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)
I narrow my eyes at him, trying to appear unaffected, while my pulse pounds like a war drum. “Are you doing this on purpose? Weaponizing your hotness.”
“Am I?” he drawls, all innocent like—but his eyes sparkle, telling me he knows exactly what he’s doing. “Enough about me. What’s your origin story?”
Lame. Embarrassingly vanilla. I swallow, wishing I had some epic saga involving castles and sheep and nans who call me wee lass.
“Well,” I start, trying not to sound like the most boring person alive. “Before we moved to Washington, we lived in Illinois. My dad got a new job—he’s a contractor—and my grandparents moved close by so they could babysit me while my parents worked. Um.”
God, riveting stuff, Annabelle.
“We’re German?” I add lamely. “I’ve never actually been to Germany. My ancestors came over in, like, the late 1800s.” I cringe. “That’s it.”
“Germany sounds cool. I’d visit.” He pulls his sunglasses down over his eyes. “What else? You’re a wedding planner; you plan events. Any hobbies?”
Is he making small talk for the hell of it, or could he genuinely be interested?
“I run. I hike. I would love to travel more but . . .” I’m boring. Plus, I’ve never had anyone to travel with, and I’ve never had the urge for solo trips. “What are your hobbies?”
He shifts a little in the chair, one knee bouncing, sunglasses hiding most of his expression except the faint twist of a smirk on his lips. “Hobbies?”
“Yeah,” I say, trying to sound breezy, even though my skin is prickling from his attention. “You must do other things when you’re not on the field or chopping wood.”
Ha ha.
He gives a soft, huffing laugh. “Recovery is my full-time hobby these days.”
I roll my eyes. “You can do better than that.”
He pauses, considering. “I guess I like the gym. Weight lifting. Swimming. Spending time with my family. I watch a lot of sports, even when I’m not playing.”
“Wow,” I deadpan. “You sound thrilling.”
He tips his sunglasses down just enough to meet my eyes, and something about the dark glitter of them hits me square in the chest. “I promise you, I am.”
My breath catches. A weird silence pulses between us, warm and electric. He’s closer than I realized. Close enough that I can see the faint freckles on the bridge of his nose.
Freckles? Anything but those!
I try to look away, but my gaze drifts lower, over his ridiculously broad chest, down the faint line of sweat darkening the collar of his T-shirt. He shifts in the chair, tugging at the hem, like even he can’t stand the heat anymore, then casually peels the shirt off and tosses it over the armrest.
Shit.
There’s a trail of hair that disappears beneath the waistband of his pants, and the sight of it feels illegal. His shoulders bunch, rolling as he leans back, arms folded behind his head like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Eyes closed.
“Want some sunscreen?” I offer, half joking.
He cocks a brow, all challenge. “You offering to rub me down?”
Yes. “No.”
The sun climbs higher, the lake glimmering in front of us, and for one suspended moment, I can’t remember why I thought it was a horrible idea being trapped in the same cabin with him.
“What’s your favorite food?” he asks lazily, as if he plans on napping in that chair all afternoon.
“I love fruit. Strawberries, mango.” Juicy, delicious fruit . . .
“Yeah. I could fuck with fruit,” he agrees. “What about burgers?”
I hum. “Mmm. Love. And pizza.” Obviously.
Maverick turns his face in my direction but still doesn’t open his eyes. “Know what else I love? The state fair.”
This surprises me. “Really? I would never have guessed.”
“Yeah. I love Disneyland and shit too.”
“So you’re into rides?”
I feel him nod. “Roller coasters and stuff. I was an adrenaline junkie in another life.”
Ha. “Not me. Those scare the shit out of me, but I’m cool sitting and waiting for my friends to ride them.”
He cracks one eye open and lifts his head. “What, you stand there holding their jackets?”
“Yeah,” I admit with a shrug. “Designated bag holder. Food. Someone’s gotta do it.”
His chuckles have my skin feeling five degrees hotter. “You’re missing out.”
“Missing out on puking my guts out after getting spun around? Hard pass.”
“Oh come on,” he drawls, propping his sunglasses on his forehead so I can see those annoyingly intense eyes. “Have you even ridden one?”
“I was on a Tilt-A-Whirl once,” I protest. “I was twelve. Traumatized. Another pass.”
“Spinning doesn’t count.” He argues, voice going rougher, teasing. “You need the big stuff. Magic Mountain and Space Mountain, all that.”
I can’t help laughing, picturing him at Disney, towering over every ten-year-old in line, getting recognized, signing autographs. The mental image is painfully adorable.
“I like thrills.”
Oh boy. I bet you do. My cheeks go pink just thinking about what other “thrills” he might like. I glance down the dock, trying to hide my blush.