Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 81333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 407(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 407(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
She never meant to draw his attention, but a stumble into his bike sealed her fate. And when his enemies want to use Callie against him, Edge will prove why everyone fears his name
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
CHAPTER 1
BRANCH
A few months prior . . .
“This is why you’re hot.”
“Really?” I sit back, lifting a water bottle to my lips and smirk. My eyes don’t leave hers. “I had no idea.”
That’s a lie. This look, the one that’s currently melting her panties straight off her teeny little waist, has worked in my favor since I discovered it at the ripe old age of fourteen. Should it have worked on my math teacher? Probably not. But it did make acing algebra about a hundred times easier. I could use it then without even really knowing what I was doing. Now, with fifteen years of experience under my belt, I can play this look like a fiddle.
Fanning her face with a stack of index cards outlining the questions she’s supposed to ask me for Exposé Magazine—something I don’t even think she realizes she’s doing—she blinks rapidly. “Tell me something no one knows about you.”
I place the bottle on the little table beside me and shift in my seat. Her last question is the only question that is asked in every single interview I’ve ever done. Every last one. And they all think it’s so original.
I used to humor reporters and give them something to print, but in the last couple of years, I’ve thought better of it. Maybe my self-promotion has gotten better. Maybe there’s less to tell (since they already know so damn much). Or maybe I’m simply a little more cynical than I used to be. Either way, I loathe this question. It’s like just because I’m a public figure they’re entitled to every detail of my life.
“Branch,” she gulps, her cheeks turning a shade of crimson, “my notes from this interview aren’t going to be very . . . helpful.”
“And why is that?”
She refuses to look at me.
“Let me see your notes,” I say, reaching for the index cards.
“Um, no.”
“Oh, come on,” I tease. “What’s on there?”
“Just . . . I need something substantial so I don’t get fired.” The slightly pouty lips, dipped chin is a look women give me all the time.
“Nice tactic.”
“Tactic?”
“Yeah. You’re appealing to my emotions.”
“I don’t know what else to appeal to.”
Roaming my eyes down her face to the low-cut blouse that showcases a nice set of B-cups, I let them linger for a long couple of seconds before bringing them back to her eyes. I lift a brow. “I’m sure you have no idea other than appealing to my . . . emotions.”
“Well . . .” Her gaze drops to the paper on her lap as she turns an even deeper shade of red.
“How many interviews have you done?”
“Total? Or sports?”
“Total.”
“Five,” she admits with a sigh. “I only got this one because the sports writer got meningitis.”
“So you’re here by default?” I ask, leaning forward. My arms resting on my knees, I clasp my hands in front of me.
“No. I’m here because I begged for the opportunity.”
“To interview me?” I nudge.
“Something like that.”
“Do you beg often?”
Her tongue darts across her lips, leaving a trail of wetness. “Only when necessary.”
She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. There’s something about the gesture, a tinge of normalcy behind the overt sexiness, that makes me reconsider. As I try to talk myself out of giving in, I also wrack my brain for some fun fact that can help her save her job just in case she’s not feeding me a load of shit like I suspect she is.
“I hate dogs.”
Her eyes light up like a scoreboard. “You hate dogs?”
“I know, I know—this is a complete asshole thing to say. I get it. But the Blaney’s Doberman left a lasting mark on more things than the back of my right thigh. For some people, it’s clowns. For me, it’s four-legged beasts. To each their own.”
Her pen flurries across a legal pad, the sound reminiscent of Coach’s dry erase marker on the whiteboard at practice. “What else do you hate?”
“Oh, no. I gave you one thing,” I say, not falling into her trap.
“What do you love then?”
“My mama.”
The door leading into the makeshift interview room opens. Finn Miller struts in, yanking a pair of sunglasses off his face. “Ready, Party Boy?” he grins.
“Yeah, I think we’re done here.” I look back at the reporter as she gulps. “Got what you need?”
“More or less,” she says slowly, innuendo thick in her tone.