Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 74956 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 375(@200wpm)___ 300(@250wpm)___ 250(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74956 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 375(@200wpm)___ 300(@250wpm)___ 250(@300wpm)
Something flickers in his eyes—disappointment? Hurt? I’m not sure, but it’s gone so quickly I might have imagined it.
“Sure,” he says with a shrug, shifting to lean against the desk beside me. “Whatever you need, Rem. You know I’m on your team.”
He is. That’s also part of the problem. He’s always so damn supportive, so understanding, making it nearly impossible to keep him in a neat box labeled “friends with benefits” where he belongs.
“Thanks,” I say, forcing a tight smile. “I appreciate that. I really do. And same to you.”
“Cool.” He straightens, and for a moment, I think he might say something else. Instead, he simply presses a quick kiss to my forehead. “Good luck with your busy month, Coach Lauder,” he says, his voice light. “I’ll be rooting for you. See you Monday.”
A few moments later, his gear bag is over his shoulder and he’s breezing out my office door, leaving me alone with the lingering scent of sex and his cologne in the air and a hollow feeling in my chest.
I remind myself that this was my call and it’s for the best, but the icky sensation remains.
It sticks to me like glue all the way out to my car and through a crowded Friday evening supermarket trip, lodging so deep in my craw, I can barely taste the orzo with roasted fall vegetables that I make for dinner.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think I was starting to have romantic feelings for this man.
But I do know better.
I know I have no interest in feelings other than friendly ones. And I know my father would kill us both if he found out we were fornicating, let alone anything more than fornicating.
So…this is for the best. It really is.
I repeat the mantra over and over again in my head as I get ready for bed, the better to be ready for my early start tomorrow. But as I drift off, I can’t help wishing Stone were sleeping over.
Which is a problem.
Maybe even a big one.
Chapter 2
Tyler Julian Stone
I’m a firm believer that a man with a rooftop pool is never truly alone, but as I float on my back in the Sunday afternoon sun, I realize there’s a difference between not being alone and not being lonely.
The distinction feels particularly keen on a perfect, late-summer Portland afternoon. The sun is warm but not brutal, the sky so blue it hurts my eyes, and I have a couple of great friends on their way over with snacks to keep me company. Knowing Steph, they’ll be yummy snacks, too. Healthy, but yummy.
Still, I can’t stop brooding about the sexy redhead who put me in the penalty box for the indefinite future.
Maybe we should take a break for a while.
The words are still echoing in my head two days later, making me uncharacteristically cranky.
I’ve been dumped before, and it’s not like I haven’t done my share of dumping, as well.
Hell, if I’m being completely honest, I’ve been the dumper more often than the dumpee. Apparently, my winning personality and lack of major red flags are real “tie that man down and pressure him to put a ring on it” fodder for the modern single woman. I can’t blame them—I’m adorable, loyal, and only rarely pick my nose while driving—but I don’t like being rushed into things.
Especially things as serious as an engagement.
I was glad that Remy wasn’t a commitment-minded woman…at first. Now, I find myself wishing she would wake up, smell the coffee, and awaken to what excellent boyfriend material I am.
Instead, I’ve been put out to pasture, a bull set loose in a field of beautiful single cows, all desperate for my schlong, but the only heifer I want to bone has jumped the fence and departed for greener grass somewhere else.
Remy would hate that metaphor, I think, as I swirl a sad hand through the crystal blue water. She would not appreciate being called a heifer or the fact that I’ve assumed all the other single cows are desperate for my schlong.
Even though it’s true…mostly.
Being a good-looking pro hockey player with a winning smile does have its perks, even if I’m not feeling very perky right now.
I suddenly find myself wishing there were some rowdy kids in the pool, splashing me while they play, or that the nearly-deaf woman from the third floor was in a lounge chair gossiping loudly with her daughter on the phone. Anything to take my mind off my own depressing thoughts.
But the pool is completely deserted.
I’ll never understand why more residents don’t take advantage of our posh and swanky oasis, twenty stories above the Portland sprawl. The rooftop pool area can easily accommodate thirty people, but most days it’s just me up here, drifting around on my floatie.
People really seem to hate fun, a fact that’s always baffled me. Fun is good. As far as I’m concerned, it’s one of the reasons we’re here. Whoever put us on this planet wouldn’t have given us a gift like the capacity to have fun if they didn’t want us to use it. Same with sex.