Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 117872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
“Positive,” I say, then wink. “You can tell me more about those long and short drives I ought to be making on the field.”
As we walk down the hall together, I refuse to look at the stairwell door. I won’t let on that my thoughts have strayed too many times to that hot moment on the steps. I march forward to the bank of elevators. When I hit the down button, one opens right away. I step inside and he follows. The doors whoosh shut.
It’s only us and my super-sized libido.
The whole ride to the parking garage I fight not to stare at him. The man makes tight jeans and red shirts look like the luckiest clothes in the world. Once the elevator doors open, I gesture down the row. “Mine’s the blue Tesla two cars down,” I say.
He snorts. “Of course it is.”
This guy. “You give me a hard time about my cat, and now my car, even when I’m giving you a ride?”
“Evidently, I do,” he says with a knowing smirk.
I click on the app on my phone to unlock the door, wishing I could get a read on Beck today. “Okay, I’ll bite. What do you find so amusing about my car?”
“It’s what nice guys drive,” he says, offhand, as he heads to the passenger door.
That feels like another burn. But maybe more personal this time. Since, well, nice guys usually finish last. “That’s not a compliment, Caff. Tell me—why am I giving you a ride?” It comes out like a mild warning.
But when he swings open the door, he flashes me a smile as he slides in. “Because you’re a nice guy.”
I get inside too, then give him a what gives? look. “How is this a nice guy car?”
“It’s good for the planet and all,” he says, then drops his canvas bag to the floor. His jersey must be in that. Mine’s on the back seat.
“Well, yeah,” I say, backing out of the parking space.
“And blue is a nice color,” Beck adds.
I tug at my light blue polo shirt. “I like blue,” I say, defensive on behalf of the color and a little irked on behalf of me too.
“I’ve noticed. You always wear blue,” Beck adds nonchalantly as I drive toward the parking garage exit. “You had a navy shirt on last week. A light-blue one the night I met you. You wore a teal-blue one last week to the gym.” He waves his hand my way. “And now . . . this shade. Sky blue.”
“So I’m a nice guy because I wear blue and drive a green car?” I counter.
Beck laughs, shaking his head. “No. You just happen to be one.”
I speed up the ramp a little faster than I need to. “Do nice guys drive fast in parking lots?”
“Ooh, you’re such a scofflaw,” he remarks, clearly playful now.
“Dude, you can walk,” I tease. I think I’ve got it now. He’s just playing into the rivalry vibe. I slide my parking ticket through the reader, then exit onto Market Street and into Monday morning traffic.
“So, you’re not a fan of nice guys?” I ask. I might be a glutton for punishment, or maybe this new bit of intel will get me over my crush for good.
Beck’s quiet, and the silence unnerves me. Then when I slow for the red light at the end of the block, he turns to me and whispers, “I like nice guys.”
Oh, he’s completely readable now. His brown eyes are fire. He’s all blunt edges and directness. I like it too much for my own good.
This is going to be the hardest car ride of my life. Especially when I realize that when Beck teased me about my preference for blue, he was admitting he notices every little detail about me.
As I turn onto Franklin Street, I fish a little more. “So you just like to give me a hard time?”
“It makes it easier, Jason. Know what I mean?”
When I stop at the next light, I catalog his expression. The warmth in his eyes. The softness in his lips. Here in my car, behind the tinted windows, he drops the mask. His face tells a story of vulnerability mixed with heat.
All that is evident in his body too. He’s a picture of checked restraint, body tight, nearly rigid. But I spot a dead giveaway. His left hand inches closer and closer to the console.
Almost like an invitation.
Like he desperately wants me to touch him. Maybe he’s been as hungry for a sign as I’ve been, but he needs to hunt for it in his own very Beck-like way. He’s measured in his approach, calculating even. He observes everything around him, takes in data, then acts.
He’s that way on the field.
Out of the corner of my eye, I check the light. Still red.