Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 97037 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 485(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 323(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97037 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 485(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 323(@300wpm)
That’s going to be a reality once more.
Big Buck is somehow still running, but I’m sure he’s been repainted and repaired a time or thirty. The lobby now holds chairs and tables, whereas before, it was just booths to change out of your skates. There are over twenty TVs, some only showing feeds of the rinks, but others show sports, and there’s even a little-kid area with hockey goals. It’s all grown so much, and I’m incredibly proud.
I can see how excited Jett gets when he shows it off, and I can hear the pride in his voice. I’m engrossed in every detail he points out to me, as well as the smirk that plays on his face. And while I have so many questions, I don’t dare ask him. This is his time; I’m only here to observe.
Or maybe I’m speechless and confused because, while everything looks so different, it feels absolutely the same.
Just as walking the halls with Jett does.
He enters a code into the door that leads upstairs. “It’s your birthday,” he says softly so that no one hears. His admission makes my heart ache because I know it was my grandpa’s doing, and once more, I feel a wave of grief as I follow him up the stairs. I know I should be making sure I don’t fall up the stairs, but it’s hard to do anything other than check out the bubble butt this man has. His athletic shorts hide absolutely nothing, and I have the urge to bite his ass like a dog with a piece of meat.
Because that’s a normal thought.
I tear my gaze from his ass to his back, and still, I want to nibble on the tendons and muscles that meet my gaze. As he walks, his shoulders flex, the muscles bunching. When have I been turned on by someone’s back? That’s not my normal. Who am I?
When I decide that looking at the ceiling is my best bet, I, of course, trip because that’s my life. I don’t fall, thankfully, but I scold myself as I continue to follow him up, while he has no clue the turmoil his body is bringing me. We enter a waiting area, which has four offices to the left. He points to the first one. “Mine, then Phillip’s. Or, I guess, now yours.”
His voice is rough with grief and leaves me breathless as he pushes my grandfather’s office door open for me. I know that Kitty decorated by the soft greens and muted browns of the room. Large bookcases hold different coaching, hockey, and figure skating books. Photos of Kitty and me are everywhere, at all ages, and even us together on the ice when she used to work with me. His hockey equipment is in the corner, his sticks and random gear beside it. Framed cross-stitches of hockey sticks, pucks, and a goal hang on the walls. It’s like a shrine to everything that Phillip loved. The large wooden desk in the middle of the room has been passed down through our family. I can still see him behind the desk, a desk I’ll be sitting behind now.
I know my dad wants it, but he can’t have it. Not yet. Maybe when I leave.
I cross and uncross my fingers, a nervous habit of mine, as I look around my grandfather’s space. It smells like him, all woodsy like cedar. It brings a small smile to my face as I look out the floor-to-ceiling windows that reveal a scenic view of the mountain. It’s a breathtaking vista.
Or so I think, because when I look over my shoulder, I find that I like the view of Jett Thomas Cook even more.
“I’m sure Kitty will help you switch things around. Make it your own.”
His hair is falling every which way, and his brown eyes are intent on me. His arms are thick, bulging, and covered in tattoos. The Pink Belles shirt he wears is a little too big, but it doesn’t make him look small. No, nothing could ever do that. A wave of desire rushes through my body, catching me so off guard I grip the side of the desk and take a deep breath. I don’t understand these wild feelings I have when he looks at me. But then, has anyone ever looked at me the way Jett does?
Like I’m the only person in the world he wants to look at.
As if devouring me would be the best meal of his day.
I usually hate when people look at me, but under his gaze, I feel just fine.
I crave it.
I draw a deep breath as he asks, “Fable, you good?”
I nod quickly, inhaling sharply before blowing out the breath to center myself. “Fine, just overwhelmed.”
It’s not a lie. I am just that, but I’m sure he thinks it’s because I’ve lost someone important to me and not because I want to know what would happen if he touched me. Would heat explode between us? Or is it the unknown that has me going? What if I kissed him? Could I enjoy it? Would I like his taste? Could I orgasm with him? Would I lose my train of thought and think about what I want for dinner? I don’t know, but I want to know.