Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 119964 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 600(@200wpm)___ 480(@250wpm)___ 400(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119964 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 600(@200wpm)___ 480(@250wpm)___ 400(@300wpm)
Disrobing doesn’t seem to bother them in the least. Dicks, however remain a sensitive issue. Surprisingly, the flirt seems to be particularly worried.
“Shit,” Jake mutters as he drops his robe and a fine blush tints his cheeks. “What if I get wood? I mean, I’m not turned on or anything. Not, that you aren’t real cute . . . Shit. I didn’t mean that.” He shuffles his feet, his hands moving to cover his penis before they jerk away as if he doesn’t want to hide, either. “I’m just saying, I’m naked, and you’re going to be looking. That usually tends to make him stand at attention.”
The mere fact that he’s not hiding his fear endears him to me. I keep my expression neutral and take a shot to check the light. “If he decides to give us a wave, we ignore him. Just like I do whenever that happens.”
“Happens often?” he asks, brightening.
“I’m sure I don’t need to tell you, Mr. Ryder, that penises can have minds of their own.”
“Or lack of,” he agrees with a little laugh.
With that, he relaxes, and we get along just fine. All the while, there’s a burr under my skin, the annoying thud of my heart against my ribs. Because, unlike Jake, I am not at ease. Not one bit. And I know who is to blame.
The asshat, Mannus.
I could pretend I don’t know why he affects me when the others don’t, but it would be a lie. I’m attracted to him. And it is horrifying.
Usually, I need to like a man in order to feel a spark. Asshats who clearly think they’re hot shit do not get more than a passing glance from me. Why should they? I’m around good-looking men all the time. Physical beauty is nothing more than an appealing package. What’s below the surface is so much more interesting.
The fact that Finn Mannus, who annoys the hell out of me, has been tickling the edges of my thoughts since I’ve set eyes on him is not a welcome experience. He’s up next. I’m going to have to see him naked—keep my composure and photograph him, and it is messing with my head. A lot.
My insides are stupidly fluttering and swooping. My fingers are cold, but my skin is hot. I’m so annoyed with myself, I want to take five and slap my own face. At this rate, I’m going to need James to give me a “bitch, be cool” lecture.
I just need to get through the day, because soon it will all be a hazy memory. I’ll drink a glass of chilled white wine—maybe an icy shot of vodka, at this rate—and get ready for my date with . . . Shit, what was the guy’s name? I blink, unable to remember.
Adam? Marvin? Melvin?
“Evan!”
“What?” Jake Ryder peers at me in confusion.
I clear my throat and lift my camera. “Nothing. Carry on.”
The advice goes for me as well. There is no way I’m going to be distracted by a mouthy quarterback. No freaking way.
Finn
“You seem . . . tense.”
I halt mid-pace and shoot Dex a look that would make most guys fuck off. The guy merely settles back in his chair, crosses his arms over his chest, and raises a brow. Since I’ve been trying to get him to be more involved with the team, I should be glad he’s taking any interesting in talking. Dex rarely speaks, but now is not the time.
It feels like ants are crawling over the lining of my stomach, and it’s all I can do not to claw them out. I haven’t been this unsettled since my last college championship game.
A game I fucking lost to his team, thank you very much. I’m not in the mood to play. “You’re done with your shoot,” I tell him. “Doesn’t that mean you can go now?”
His smile is thin and knowing. “I drove all of us here, remember?”
I do now. Shit.
“Even if I hadn’t,” he continues blandly, “I wouldn’t want to miss this.”
“Miss what?” I ask, even though I know full well.
“You falling apart. It’s fascinating. You get stiffer with each turn you take around the room.”
I let my hands drop to my sides and order my shoulders to relax. My body ignores the directive. “Find something better to do.”
“Can’t. This is basic study,” he says. “Now I know what the signs are when you’re close to losing your shit on the field.”
As my center, the more he knows about my body language, the better. I tell myself this, but I really want to knock the legs out from under his chair.
“Dexter, when I’m about to lose my shit on the field, I’ll tell you. I have absolutely no qualms admitting when I need help during a game.” Some QBs would rather swallow their left nut than show any weakness, but we’re a team out there. I believe in teamwork, not fucking up just to save face.