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 nudge his side gently. “I mean, you did tear your shirt open like some kind of woodsy superhero. I think that earned you the title of Lumberjack Linebacker for life.”
He gives me a deadpan look. “That was not intentional.”
I snort loudly. “Tell that to the thirsty divorcées at table six.”
A trio of women, each armed with a fresh martini, are brazenly eyeing him like he’s the dessert menu.
“Please.” He reaches for my hand. “Save me.”
I arch a brow, feigning innocence. “It would be rude to leave now.”
His fingers tighten around mine, lips ghosting near my ear as he leans in. “I will do anything if you get me out of here.”
The way he says it—low and promising—sends a shiver through me. “Tempting,” I murmur, letting the words drag out just to watch his expression shift. “So tempting . . .”
Before he can retaliate, a commotion near the bar catches our attention. A giant bear of a man is hoisting himself onto the bar top while the bartender struggles to remove him, raising a beer stein high above his head and shouting, “To the Lumbersexuals!”
The entire bar erupts, laughter echoing off the wood-paneled walls.
“I swear to God, if one more person uses the word ‘lumbersexual’ in my presence . . .”
I bite back a grin, smiling above the rim of my glass. “What’s wrong, babe? Not a fan of your new title?”
He levels me with a flat look. “I play football. I am not a lumberjack.”
I glance down at his flannel-covered chest, then up at the thick scruff lining his jaw. “Mmm. Debatable.”
Before he can argue, another cheer erupts as the bear of a man on the bar top jumps off, slams his beer stein down, and bellows, “Someone Get Bennett An Axe!”
More drunk cheers. More drunk chanting: “Axe! Axe! Axe!”
I’m mid-sip of my drink when a stranger shoves her phone in my face, her grin wide with mischief. “Lucy,” she shouts over the noise, calling me by name. “What was your reaction the moment Harris ripped his shirt open? Be honest.”
I lower my glass slowly, dragging out the moment for dramatic effect. “Well.” I tap a fingernail against my cocktail glass. “I didn’t hate it.”
Harris’s eyes darken a little as a roar of approval erupts from the group, someone clapping him on the back like he’s won an actual championship.
And suddenly, the game has begun.
Again.
Harris leans back in his chair, one arm slung casually over the backrest, his drink loose in his other hand. But his eyes? Yeah. Those are locked on me now, sharp and interested, like my words flipped a switch in his brain, simple as they were.
The bar is loud, buzzing with energy, but I’m suddenly all too aware of him. The way his jaw tics slightly. The way his fingers drum against his glass, slow, deliberate. The way his eyes settle onto me.
Dex whistles. “Ohhh, she didn’t hate it, boys.”
Miles claps his hands. “Yoga teacher gave a love confession.”
They are such idiots.
“He made a scene—now he has to live with the consequences.” I roll my eyes. “When he ripped his shirt open, I was somewhere between mildly entertained and—seriously confused.”
Harris’s smirk grows. “Mildly entertained?”
I sip my drink to hide my smile. “Sure.”
He tilts his head slightly, watching me. “You weren’t impressed?”
I raise a brow. “Do you need me to be impressed?”
The table erupts into chaos.
“Oh Shit.”
“She’s calling him out!”
Harris exhales, shaking his head, amusement in his expression. “Lucy.”
I blink innocently. “Harris.”
He leans forward and rests his elbows on the table, closing the space between us. Lowers his voice so I have to lean closer to hear him. “Know what I think?”
I lift a brow. “Please. Enlighten me.”
His tone is so low only I can hear. “I think you were impressed.”
I don’t react.
Don’t blink.
Don’t let it show that he’s right. Maybe—just maybe—I was affected by his over-the-top performance earlier. By his bare chest glistening in the sun. His muscles. Broad back. Shoulders.
Six-pack abs.
I tilt my head, matching his energy. “And I think you like that I won’t admit it. You love it when I’m stubborn.”
A Cheshire cat–like grin spreads across his face. “You love playing this game with me, don’t you?”
I sip my drink, unbothered. “Clearly . . .”
His eyes flick to my mouth.
The air between us tightens.
The noise of the bar fades.
It’s just us now.
I keep my expression neutral, swirling my drink as if I’m completely unaffected. As if I don’t feel the heat rolling off him in waves. As if I haven’t memorized the sharp cut of his jawline, the way his clean shirt clings to his shoulders.
His lips twitch. “I knew you were looking.”
I roll my eyes toward the ceiling. “You were standing on a stage. Ripping your shirt open. Everyone within a one-mile radius was looking.”
He is so full of himself! Honestly!
My heartbeat picks up as he leans in more, elbows still braced on the table. “You wanna know what I think?”