Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 89519 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89519 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
“Ouch.” She leans back, gaze on the horizon. “I’m sorry—I hear that’s tough.”
It is. “I’m at the part where I do physical therapy, obviously have to be careful, but there’s no reason I can’t go back to training when the season starts.”
Annabelle nods. “Right, football. Almost forgot.” Nibbles on her bottom lip. “Is there any reason you’re here alone? Anyone missing you at home?”
Is she asking if I have a girlfriend? Or a wife?
I hold up my left hand and flash my fourth finger. “Not a soul.”
Annabelle arches a brow. “That’s not exactly proof. For all I know, you’ve got a whole wife, three kids, and a minivan.”
I would never own a fucking minivan. “What about you? Anyone coming to check in? Maybe a boyfriend who might drive out here looking to throw hands?”
“Throw hands?” Eye roll. “Stop. I hate it when men fight.”
That doesn’t answer the question, but I don’t press her.
She pulls her towel tighter, adjusting herself in the chair. “I broke up with someone recently,” she offers. “He was a drip, and I realized it was a waste of time.”
“Waste of time?” I ask. “How?”
Annabelle twists the edge of her towel in her hands, gaze fixed on the lake. “You ever date someone who felt like wallpaper?”
I blink. “I have no idea what that means.”
She lifts one shoulder. “He was there. Bland. Safe. Said the right things. Liked the right shows. Kissed the right way. But it was all so . . . beige. I kept waiting for some kind of spark.” Her hand waves through the air. “But it never showed up.”
I consider that. “So you dumped him because he was boring?”
“I dumped him because I was boring when I was with him,” she says. “I didn’t like the version of myself that showed up for that relationship. She was agreeable. Predictable. That’s not me.”
I smirk. “No shit.”
She bumps my arm. “Shut up.”
“Is that why you’re here this weekend?”
“Probably.” Annabelle sighs. “As you know, my best friend Lucy found Harris and she’s jetting off to Arizona and going on fancy dates and getting laid and they’re screwing constantly and I’m so happy for her—but also jealous?” She laughs. “I needed a reset . . .”
We fall into silence again, but this time, it’s charged. The kind that makes you hyperaware of how close someone’s shoulder is to yours. The way their hair smells faintly of lake water and vanilla shampoo. The fact that even though this whole day has been a fucked-up, chaotic accident—
Somewhere on the lake, a loon calls. Boat engines echo against the trees. The wind blows.
“This place is magic, isn’t it?” Annabelle says at last.
I raise a brow. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Chapter 5
Annabelle
Captain’s log: This couch sucks.
It’s lumpy. It’s scratchy. The cushions are flat in all the wrong places and somehow still manage to puff up where my spine is supposed to go. There’s a spring that keeps poking me in the ass, and the blanket I borrowed is thin enough to qualify as a napkin.
Also I’m cold. And awake.
I’ve flipped the pillow, flipped it again, shoved it under my head, shoved it under my butt, thrown it across the room, retrieved it, and then threatened it with violence.
Still not comfy.
I toss. I turn. I sigh dramatically into the quiet house, hoping maybe the universe will take pity on me and knock me unconscious. It doesn’t.
“Oh my God, this is so annoying.” I’m supposed to be relaxing, dammit!
That was the whole point of coming here—a peaceful week, with no devices, to clear my head, detox from social media, sleep in late, walk around in no bra, and answer to no one.
Instead, I’m stuck with a roommate. A hot, grumpy, on-the-mend roommate with a defined jawline and cleft chin and abs that need to be covered up so I stop staring at them.
My stomach grumbles.
“Fine, you win,” I tell myself, flinging the thin throw blanket off my legs and swinging upright. “Midnight snack. Whatever.”
My oversize T-shirt slides halfway down my thighs and my fuzzy socks pad softly over the hardwood as I tiptoe to the kitchen, trying to keep the creaky floorboards quiet. The last thing I want to do is wake Captain Limpy.
The fridge hums as I tug it open, squinting against the light. I am a gremlin crawling out of a cave, foraging for sustenance. Cold air wafts over my bare legs, and I do a little shiver dance on the spot, peering into the shelves.
What am I in the mood for . . .
“Hmm.” I need fuel. Something salty or cheesy or carb loaded? Ice cream? Ugh, I don’t have any. Chips? Don’t have those either. “Lord, I sure could go for some tortilla chips.”
The problem? Now that I’m staring at everything, I realize: Everything I want to eat is Maverick’s.
The rules were clear: No eating each other’s snacks.