Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 88895 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 444(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88895 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 444(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
The instant our eyes are locked once more she inquires, “How did you know it was me?”
Putting aside the fact Arden would never willingly wear a skirt – let alone a mini skirt – or heels – damn sure not ones that lace up her calves – her hair is down, her makeup is unmistakable, and her ear lacks a certain accessory I was too drunk the first time to recall missing.
Rather than say a word of that, I simply slide my phone into my gray sweats pocket and smugly state, “Mistaking you for your sister is the type of shit I’m only going to do once.” Her unhappy pout encourages me to bitterly grin. “Now, what is it you want?”
She trails the index finger of her free hand down my white t-shirt covered chest. “You mean besides you?”
“Yes.”
“Your vote.”
“For?”
“The new graphic on the ice washer thingy.”
My head tilts to the side in undeniable confusion. “What?”
“The thingy…that like…makes the ice…not…gross or whatever.”
“You mean the Zam?”
“I said or whatever,” she brushes off at the same time she rearranges her frame to be directly beside mine. “In the past, it’s just been very boring, very basic, very retro no one asked for, so our company decided to make it shine, make it shimmer, make it diamond glimmer.”
Sneering unconsciously occurs. “Please, tell me you are not going to bedazzle it or some shite.” Disapproval strongly deepens during an adjustment of my gear bag. “We cannot afford to be the laughingstock of the league again.”
“Ew,” she dramatically retches, “who bedazzles shite anymore? That’s so…uncouth.”
Nope.
Not using that word correctly.
“We had a world-famous graffiti artist design these two options,” Audrey announces prior to pulling them up. “And we’ve been having fans vote on which they would like to see this season. And since it’s technically your cottage-”
“You mean barn?”
“-you’re all supposed to get a vote. And,” her trouble-filled gaze glides up to mine, “I’m posting selfies of the voting experience.”
“Because of course you are.”
“Mmhm,” she hums while jamming the device at me. “Click whatever but don’t look at the camera.” Her cell, which I didn’t realize had been hiding underneath the tablet, immediately gets lifted upward. “Really concentrate on the screen. Look…thinky.”
“Pensive.”
“What does your retirement check have to do with this?”
“At least you have your looks, I suppose,” I mutter under my breath yet redirect my attention downward to the options.
To my surprise, both are actually quite remarkable.
The one on the left is clean and crisp and reminds me of the cultural tribute murals I’ve seen in places like New York and Maryland that have been specifically tailored to showcase the rich essence and roots of a particular sport or era within it.
It’s well put together.
Refined.
Polished.
A lot like the woman who is now threading her arm around mine to curl in closer.
“Must you?” I grumble without bothering to make eye contact.
“I must,” she coos on a dramatic push of her body against mine, desperate to capture her signature over the shoulder look she posts every day, at least once a day.
While option one resembles Audrey, option two, most certainly mirrors Arden.
It’s messy.
Vibrant.
Alive.
Fills you with something you can’t walk away from…something you don’t want to walk away from…something you wouldn’t ever hesitate to choose every time.
Tapping the tablet screen is immediately mimicked by her doing the same on her phone. “God, we look so good together.” Another click from her occurs. “So natural. Normal.” One more. “We’re perfection.”
“Which is the enemy of progress.”
Her arm dramatically drops back to her side. “I don’t get it.”
“It’s a Churchill quote.”
“I’m not religious.”
I roll my eyes in exasperation and peel her Samurai sword grip strength off my bicep. “Have you seen your sister?”
“Not if I can help it,” she snips at the same time she snatches the object out of my possession.
“Does she not get to vote?”
“No.”
“But shouldn’t she?” Tossing a two-finger wave at Potato walking by occurs between comments. “Afterall, she is an integral member of this organization.”
“She’s a nobody.”
“She’s a somebody.”
“She’s unimportant.”
“She’s super important,” I practically growl on a step closer. “To this franchise. To this team. And to me.” Irritation obviously narrows her vision pushing me to add. “She is irreplaceable unlike you.”
“Then why is it you had no problem replacing her with me, yet can’t seem to replace me with her?”
It’s my turn to glare.
I never meant to fuck her instead of her sister.
Hooking up with Arden was always the goal.
Has always been the goal.
Will always be the goal.
Not just because I wanna see how fucking perfect she looks coming on my cock, but because I wanna see what a fucking beauty she is before I bounce for pracky.
How gorgeous she is whether she’s choking on my dick or downing her first cup of joe.
How loud she gets from my hand between her thighs or hot water running down her back.