Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 94579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 378(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 378(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
Heat spreads through my chest as I scratch behind my ear, taking a swig from my beer bottle as Tony runs his loose mouth beside me.
“Girls are like stray cats man—you let one in, give them some milk, and they keep coming back. We’re the milk, by the way, in case you hadn’t figured it out.”
“I get the analogy, Tone. Thanks.”
I clap him on the back, chug the remainder of my beer, and set it on the closest surface. Wipe the condensation from the bottle on the leg of my pants.
“All right, give me a few—I’m going outside to figure this shit out.” We bump knuckles. “Run upstairs, would you? And bring my damn jacket from Amado’s room.”
I won’t lie, my heart rate quickens when I push through the front door of the baseball house. The girl is indeed on the porch, back against a support beam, hanging back as her friends cluster around Jonathan Brinkman.
She’s barely recognizable.
It’s cold tonight, and she’s dressed for the occasion in jeans, a jacket, and dark gray knit cap pulled down over her long dark hair. It’s the kind of knit hat you’d wear skiing or sledding.
Or on a trip to the frozen fucking tundra.
Or when you think you might be spending an entire night on a cold porch.
She’s causal, leaning on the railing, not one bit of surprise marring her expression when I push through the screen door, stepping down onto the floorboards of the porch.
My mouth, goddamn it, stretches into a toothy grin when we lock eyes, her brows rising beneath her warm hat. They wiggle in my direction as she raises two hands, covered in mittens, sending me a small, hopeful, wave.
She’s cheeky, this one.
I acknowledge Brinkman with a fist bump, and Cock Blocker’s friends light up when they see me, two pair of eyes alive with interest and overenthusiasm. Possibly because I’m fresh meat to sink their cleat-chasing claws into.
I shrug it off; I’m not out here for them.
I tip my chin up at the girl. “Nice coat. Looks nice and insulated. Warmer than last weekend’s attire.”
“Indeed it is. I dug deep into my closet for this one—you know, just in case.”
The trio on the porch with us choose that moment to make their escape. Brinkman and the two blondes push through the screen door to the house without stopping, without looking back—without checking to see if their friend is following behind them.
“I see you didn’t take my advice.” She flickers her gaze over my chest, brows raised. “Where is your jacket?”
“It’s coming.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I had it ordered up when they came and told me you were here.”
“Ordered up? What does that mean?”
I smirk arrogantly. “I’m having someone fetch it.”
“You are not.” She’s about to smirk, too, but the grin is wiped off her face when—as if on cue—Tony Keats abruptly bangs through the door, thrusting my jacket into my outstretched hand.
My fingers close around it.
My arms shrug into it.
Thumbs hook into the pockets, and I jut my hip out, posing. Cocky.
“Boom! Jacket.”
Her mouth opens, closes. “Wow. That was…”
“Awesome? Amazing?” I spin on my heels in a full circle for emphasis—as if she needs more evidence that I’m a badass.
“Yes.” She’s laughing now, tugging at her hat, pulling it down over her ears. “Sure, that’s one way of putting it.”
She takes a few hesitant steps forward, destination: the door behind me.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, not so hasty.” I tsk, raising my arm, preventing her from moving toward the door, almost clotheslining her in the process. Arm grazing against the scratchy fabric of her coat. “Where do you think you’re going?”
She drags her eyes up and down my body before casting a guilty glance down into the dark yard. Gulps.
“That’s right, take a good look at where you’re spending another night.” My hands go wide, panning around the porch. “Because we’re going to spend another night outside.”
What the hell is wrong with me? Let her in for fuck’s sake.
“We are?”
“Yeah, all signs point to: you can’t go back inside.”
Liar.
“They’re really not going to let me in?”
Yeah, they would, but you don’t need to know that.
“Oh.” Her voice is small. “I was kind of hoping…”
“Tonight’s not your night, babe—too many people inside.”
Shut the fuck up, Rowdy. Why are you doing this? Just let her inside so you don’t have to stand out here with her—give her what she wants.
She came to party.
She didn’t come to stand on the fucking porch with you.
But what if she did? She didn’t—she hasn’t hit on you once. Shut the fuck up, idiot.
Jesus Christ, now I’m arguing with myself.
“I’m really sorry Cock Blocker, it’s been decided.”
By me. Because I’m a selfish asshole.
Her arms brush my chest when she crosses them. She’s standing closer, her chin raised rather indignantly. “If we’re going to stand out here, could you not call me Cock Blocker? You and I both know it’s degrading.”