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 hate guessing games. I’m no good at them.” Her brows draw together. “Teammates, teammates . . .” she muses, wheels in her brain turning. “You’re not married, not in a relationship, not gay, and they’re your teammates. Of what, Harris? What am I missing?”
I rub the back of my neck, my grin fading a little. “I’m a professional football player.”
For a second, Lucy just stares at me. Not a word. Not even a blink. Like she’s been frozen in place.
Then her eyes go wide, her mouth falling open. “Wait—what? You?”
“Yeah.”
“And Miles and Dex and Elijah—”
“Yep.”
“Miles and Dex and Elijah are football players?”
Uh-huh. “All of us.”
Her jaw drops even lower, and I’m convinced she’s about to burst out laughing. Instead, she just blinks at me as if I’ve told her I’m actually an alien from another planet.
“You’re a football player?” She shakes her head, eyes darting around the room like she’s trying to piece together the last few days of knowing me. “You told me you were a lumberjack.”
“False,” I correct her. “You assumed I was because of my size. I told you I was here for work, and I am, but not to roll logs.”
“But . . .” Lucy rubs her temples. “Why would you let me believe you were a lumberjack this whole time? Now I feel like a dumbass!”
I scratch the back of my neck, already bracing myself. “Honestly? I thought it was funny.”
Her mouth falls open. “Funny? You’ve been out here chopping wood for a mock survival competition as a joke? What the hell is wrong with you?”
Lucy smacks me on the arm.
“Hold up now,” I say, raising a finger. “In my defense, I thought I’d be good at chopping wood.”
She bursts out laughing at my stupidity. “You thought you’d be good at it?”
“I figured it couldn’t be that hard!” I grin. “You swing the axe, the log splits. End of story.”
Lucy leans forward, still giggling. “And you didn’t think maybe you should tell me the truth sooner?”
Obviously I could have. But where’s the fun in that?
“Can I point out again that you never technically asked if I was—you assumed. I was going along with it.”
She fiddles with the hem of her sweater. “That’s the literal definition of lying by omission.”
I squint. “Is it, though?”
“Yes!”
I cross my arms, leaning back into the cushions like I’m contemplating a serious philosophical debate. “I don’t know. I feel like omission is more of a gray area. It’s not like I lied and said ‘I’m the king of the fucking woods.’ I just didn’t correct you.” I give my nonexistent beard a scratch.
“Does Annabelle know?”
No. “Obviously not. She’s too busy trying to run the event to notice. Plus, she’s not exactly hovering over me, watching my every move. I suspect the dudes who actually work for the company have figured out I’m a fraud.”
Though none of them have busted me. Or they obviously don’t recognize me. Or don’t give two shits about football. Or they’ve got a betting pool on how long it takes before I injure myself.
“I’m sorry, but this whole thing is blowing my mind. Of all the things to fake—why didn’t you tell her you have no clue what you’re doing?”
Is Lucy being serious? “Have you ever tried to back out of something after showing up day one bragging that you know what you’re doing?” I chuckle. “It’s a lot harder to admit failure when you’ve already committed to the bit.” All the peacocking around I did . . .
She rolls her eyes at the ceiling. “That ego of yours is bigger than I thought it was. I’m shocked you fit through my door.”
I clutch my chest dramatically. “Ouch. You wound me, Lucy.”
She smirks. “You’ll survive.”
Her prissy little pout is so fucking cute. So sexy.
I want my mouth on her again.
“What if I told you I’m faking something else right now too?”
Her smile fades; curiosity fills her expression. “What do you mean?”
I lean in, dropping my voice. “I’m pretending that sitting this close to you isn’t driving me insane.”
Lucy scoffs. “What if I’m mad you lied to me?”
“I would say: Let me make it up to you.”
“How?”
She knows how.
Her eyes flick to my mouth, and I can see the gears turning in her head. She’s pretending to be mad, but the way her breathing changes gives her away.
I smirk, closing the distance between us inch by inch. “I’m thinking we skip the part where you stay mad and go straight to the part where I . . .”
“Where you what?” she whispers, her voice barely above a breath.
I kiss her, slow at first—just a soft press of lips, though it doesn’t stay gentle for long. Her fingers curl into the front of my shirt, and the second she tugs me closer, I’m done holding back.
I cup her face, deepening the kiss, and she sighs against my mouth, the sound making something hot twist low in my stomach. Her hands slide up my chest, fingers exploring like she’s memorizing every inch of me. I groan softly, and when her nails graze the back of my neck, I lose the ability to think straight.