Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 78257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
“Here, let me help.” He squats down next to me, raking the ice up into a pile and then scooping it onto the tray.
“Stop.”
“No, let me help.”
I pause what I’m doing and glare at him. “Just quit the acting, okay? Whatever bet you and the team have going about me, forget it. It won’t work.”
He stops and pales, and that’s all the confirmation I need.
I was right.
Part of me, the silly girl inside who would be flattered to have the honest attention of the most popular guy on campus—even if he is a football player—wants to cry. I stuff her down in a box and throw away the key.
For half a second, I honestly thought the article I wrote didn’t matter and he was being sincere. I thought he liked me. My hands clench. I let down my guard for half a second, and this is what happens.
I stand up. “You only came over here to talk to me for a bet.” My lips flatten. “Just leave me alone. Please.”
He’s picked up the tray and is standing now, a look of unease on his face. “Wait, that’s not the whole story—”
“And the next time you attempt to win a bet like this, consider the feelings of the person you mess with.”
He swallows. “Penelope, it wasn’t—”
I hold my hand up for him to shut up, and he does, his teeth tugging at his lower lip, a torn expression on his face. I flick my eyes back to Archer and company. Some of them are guffawing and chortling as they watch us, and anger tightens in my gut.
“Ignore them,” he says. “They’re just laughing at my pants. They knew I didn’t have a chance with you, and now you’ve proved it.”
I shake my head. “I guess the bet was if you could get me to kiss you? Go out with you?”
He rakes a hand through his hair and stares at me. “Look, I didn’t mean for it—”
“What was the bet?”
His shoulders dip. “They bet me I couldn’t get you to go out with me.”
“A date.”
He gives me a terse nod.
“Huh. So, you actually thought you and I would go out? Even though we don’t like each other?”
“I never said I didn’t like you.”
“But you don’t,” I insist.
He hesitates, the words leaving his mouth reluctantly. “It was assumed I’d stand you up, but—”
My hands tighten. “So, your plan was for me to come over to do laundry and then you wouldn’t be there?” My face scrunches as I try to picture the scenario. Hurt slices through me. “I have my own washer anyway, jerk.”
He shakes his head. “I didn’t have a real plan. I was just winging it—”
“You knew exactly what you were doing and you lost, Baby Llama. You lost. I hope it was worth the laugh.”
“I’m not laughing, Penelope.” He frowns. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“Only because you lost.” Mustering up as much gumption as I have left, I turn my back to him and march over to the football table. I put my hands on my hips and make eye contact with each player. They don’t faze me. Blaze reads my face and mouths I’m sorry, but I brush my eyes right over him. We may know each other, but right now, he’s an asshole just like the rest of them.
“He lost, boys. Ryker Voss asked me out and crashed and burned. If there was money involved, I expect my cut of whatever the amount was. Understood?”
They all gape at me except for Archer. With a stare that seems to see right through my bravado, he grins. There’s a carefree nonchalance to his stance as he shakes off the jersey chaser and stands to shake my hand. “Yes, cher. Absolutely,” he murmurs. “You can have it all as far as I’m concerned.” He pops the table with his hand and addresses the players. “Let’s go ahead and give the lady our winnings. Ryker can even it up with us later.”
Each player forks over a ten, and then Archer gathers up the cash and puts it in my hand. “I’ve never enjoyed anything as much as seeing Ryker get water dumped on him today. Thank you for that, and I hope you won’t hold this little bet against me.” His gaze is a bit too lingering, and I want to wipe my hand off when he releases it.
“You can all go fuck yourselves,” I say.
Archer throws back his head and laughs. “You’ve got some spark to you all right.”
“Whatever,” I mutter, stuffing the money in my apron.
I give them one final hard look and then dash to the back of the restaurant, barely hanging on to my composure. My gaze darts to Ryker, standing in the corner with the tray in his hands. The glasses and ice are piled on top, and his face is expressionless, nearly granite as he watches me, and I resist the urge to flip him off. The only thing holding me back is that if my boss saw it, he’d rake me over the coals. Everyone loves the football players.