Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 76303 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76303 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
I give the up arrow a poke then stand back, staring at the metal doors to an elevator car that’s probably on its way back to the top floor, and I wait with a sigh.
Tap my foot.
Pull out my phone and—
“You lost, sweetheart?”
Sweetheart?
Gag.
I pivot on my heel and spin around.
It’s a player, of that I’m certain. Tall, broad shoulders. Cocky, arrogant. A smug tilt to his perfect mouth.
Something Wilson? Walters? They call him…
Let’s put it this way: I know this guy, kind of.
I know of him—vaguely. I know every player on the team to some degree, by default. See, as the general manager, my father is essentially everyone’s boss. But before he took over, the GM was my grandfather, Thomas Westbrooke, Sr., who now owns the team.
Ah, nothing like good old-fashioned nepotism.
“Did you just call me sweetheart?” Man, I sure do wish I could remember this douchebag’s name so I could chew his ass out for that sexist, antiquated endearment.
I’m definitely not sweet and I’m definitely not his sweetheart.
TRACE
Her dress is prim. Proper.
But when I saw her standing by the elevator, she was tugging uncomfortably at the straps and wiggling around in her shoes, so I bet a cool hundo she’s good and ready to get out of them.
I could help her with both those problems.
“Did you just call me sweetheart?” she asks again.
“You look sweet to me, darlin’.”
“Oh my god—gross.” She jabs at the up button, desperate to get away from me. Well too bad—I’m going up, too.
“Calling someone sweetheart isn’t a crime.”
“No, but you don’t know me, and I find it offensive and condescending.”
“Let me take you out and make it up to you.”
“No thanks.”
“Lame.” I cough into my hand, stifling the word, but not well enough because she whips around and glares at me.
“What did you just say to me?”
“Nothing.” I snicker. Jesus, how easy is it to trigger this chick? Does she not like hearing nice things?
The young woman rolls her blue eyes. “Honestly, when I was in grade school, the boys used to do that. They’d cough to cover up whatever idiotic thing they were saying, to pretend they hadn’t just said it. But that was back in sixth grade—although…” She gives me a once-over, starting at my feet and working her way up. “I’m not surprised to hear it coming from you.”
“Ouch, I think.” Was that an insult? It’s hard to tell. She’s no longer looking at me—she’s staring at the elevator door, likely willing it to open and swallow her whole.
The elevator arrives, doors open, and we both step in. “Looks like we’re both headed the same direction.” I move to the opposite side of the car, wanting to give her space; this woman definitely looks as if she wants to tap me in the nutsac and send me to the ground.
“Hooray.” Her pink-tipped fingernail whirls through the air near her head, sarcastically.
Wow. Okay, maybe not so sweet after all.
“Hey…sorry I called you sweetheart. I didn’t realize you’re actually super salty.”
This comment causes her brows to shoot up. “Just stop talking.”
But I can’t. She’s too cute and I’m an attention whore; she’s ignoring me now which makes my verbal diarrhea worse.
“I was kidding about the date.”
“Well I wasn’t going on a date with you, so…” She shrugs, still not looking at me.
“You’re not my type,” I blurt out.
Her low chuckle says she doesn’t believe me.
But she is my type—just because I don’t date women who look wholesome, doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate women who are. Just so happens I can never get decent, respectable women to go out with me for long.
Party girls, yes. Club goers, yes. Gold diggers, yes.
Classy working girls? Yeah, not so much.
Tripp says it’s because I have a shitty reputation, and none of those women want to end up splashed across the tabloids, potentially having their careers ruined after being photographed with me. Which sucks, because at some point, I’d like to make my parents proud by producing Buzz Wallace, Jr., heir to the baseball legacy, fruit of my loins.
My mother would fucking kill me if I brought home a career bottle girl from the club. One time, I dated a girl whose job it was to sell shots, and she spent her evenings with her tits out and glow sticks hanging around her neck—which is all fine and good, but not the type my mother wants popping out her grandbabies.
This petite sadist screams good girl and respectability, although I’d bet the farm she has one helluva potty mouth.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name,” I try again, laying on the charm.
Another eye roll. “I didn’t throw it.”
Cheeky.
I like it.
“What’s your name?” There. Try evading that.
“I’m not telling you.”
The elevator rises to its destination a short few moments later, dinging as the doors slide open, and we both step out on the parking level.