living with it or succeeding at your highest level or whatever.
That’s not my shtick. It’s just something I have to deal with. Something I’ve always had to deal with.
But Beck’s different. He’s struggled with social anxiety and panic attacks. Sometimes, he still does. He’s shared some of his struggles with me, so I look out for him. And he looks out for me.
Guess I needed that today. Needed someone to accept my mood. I’m so damn used to being Mister Happy, to playing the ringleader. But it’s a welcome feeling, this space to be…a little off.
Not sure I can show it to anyone else though.
I really should put the game behind me this evening. It’s been twenty-four hours. I need to get over the loss. It ought to be easy to stop obsessing on it once I pick up Rachel for our farmers’ market date.
Especially since holy fuck, she looks amazing. “Look at you,” I say as I meet her at her door with a whoa and a whistle, then drink her in.
Rachel flashes me a sweet and borderline seductive smile. “Thanks,” she says.
And I just keep staring. She’s positively edible in those jeans and that black top that not only slopes off her shoulder, but reveals a hint of white lace.
In fact, thanks, fucking lingerie. Now I’m going to be hard all night at the market.
“You look pretty good yourself,” she says, eyeing me up and down in my Henley and jeans.
“Yeah, but you,” I say, since I can’t stop complimenting her.
A blush creeps across her cheeks. “You’re too much. You make me feel too good.”
Pfft. “Not a thing,” I say, and yup, focusing on her is all I need. I won’t think about that stupid loss anymore. Won’t stew in my mood a second longer.
“Question?” I ask once I shut her door, then get into the driver’s seat.
“Yes?”
“Are you trying to torture me with your lingerie?”
“Oh. Is this torture?” she asks innocently, her gaze straying to the white lacy strap that’s on display. For me.
“Yes. It is,” I say, then fuck it. I run my finger along the strap, taking my time to brush along her skin too. “Pure torture,” I whisper.
Our gazes lock. Her amber eyes flicker, and they say I meant it when I told you to kiss me anytime.
I lean in for a lingering, start-of-the-date kiss that puts my bad mood in the rearview mirror.
Except, as I drive to the market, I’m strangely distracted. Not by the game this time. Not by the instant replay in my head of the catch I didn’t make, but by the things I want to say to her.
The things I would have said a week ago. Like, I’m bummed about the loss, I feel like it’s my fault, and I wish I’d moved faster, tracked the ball better, reached higher.
I don’t say any of those things that are bubbling up in my throat.
I won’t let myself. That’s boyfriend or best friend territory, and here in this no man’s land, we’re not enough of either for me to get away with it.
Every now and then, there’s a Monday night farmers’ market at the Ferry Building. The stalls are teeming with crowds since the Ferry Building is the trendy place to be. It’s right on the bay and boasts gorgeous views of the starry sky over the water as well as fantastic food in the booths.
When we walk in, we pass a few vendors peddling flowers. Rachel’s attention snags on the buckets and buckets of buds as she slows to admire them, then sniff some.
She stops. “All right, before I get distracted by wildflowers, let’s do the video.”
“Let’s do it,” I say, then bring her to my side and hold up my phone, making sure there’s a nice view of the flowers and fruit vendors behind us. I hit record. “Some people might be wondering how the hell you do a date at a farmers’ market,” I say.
“I know I was,” she says. “But I have some ideas why it’s a great first date.”
“Don’t keep them to yourself.”
She gestures behind her to indicate the stalls. “Well, you get to walk around with your date,” she says, bumping shoulders with me. “It can be easier to get to know someone as you’re walking around rather than sitting at a coffee shop or a bar. Walking means there are plenty of things to see. And you can talk about all the things you see as you go.”
“The whole farmers’ market is one big conversation piece,” I say, and this is what I need. This date will shove all these strange thoughts about what I’m telling her and not telling her out of my head once and for all. “We can even make it a game. Like, let’s go find the weirdest produce here.”