Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 99723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 499(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 499(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
“He’s really great, right?” I say wistfully, watching my son do the footwork drill Dominic taught him.
“I didn’t want to ask in front of him because that wouldn’t be fair, but I’d love to take you two for dinner if you have time?” The question hangs in the air between us, both of us knowing that he’s not asking as a coach wanting to take his new student out, but rather that he’s asking me out on a date.
And again, I don’t do that.
“As friends?” The question is for my clarity as much as for his.
There is no hint of disappointment on his face, not a single flicker of it in his dark eyes as he agrees. “Sure. Friends get food together.”
He accepts the semi-yes easily, which is exactly what I want, so why do I feel disappointed?
Chapter 5
Dominic
“Are you saying he’s a sweet potato hog?”
Briar freezes, her fry halfway to her mouth, and then starts laughing. “Yes, I guess I am. Though technically Snuffles is part of the rodent family, not the Suidae one.”
Somehow, I’m enchanted as Briar tells us a story about a capybara from work that likes to hoard his sweet potato treats, hiding them from the rest of the herd. I didn’t even know what a capybara was until five minutes ago, but apparently, they’re huge rodents that break the norm of “the bigger the rat, the scarier they are.” With these guys, they get so big, they’re suddenly somehow cute enough that people want to pet them and curl up with them in their laps like puppies.
I’ve been learning a lot from Briar. Like that she works at the zoo, which is where she met Snuffles. She hates pickles on her burgers, but will eat one by itself, and she draws a ketchup happy face on the top bun before smooshing her burger together because it makes her smile. Her favorite hobby is kitchen dance parties while she waits for the microwave timer to beep, especially when she’s cooking popcorn because it gives the microwave noise an extra beat. Oh, and socks make the best dance shoes for this activity.
“Technical or not, these fries are mine.” I grab a bundle of four big sweet potato fries from the basket in the middle of the table and shove them into my mouth all at once.
Like a mini-mimic, Harley follows suit, though he doesn’t do it quite as neatly and one falls into his lap. Thankfully, Briar is pressing her lips together, fighting to hold back a giggle at our antics. “Manners at the table, please.”
“Mooom,” Harley grumbles, looking embarrassed, not about his mild misbehavior but at Briar calling the two of us out.
I swallow the wad of mostly chewed spud, and back Briar’s parental limit. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to be a bad example. I’ll behave appropriately.” I wipe my mouth with my napkin and then set it in my lap, an epitome of etiquette my mother would be proud of.
Harley watches me closely, scrubs the back of his hand across his mouth, and then sheepishly says, “Sorry, Mom.”
“Thank you. There’s a time and place for properness, and a time and place for more relaxed dining.” Briar daintily reaches for a fry as though eating with royalty, then pointedly grabs three and chows down on them T. rex–style, growl and all. Grinning around her mouthful, she mumbles, “I’m not really a five-star restaurant kinda girl anyway.”
Harley and I both laugh, but what I’m really thinking is that she’s a great mother. She’s obviously taught the kid how to behave, but she’s fun and silly with him, too, not making anything too serious.
“Could’ve fooled me,” I tease. “Everything about you says fancy-schmancy.”
She strikes a pose, her hand placed beneath her chin as she bats her lashes. “It’s the unwashed hair, bare face, and sloth shirt, isn’t it?”
I choke on my tea as a laugh bursts out. “It’s definitely the shirt. Who’s your tailor?”
She’s kidding, but the truth is, Briar might not be red-carpet ready, but she does look hot. Her hair is pulled up into some sort of floppy style that makes me want to run my fingers through it and make it a bit messier, her face being bare lets me see the frequent blushes that sweep across her cheeks every time I look at her a little too long or a bit too directly, and her shirt, which proclaims “Hang In There” with a sleeping sloth barely gripping the letters, hugs her chest and stops just shy of the waist of her jeans. When she walked into the arena earlier, I’d had to recite old game stats—in reverse order, mind you—to get my dick to settle down. Even then, I’d had to sternly remind myself that she’s Coach’s daughter, and while I don’t care too much about what he says, giving his daughter sexy eyes is probably a no-no I should mind.