Total pages in book: 149
Estimated words: 142866 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 714(@200wpm)___ 571(@250wpm)___ 476(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 142866 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 714(@200wpm)___ 571(@250wpm)___ 476(@300wpm)
He slides his hands into his pockets and rocks a little on his heels, eagerness radiating from every pore. And I realize that money is like a playground for him; investments an adventure.
“I got an idea,” he says.
“Famous last words?” I set my empty glass on the bar and signal the bartender for another.
“No, famous first ones.” He levels a look on me that tells me we’re headed for a bad idea. It’s full of challenge and maybe a little mischief. “Come with me to Colorado.”
“Um, no.” I was already questioning my wisdom coming to his box tonight. A road trip? No damn way.
“There’s a grower there who has branched out into more scalable efforts,” he continues. “A point-of-sale app similar to what she may be considering.”
“I don’t think—”
“Not just you, of course,” he cuts in, his smile knowing, like he read my mind at a glance; could see my thoughts. “Bring Nelly and Kashawn, too. I bet they’d love to meet this grower.”
He knew the buttons to push. Of course I wouldn’t want to refuse such an opportunity so perfect for what we’re considering out of hand, at least not without consulting my partners.
“Can I let you know in the next day or so?” I ask.
“Of course. Whenever you’re ready.”
“Shit!” Maverick’s father shouts, banging a fist on his leg. “What the hell? You can’t…”
He closes his eyes and rests his forehead against the plexiglass.
“We losing?” Maverick calls unnecessarily.
“We shouldn’t be,” his father spits. “We coulda had this. Maybe still could. I’mma go down.”
“Pop, stay outta Coach’s ear,” Maverick says, a warning note in his voice. “Our time is coming, but tonight—”
“I ain’t saying nothing to none of ’em,” Chris barks. He closes his eyes and purses his lips tightly, a man trying to hold his shit together if I’ve ever seen one. “I just need to be closer to the action. I wanna be down on the floor.”
“Gotcha.” Maverick nods, the tension around his mouth easing. “You know where the seats are.”
Chris shifts his gaze from his son to me and then back again. “You staying here?”
“For now, yeah,” Maverick says, not looking away from his father or at me. I wish I could pluck the words passing between father and son out of the air because they seem to be holding a silent conversation.
“All right.” Mr. Bell turns a charming smile on me and extends his hand. “Very nice to meet you. You’ll have to come back when there ain’t a playoff game on the line. I promise I’ll be more social then.”
“I understand.” I take his hand and he gives it a little squeeze, his smile deepening before he lets go.
“Lemme get down here before the fourth quarter starts,” he mumbles, heading for the door.
Bolt and Skipper pass him coming back in, looking slightly less disheveled than the last time. Bolt’s bow tie is firmly in place, but the neat line of his clothing is disrupted by the pucker of a shirt hastily stuffed back into his pants. Skipper’s blouse and jeans look as neat as they did before, but a red mark blooms at the side of her neck.
Maverick and I share a quick amused glance before schooling our faces into we don’t see nothing neutrality.
“You’re back,” Maverick says smoothly with a gentle, discreet elbow in my side.
“Yeah, hi,” I add, suppressing a grin. “The fourth quarter is just getting started.”
They glare at our obviously fake blissful ignorance and then turn their glares on each other. When their eyes catch, something softens in their expressions. Only for a second, though, before Bolt turns away and marches over to the bar.
“Whiskey neat,” he barks to the bartender.
Skipper watches his back, her lips trembling. When she looks at me, her eyes are wide like she’s trying not to cry.
A low rumble of disapproval slips from my chest and I look at Bolt’s back with daggers. It was cute when I thought Skipper was enjoying this, but if that motherfucker hurt my girl…
“Was that a growl?” Maverick asks, low-voiced.
“Check your boy. If he hurts Skipper—”
“He wouldn’t.” Maverick frowns. “Not like that. Never.”
“If he hurts her in any way,” I tell him. “His ass is mine.”
“Protective, aren’t you?” he smiles, admiration entering his eyes.
“Of my friends, yeah.” I glance over to where Skipper stands, shifting from foot to foot awkwardly and shoving her hands in the back pockets of her jeans. “We’re gonna head out. I’ll text Chapel to let her know.”
I start off, but his hand on my elbow pulls me back, pulls me closer. The scent of good-smelling man suffuses the air around me, and I have to force myself not to burrow into Maverick’s neck to investigate further. He smells sexy and masculine and costly. It’s good cologne and clean skin and him. His hand at my elbow stops me from walking away. I relish the hardness of his body pressed into me for a few seconds. Every one of my curves wants to mold to the unyielding lines of him.