Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 92646 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92646 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Turner’s smile falters a little. “Yikes, these are tricky.”
“Good,” I say, folding my arms across my chest. “Let’s see how your lie-detecting skills really hold up.”
He studies me, eyes narrowing like he’s reading a scouting report. “You’re too smart to fall for a cheater, so I’m going to say… the sorority thing is the lie.”
I smirk. “Wrong.”
“Damn.”
“One semester,” I confirm. “I was bribed with a vast amount of cupcakes, liquor, and matching sweatshirts. It didn’t last.”
“So the lie was…?”
I sip my water slowly, dramatically. “I’ve definitely been in love.”
His gaze lingers on me a little longer than it should, and my heart picks up speed.
“Who was the guy who had the girlfriend?” he asks quietly.
I shrug, like it doesn’t still sting. Pride is a fickle beast. “Some idiot from my hometown. High school crush turned college boyfriend. I was young. He was dumb. It was doomed.”
“You deserve better.”
I meet his eyes. “Agree.”
There’s a pause.
“I’d never do that to someone.”
My chest tightens as I nod. “I know.”
His brow tics up. “You know?”
“I mean…” I wave my hand vaguely in his direction. “You’re like, ridiculously respectful. You don’t interrupt people when they’re talking. You’re polite. You listen.” I roll my eyes. “You probably return your grocery cart.”
He gives me that slow, warm smile that should be illegal. “I do return my grocery cart.”
“Knew it,” I say, smug. “Most men would leave it rolling into traffic.” I shrug. “Have any tattoos?”
“Several.”
Turner hooks a thumb under the hem of his T-shirt and lifts—just a little—revealing clean black lettering low on his side. I lean closer before my brain can vote.
My eyes go saucer-wide. “Score early, score often?” I screech. “Stop it right now.”
He nods, deadly serious.
“That’s your tattoo?” I jab a finger at his side. “You—willingly—branded yourself with that?”
“Sure did,” he says, proud as sin. “Got it my senior year. Some people get meaningful quotes or a tribute to their family. I got a motivational hockey phrase and absolutely zero fucks given.”
I collapse against the pillows, laughing so hard my stomach hurts. He lounges back against the headboard like a centerfold of bad decisions and grins at me.
“Hey, it worked,” he adds. “Scored a full ride, didn’t I?”
“That is so cheesy.” I snort and give his shoulder a shove. “You should definitely add it to your dating bio.”
“You think?”
I lift a brow. “Maybe. Although…do you really want to advertise you’re a professional hockey player?”
“I don’t think a slogan on my app screams ‘plays professionally.’ It just makes me sound like a douchebag.”
“True,” I admit, trying not to smile.
He tilts his head, all innocent. “So we’re in agreement that my bio is good? I can keep it and start swiping?”
turner
. . .
“You know what I’ve been wondering?” Poppy asks, shifting on the mattress beside me.
I catch a whiff of whatever scent she’s wearing and inhale it, imprinting it in my brain.
“Hmm? What have you been wondering?”
“If your last name is Hutton—why do they call you Skaggs? That makes no sense whatsoever.”
I grin, letting my knee bump against hers.
“The reason is not all that exciting.” I laugh. “My rookie year on the Baddies, I showed up to my very first practice wearing an old jersey I’d had since high school. Got it at some garage sale for like, five bucks.” I chuckle at the memory. “It wasn’t my name on the back—it said Skaggs. No idea who that dude was, but I liked the colors and it fit. And anytime I wore it to practice, we would win the next game.”
It's my good luck charm and I still have it.
Wore it under my pads the whole season in high school, too.
“That’s adorable.”
“My teammates started calling me Skaggs from day one. Said it fit me better than Hutton—and once you get a nickname on a hockey team?” I shrug. “Might as well get it tattooed on your ass.”
Poppy tips her head, grinning. “You have it tattooed on your ass?”
I smirk. “Maybe. You want to find out?”
She shivers, letting out a nervous little giggle, ducking her head.
“No thanks,” she says. “I’ll take your word for it.”
I chuckle. “Coward.” I nudge her knee again, a not-so-subtle invitation to keep playing along. “What about you? You got any tattoos?”
She shakes her head. “None. I almost got one once during spring break in college but the one shop that was open near our hotel looked... sketchy. I was afraid I might wake up with tetanus,” she deadpans.
“Good instincts.” I nod approvingly. “You’d make a terrible impulsive drunk.”
“You said you had several tattoos—what’s the other one?” She taps her chin dramatically. “Let me guess, the other one is your college logo? Your mom’s name? Wait—wait—is it a drawing of the little LEGO man, or something Harry Potter related?
Very good guesses. “Wrong, wrong, and no way in hell.”
She raises both brows. “So? What is it?”