Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 102778 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 514(@200wpm)___ 411(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102778 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 514(@200wpm)___ 411(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
He blinks, his gaze dragging from my lips to my eyes. “Ethan.”
“What?”
“My name,” he says. “It’s Ethan.” The corners of his eyes crinkle. “Ethan Dexter.”
“Ah.” I take another sip. “So I’m not allowed to call you Dex? That only apply to friends or something?”
He doesn’t laugh or fidget, just keeps his gaze steady on my face. “Didn’t mean it as an insult. You can call me Dex, if you like.”
Before I can ask him why he’d insisted on Ethan if that’s the case, he speaks again. “I haven’t seen you since the wedding.”
Gray and Ivy’s wedding. Now that was a drunken blur. Good times.
Truly, I don’t drink often. But when I do . . . Ahem. Which is why I try to avoid reaching the point of maximum craziness.
Memories of the wedding are a strain, but hazy edges of them remind me that I danced with Gray’s boys—Dex included. Ivy danced too, which is always a show. My sister, who I love more than anyone on Earth, is a horrible, scary dancer. So mainly I’d concentrated on helping Gray run interference, making sure she didn’t accidentally clock anyone on the head while she convulsed—danced.
“I remember you mostly holding one of the walls up all night,” I tell Dex now.
He’d danced a few songs, sure, then had taken a bottled water and leaned against the wall to watch the rest of us.
He grips his current bottled water. It’s too dark to see what his tattoos are, but I can tell they’re colorful, vintage-looking. And he has more of them than he did a year ago.
“Sometimes it’s more fun to watch.” His gaze doesn’t move from my face, but it feels like it does. My breasts swell heavy against my bra, more so when he continues. “You ripped your dress off and flung it in a tree.”
A flush works over my cheeks. It was a tropical resort. And I’d wanted to swim.
Everyone did. I lean forward. “Are you saying you liked watching me strip, Ethan Dexter?”
His chuckle is a gentle rumble. “I’m saying it was memorable.” He glances down, those long lashes hiding his eyes. “And entertaining.”
“I aim to please.” Crossing one leg over the other, I study him. I’m enjoying myself, which is a surprise because I never pegged Dex as much of a talker. “What are you doing in San Francisco? I don’t recall you playing for Gray’s team.”
“I have a week off, and so does Gray . . .” His broad shoulders lift in a shrug. “I thought I’d visit him and Ivy.”
“Wait. What?” A bad thought rises in my head, and I find myself leaning toward him. “You’re staying with them too?”
He nods, wariness creeping over his features.
“Did they send you here to babysit me?” I cannot believe he just happens to be at the same club. Not after both Gray and Ivy had complained about me going out on my own tonight.
“Yes and no.” Dex takes a long pull of his water. “Yes, they said you were here. Yes, they were worried. But I happen to like this band, so I thought I’d come listen and say hello in the process.”
“Oh, how convenient,” I drawl, sitting back against the wall.
“Isn’t it?” he agrees in a dry voice.
I snort, the temptation to chuck my cherry stem at him riding high. I don’t think he’ll care if I do. Dex seems too unflappable to be offended by flying fruit bits.
“You don’t have to stay,” I tell him. “You can inform the wardens that you saw me, and I was fine, and be on your way.”
He doesn’t flinch. “I want to sit with you.”
Okay. Right. The big football player wants to listen to moody music all night. Sure.
My expression must be skeptical because he gives me a half smile and hands me his phone. “Check my music selection.”
I’m momentarily distracted by his phone. Or rather the obvious age of it. I’m not certain they even make his model anymore. “What is this, an antique?”
“It gets the job done. Why should I trade up?”
I wrinkle my nose. “I don’t know . . . so it functions correctly? What about updates?”
“Only use it to call, text, and listen to music. Seems to work fine.”
“You don’t even have face recognition or use a password!”
He merely shrugs with indifference. “I’m not carrying national secrets or anything.”
Shaking my head, I let the matter drop and find his music. Flunk, Goldfrapp, Massive Attack, Portishead, Groove Armada, even some Morcheeba . . . He’s got a veritable trip-hop library going.
I grin up at him. “You know, before this, I’d have taken you for a hard rock, or maybe even a bluegrass fan.”
“It’s the beard, isn’t it?” he asks.
“And the man-bun.”
He laughs, a short rumble of sound. “Want me to let it down?”
Yes. Maybe.
“Not necessary. Man-buns are hot. I blame Jason Momoa. There was only so much watching him bang Khaleesi the female population could take before they wanted their own Khal Drogo.”