Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 87439 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 437(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87439 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 437(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
I smiled. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”
He moved into the kitchen, pausing to lean on the corner of the island with his beefy arms crossed. “Much better. I should probably trek through that shit and get out of your hair, but those sandwiches look big enough to share.”
“I scrapped the omelet idea. This was easier. Make yourself useful, and grab a couple of wineglasses.” I inclined my chin toward the open shelves near the sink and plated the turkey sandwiches. “Red or white…you choose. The wine fridge is at the other end of the island.”
Silas pulled out a Pinot Noir. “Bottle opener?”
I tried to keep my eyes on his chest, but they drifted south—of their own volition—to his flaccid cock. Christ, he was gorgeous. “Uh…that drawer.”
He grinned like a Cheshire cat as he uncorked the bottle and sauntered away. No one would blame me if my gaze lingered on his perfect ass a beat too long. It was a thing of beauty.
I plucked a bag of chips from the pantry and carried our makeshift late-lunch-slash-early-dinner into the living area, where Silas was stepping into the discarded long johns. He made a show of snapping the elastic and cupping his junk, and snickered at my eye roll.
We pushed the bed out of the way, returned the coffee table to its place in front of the sectional, then wordlessly tucked into the modest feast.
“This might be the best turkey sandwich I’ve ever eaten,” Silas said around a bite.
“It’s pretty basic, but I will say this…homemade pesto aioli is a game changer.”
He hummed enthusiastically and picked up his wineglass, raising it in a mock toast. “To pesto aioli.”
Conversation meandered from pesto to pasta to a retelling of Silas’s trip to Italy last summer, Pinot grapes, and his favorite vineyard in Napa.
“I’ve never been to Napa,” I admitted. “I’ve been to the Bay Area, though. You said you’re from there?”
“You remembered that?”
I gave him the WTF look he deserved. “It was this morning.”
“Fuck. Feels like forever ago,” he muttered, sipping his wine. “What else did I tell you?”
“Not much. Oh…you said you played for the Devils and I meant to google you, but”—I gestured to the falling snow visible through the giant window—“I got distracted.”
“Glad you didn’t. I don’t google well.”
“What do you mean?”
Silas shrugged, swirling the burgundy contents thoughtfully. “My life reads like a tabloid entry. Age, university, teams I’ve played for, previous girlfriends and relationship BS, wedding-palooza, divorce-palooza, and oh, no…he’s old! Career kaput and his life is shit. Too bad.”
He glugged the rest of his wine and set the glass on the table.
I moved the bottle out of reach with a tsk. “No getting drunk. You might feel better now, but give yourself a chance to recoup. And if you’re old, I’m Methuselah.”
“Methuza-who?”
“Very funny.”
I polished off the last of my sandwich and sat against the cushions, cradling my glass. Shadows had lengthened, darkening the room and making the firelight spark. The power had gone out, and the generator was doing its thing. I liked the dim setting. The faded light accentuated Silas’s toned biceps and abs, so…no complaints here. If anything, my first foray into a forced proximity situation with a perfect stranger wasn’t so horrible.
“Just kidding.” He slouched over the plate and gobbled his sandwich, legs splayed, elbows on his knees.
“We have time. You might as well give me the real story,” I suggested.
“Of my life?” Silas snorted, his mouth full…of course.
“Yeah.”
He wiped the corner of his lips, and slid back on the cushion, shifting slightly to face me. “Sounds like a trap.”
I laughed aloud. “How so?”
“I don’t know. I suppose if you’re going to sell me out, I’m screwed anyway.”
“You’re a cynical man, Mr. Anderson. There’s no trap. I wouldn’t expose you, and I don’t expect anything from you either. That works both ways. This is a small town, and I like to keep a low profile in my personal life.”
He studied me over the rim of his wineglass.
“Hmm. Fine.” Silas raked his hand through his tousled hair. “I played my final game last weekend. End of an era for me. Fifteen years in the league, but now I’m done. No one plays forever. I get that, but this past year has just…sucked. Personally and professionally. I could feel everything ending around me for months. Like I was witnessing a slow death and I was the only one in mourning.”
“That’s rough.”
“Yeah, but feel free to tell me to shut up ’cause I know how I must sound. What could be more tone-deaf or pathetic than an athlete who made a fuckton of money to be crying in his”—he raised his glass—“wine? I was with the Devils for ten years. Five years with Seattle, ten in LA. Dream come true. Well, not quite. I was hoping to get traded to the Niners, but Los Angeles is a great city for athletes. They treat you like kings…especially if you win, and we were fucking amazing. Till we weren’t.”