Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 70294 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 351(@200wpm)___ 281(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70294 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 351(@200wpm)___ 281(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
A smile pulled at one corner of my mouth. “I don’t have much to bet, but I’d bet it all that you won’t, Peachel.”
He looked me up and down.
I couldn’t help but enjoy having his gaze on me. Drink it in, football prince.
You’re accustomed to getting any piece of ass you want, aren’t you?
Expected me to drop to my knees the moment you offered your dick?
Peachel was like if someone popped open a dictionary and pointed to the word jock.
Thick muscles, always on display, especially in his tight green-and-gold TNU shirt which hugged his biceps and sides. His hair was a tuft of golden light brown, and he ran his fingers through it now, pushing it back like he was trying to look perfect.
Fine.
Maybe I did want his dick.
Fucking him would feel good, physically, at least. I’d squeeze so tight around him he’d hate me even more. Enrage him by being the best he’d ever had.
But just because I wanted him to fuck me didn’t mean I was going to let him.
“I don’t get you,” he finally said, his thick lashes flicking up and down as he looked me over again.
“What would you like to get?”
“What are you even doing? Are you really getting good notes for your article, following us around to the bar?”
“The best notes come from where you’d least expect them.”
He paused for a moment, biting his lower lip. “So what do you want?”
I breathed in a lungful of fresh air, looking up at the canopy of leaves above us. They hadn’t started changing colors yet, because it was still early September. But they would, soon.
I couldn’t fucking wait for fall.
“Right now, what I really want is a cigarette to smoke,” I said. “But that’s something I don’t do anymore.”
He clicked his tongue.
“Ooh, badass Mr. Detective, with your bad-boy cravings,” Andrew said in a mocking voice. “Smoking isn’t good for you.”
“And another thing I want is to see how desperate you’ll get, now that you have that tequila in you,” I said, watching him. “Excessive drinking isn’t good for you, either.”
“You’re the desperate one. What were you asking Max about me?”
“I asked him if you come to the Hard Spot a lot. Wasn’t exactly grilling him for your social security number, Peach.”
“You… are the worst.”
He took a few steps on the sidewalk as if he was going to leave, but he turned back to me, swaying a little on his feet.
For a split second, my guard went up.
You going to try to punch me?
But I realized quickly that Peachel was a warm drunk, not a violent one, and I tried to quiet the alarmed beast inside me.
Trust issues, always by my side.
I usually had a sense for when people were too drunk even before they started to show it in their words or movements. Growing up in bars, and with an alcoholic mother, would do that to a person.
I’d been too focused on… other things while looking at Andrew for the last few minutes.
A cold spike of regret hit my chest.
Instead of focusing on my own fucked-up trust issues, I needed to make sure Andrew was safe tonight.
“You had a little too much tequila, I think,” I told him, taking a step toward him and watching as he leaned back onto the brick corner of the building, taking a deep breath in through his nostrils.
“I forgot to eat,” he said. “That’s the only reason it’s hitting me so hard.”
“Even on a game night, you didn’t eat dinner?”
He looked up at the night sky. “I get too distracted. Usually I would protein load, but Coach told us about the article being written for the paper, and I was fucking pissed.”
“Why are you so pissed about the Homecoming article?”
He furrowed his brow at me. “Because I’ve read your other stuff. You’re going to fuck us over. Worst one was that article you wrote about the Wildlife Conservatancy Club.”
“Conservation club,” I corrected him.
His eyes went downcast.
Shit.
He wasn’t just embarrassed about getting a couple of words wrong because he was drunk.
Is intelligence your only sore spot, football prince?
I had corrected his misuse of words both times, but the moment I saw the faint blush creep onto his cheekbones, guilt pooled in my stomach.
Peachel was obviously a naturally intelligent person. Perceptive and observant. Emotionally warm, too, to everyone other than me.
But he clearly didn’t think he was smart.
Puzzle pieces started to fit together in my mind. Maybe academics were his only struggle in college.
It was the one weapon I had always had: I’d always been smart.
Poor as shit, yes.
From a bad family, undoubtedly.
And I was definitely a terrible person.
But I’d always been smart.
“It’s just a word, Peachel,” I told him. “You know, in the first article I ever wrote, I was mistakenly misspelling ‘Connecticut’ without the second C?”
His gaze was still hard, but he looked up at me. “No shot.”