Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 135539 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135539 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
Punching in my code, I wait for the brushed steel gate to slide open and make my way down the small incline to my house. Pen’s place—and it is her place no matter what she says—has old graceful trees and flowering plants, ripe with maturity, that lead you like a secret map toward the house. My spot has a few saplings dotted here and there, opening to a flat expanse of new sod lawn that hugs the mountainside with downtown Los Angeles shimmering in the distance.
The house itself is a series of three interconnected and staggered flat squares made up of whitewashed concrete and steel windows. Yes, I bought a soulless, overpriced, modern pop-up mansion that was slapped over the remains of someone’s previous home. It seemed like a good idea at the time; I’d wanted a home not a rental, and the agent, who I’m not going to lie was smoking hot with a sweet smile, persuaded me that this was just the place to settle down in—at least for the next year or so. Here, it isn’t uncommon for the wealthy to move around on a whim.
Looking at it now, with its twenty-foot maple-and-glass front door that opens on a whisper and the endless expanse of gray stone floor, it feels . . . ridiculous. Why do I need a ten-thousand-square-foot house with two owner’s suites—upstairs and downstairs—an indoor and outdoor home theater, and three party bars. I don’t even drink that much.
A headache blooms as I park in my empty five-car garage and head into the house via my catering kitchen. Two kitchens and all I can do is make sandwiches. Honestly, what the hell was I thinking?
I wasn’t.
I was more interested in scoring with Jessie the real estate seductress.
Only, and here’s the kicker, I hadn’t. Oh, she’d been willing, I’d been wanting, and there’d been opportunity. And when it all came to a head? I couldn’t.
Everything in me had just withered like a fallen leaf in the sun. I might have felt humiliated if I hadn’t been so terrified. Nothing was right anymore. Not my sex drive, not my behavior, or my love of the game. I don’t feel like me anymore.
You did when you were with Pen.
The thought doesn’t help.
Sighing, I toss my keys in the little wooden bowl on the counter by the door and head into the main living area. Hot blocks of sunlight fall through the wall of windows and onto the floor. It might be impersonal here but at least it’s light filled—that’s what my mother said when she’d visited.
Evidence of her ensuing attempt to make it “homey” are in the thick cream-colored throw draped over the end of the low-slung sectional, and the various vases dotted around the bookshelves that flank my granite fireplace.
I know how it hurts Pen to worry about losing her grandparents’ house. I understand it better than she realizes. There’s nothing of me here. My mother’s house is still my home. Not this place. I remember doing the dishes back in Massachusetts, and suddenly I miss Mom with a yawning emptiness in my belly.
Hefting my overnight bag onto my shoulder, I head toward my bedroom when I spot someone lying out by the pool. The bag plops on the floor, and I stride to the patio.
Trent Gellis, aka Jelly, my main tight end, doesn’t acknowledge me as I approach. Sprawled out on one of my loungers, he’s oiled up, wearing a damn banana hammock that’s way too small, oversize mirrored aviators, and nothing else. Coupled with his spiked bleached blond hair, I can’t tell if he’s going for an Iceman from Top Gun look or just trying to give me nightmares.
I step closer, and he deigns to lift his glasses to squint at me.
“You’re in my sun, Rook.” Jelly reaches for the glass of lemonade sitting on the side table next to him. Ice cubes clink as he sips through a pink flamingo curly straw—I’m going to guess he brought that with him.
“Is there a reason you’re lounging by my pool and not your own?” I ask conversationally. Jelly returned to LA with the rest of the team. After getting my ass chewed out by Coach, I was given two days “grace” to get my act together.
“You asked me to water your plants before you went to visit your ma.” He waves an idle hand in the direction of my house.
“I was being sarcastic. I don’t have any plants.”
“That’s why I’m sunning instead of watering.” Again his glasses come up. I’m treated to a dark-eyed squint worthy of old Clint Eastwood. “And sarcasm is unbecoming in a rookie.”
“Is this another hazing attempt?” I take a seat on the neighboring lounger. “Terrorize the rookie by sunbathing in a bikini bottom?”
“Nah. If I was terrorizing, I’d put you in the suit.”