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)
“So I’m special?” I tease him, wanting to hear the words. Dying for them.
“So special I want to parade you all over the place when we get back to school—I’m going to force all my pissant friends to spend time with you.”
“God, please don’t!”
“Why not?”
“Because they…don’t like me.” They think I’m annoying.
“Tough shit. They’ll get used to it.”
“Are you keeping me?”
“Can I?” His hands slide from my ribs to my back, caressing my spine, big and warm and secure.
Mmm. “I’ll think about it.”
“In the meantime, I should probably pack, too—throw some shit into an overnight bag.” He shoots me a grin, slaps me on the ass.
“I’m surprised you haven’t done that already, you shady bastard.”
He gives those broad shoulders another shrug. “Sue me for wanting to see you in a swimsuit.”
“You would have seen me in one eventually.”
“Did you bring a one-piece or a bikini?” he demands, gaze skimming down the front of my shirt to where my breasts are plumped up from being squeezed against his chest.
His perusal gives me goose bumps.
“Both,” I whisper. “I brought both, just in case.”
Rowdy sits up, hauling me along with him, spreading his legs. Resting me on thick thighs, giant hands skimming to my hips. Caressing.
“Just in case what?”
“Just in case I got brave.”
“Baby, it wouldn’t matter if you wore a brown paper bag.” His voice dips low as his hands massage my waist, through my shirt. “I’d still think you were sexy.”
I’m his baby now?
“Brown paper bag?” I’m skeptical.
“I mean, good luck finding one, but, yeah—I’d take you in a paper bag.” His fingers toy with the hem of my shirt, tugging gently. Leans in close to whisper, “Then, I’d push you in the ocean and you’d get soaking wet, and the bag would disintegrate. Boom, naked.”
“So we’re doing it.”
“My balls want you to define the term doing it.”
I swallow. “Don’t be such a pervert. I meant going on vacation together.” I pause, thinking. Then, “Wait, if we’re sharing a cabin, does that mean we’re going to end up sharing a bed?”
Rowdy laughs, burying his face in the crook of my neck.
“Oh we’re definitely sharing a bed.” His fingers brush the skin under my shirt.
“But some of those rooms have bunk beds, right?”
Rowdy laughs, tipping his head back, and for a brief moment I’m able to admire his strong, thick neck. “Who says we’ll be in an interior cabin?”
“I mean—we’re kids.” No way would my parents ever put me in a room with balconies, let alone a window, on a cruise ship. It costs way too much money.
“Kids, huh?” He stretches his legs in front of him, long torso and form large and imposing and definitely in no way childlike. “Do I look like a little boy to you?”
No. He does not.
He looks like a big, strapping hottie with a five o’clock shadow and firm pecs and thick thighs. He looks like he wants to show me all the un-childlike activities we can do in this room, tracking my movements when I back away from him, stepping out from between his long, outstretched legs.
A photograph on his dresser catches my eye so I stroll to it, limbs a bit wobbly, glancing over my shoulder, smiling to myself when I catch him watching me intently.
Bending at the waist, I inspect the picture of him in high school with a medal around his neck and a baseball glove on his hand. His face is flushed, sunburnt, and he’s squinting from the glare of the sun.
He’s happy and beaming. Sweaty, too, like he just played a hard game and won.
“That was the day I made All-American,” his deep voice tells me from behind.
I nod, moving on to the next one, then the next. Then on to his medals and trophies, of which there are many. A royal blue varsity letter is pinned to a bulletin board above his desk, and on it are newspaper clippings, the gold tassel from his high school graduation cap.
“I don’t know why I still have all that shit hanging up.” He sounds sheepish. Apologetic. “I’m hardly ever here anymore.”
I shoot him a glance. “Because you’ve achieved so much.”
On his bookshelf are bobble heads of legendary baseball figures, that I—as little as I know about the game—recognize: Babe Ruth. Hank Aaron. Barry Bonds.
Nolan Ryan.
Some baseball cards in plastic. Books, obviously, and lots of them. A surprising number, actually, ranging from popular fiction to historical non-fiction. On the top shelf is a purple geode, which makes me smile as I pluck it up and hold it in my palm, studying the sparkles under the light before gingerly placing it back in its spot next to a conch shell.
Wandering to the closet, my fingers graze the soft cotton of a few shirts hanging limply inside. I consider stealing one away, for pajamas, but think better of it with his eyes following me so diligently.