Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 88460 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 442(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88460 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 442(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
I narrow my eyes at him skeptically. “You’re telling me you think a few days of . . . whatever this is means something to you?”
He is so full of shit!
Harris’s head tilts as he considers my question. “I’m saying it could. If we want it to.”
I’m thrown off by his candor.
He says it like it’s the easiest thing in the world, like the logistics don’t matter. Like I’m not here and he’s not there and it wouldn’t be a massive pain in the ass to try.
“Harris,” I start, trying to inject some logic into this before we get swept up in a discussion about it. “I repeat: You live in Arizona. We barely know each other. This has temporary written all over it.”
“And?” He shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “Why does temporary have to mean it’s not worth it?”
I blink, pizza halfway to my mouth.
I stare at him, my mouth opening and closing as I try to come up with a rebuttal.
The truth?
I don’t have one.
Chapter 12
Harris
Is there any realm of possibility where you want to spend the night with me?
I’m in the bathroom again, taking a piss, practicing the line because Lucy isn’t a normal woman—she’s complicated. Not easily swayed. And cool as fuck.
I have to wonder: If she knew who I was—one of the douchey football players that’s invaded the town—would she be tripping all over herself to get in my pants?
Probably not.
Lucy’s not the type. She’s too sharp for that, too good at calling out bullshit. She’s the kind of woman who wouldn’t let a guy like me coast by on charm alone—not without putting up one hell of a fight.
And honestly? That’s part of her appeal.
I flush, wash my hands, and catch my reflection in the mirror.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, leaning in closer. “What the hell is going on here?”
My hair’s a mess, sticking up in every direction from where I’ve raked my fingers through it a hundred times tonight. There’s a spot of marinara sauce on the collar of my T-shirt from the pizza, and my jawline’s beginning to show signs of a five-o’clock shadow.
Basically, I look like a guy who stress-cleaned his entire cottage for a woman and played a bonding game with his teammates.
“What am I fucking doing?” I slap the countertop for emphasis.
Leaning forward, I brace my hands on the sink, staring myself down. “You’ve got this, Bennett. She likes you—probably. Or she hates you. Either way, you’re not going to find out by hiding in the damn bathroom.”
What the hell am I saying? Why am I talking to myself?
“Get it together, Bennett,” I growl at myself, jabbing a finger at my reflection. “You’re a professional athlete. You’ve been tackled by grown men weighing three hundred pounds. You’ve faced down players who wanted to kill you. And now you’re hiding in the bathroom because you’re too chicken to ask a woman to spend the night?”
My reflection doesn’t answer, which is so rude.
I swipe at my face with a towel and square my shoulders.
“All right. You’re doing this. You’ve got this. Don’t be weird. Ask her to stay the night. No pressure, no expectations—a casual, totally cool suggestion from one adult to another. You’ve got this.”
I give myself a thumbs-up.
“And for the love of God,” I add, pointing one last time. “Stop talking to yourself like a lunatic. She can probably hear you.”
With that final pep talk, I push the door open.
Lucy is curled up on the couch like she owns the place. Her hoodie is pulled up around her shoulders snugly, her legs tucked under her, and she’s scrolling mindlessly through her phone with the kind of focus that tells me she hasn’t sensed me standing here yet.
No big deal.
“Hey.” I step into the living room. “Did you miss me?”
She glances up. “Oh, hey you. Did you leave the room? I didn’t notice.”
Her eyes are twinkling.
My shoulders relax.
The clock on the wall ticks loudly, despite the television being on, each second dragging by.
“Ouch. Brutal.” I flop down on the couch next to her, keeping a careful amount of space between us—though it kills me not to lean in closer. “And here I thought we were bonding.”
“We were.” She sets her phone down on the armrest, tilting her head. “You ruined it by leaving for an entire ten minutes.”
Oh shit—so she is aware how long I was fucking around in the bathroom.
Awkward.
“What were you doing in there for so long anyway? Talking to yourself? Staring at your reflection?”
She’s teasing, but my ears burn regardless.
“What? Pfft. No. Who talks to themselves in the mirror?”
“Uh-huh.” Her smile widens. “Sure you weren’t.”
I groan, scrubbing a hand over my face. “Fine. Maybe I was—hypothetically—mentally preparing for something. Is that a crime?”
“Depends.” She leans forward, resting her chin on her hand. “What were you mentally preparing for?”