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)
A new idea pops into my mind and when I open my eyes, I scream. Branch laughs, dropping onto the sand beside me.
“How did you not hear me?” he asks. “I even stepped on some kind of burr back there and shouted some pretty ungentlemanly things.”
“I don’t think anyone has ever accused you of being a gentleman.”
“You don’t know that. My grandma happens to think I’m the sweetest boy she’s ever known.”
“She had how many daughters?”
He laughs, putting his arms back into the sand and stretching his long, lean body out in the sun. Wearing only a pair of white and green swim trunks and a necklace of some sort, he sits only inches away. My eyes refuse to look anywhere but at the lines cut into his abs.
“You’re a smartass, you know that?” he asks.
“It’s been said.” Sitting up, I brush the sand off my hands. “What does your grandma think about her grandson being a football star?”
“I don’t know. She wears my jersey to her card games on Thursday nights and asks me to send her signed pictures for her friends and members of her church. I guess you could say she’s a fan.”
“I bet she is.”
“Hell, to be honest, she’d probably be just as much of a fan if I dug ditches for a living. I’m the only grandson she has from the three daughters she gave birth to,” he says, rolling his eyes that my joke was actually right. “I’m kind of the favorite.”
“And you struggle with accepting that, I see,” I giggle.
“It’s a lot of pressure! I can’t let Gram down.”
We laugh softly, the breeze coming off just cool enough to keep the sweat away. Boats float around, their flags waving brightly against the bright blue sky.
“So, tell me about you,” he says.
“You know Finn and you’ve met my parents.”
“How do you know I’ve met your parents?”
“Let’s just say Mom was impressed,” I shrug.
“Ah. That’s why she sends me baskets of those peanut butter chip brownies when she sends Finn his monthly care packages.”
“She sends you those?” I bark, dropping my jaw. “Those are my favorite and she never sends them to me.”
He looks adorably amused as he strokes a hand down the center of his stomach. “You don’t have the goods, Sunshine.”
Scooping up a handful of sand, I toss it on his legs. “I officially loathe you.”
“Just for that?” he laughs. “It usually takes at least one date before they loathe me.”
The necklace bounces against his chest as he laughs, the little beads sparkling in the light. I reach over and pick up the end, turning it over in my palm. “What’s this?”
“That’s from Gram. It was a graduation gift from high school. My grandfather had one like it, only his beads were yellow and mine are red.”
He watches me examine the intricately carved wooden beads and the shiny red ones. They’re the color of rubies and heavier than I expect.
“This is beautiful, Branch.”
“Thanks. I kind of like it.” His head turns to mine and the soft smile deepens into a smirk. “I kind of like you in that bikini too.”
The necklace drops to his chest as I squirm away from him. “I thought we were having a moment.”
“Sunshine, I’ll give you as many moments as you want.”
“I don’t want any of those moments with you,” I say, picking up my notepad again. “It would just amp up that ego that’s already out of control.”
“I beg to differ,” he gasps. “My ego is totally in control, thank you very much. I can’t help it I just say what I think and what you want to hear, even if you won’t admit it.”
Finding my pen half-covered with sand, I scribble out a few things that have been lingering in my head. When I look at Branch, he’s grinning.
“What?” I ask.
“I want to ask you a question.”
“Okay.”
“Will you play catch with me?”
“What?” I laugh. “Are you serious?”
“Finn’s not here and I have no one to play with.”
“Branch,” I say, holding up my hands, “football is not my thing.”
“It doesn’t have to be your thing. You just have to catch the ball and then throw it back to me.”
Plopping my stuff back down on the sand, I shake my head. “I know how to play catch. That’s not the point.”
“Then you have no excuse,” he says, hopping to his feet. “Come on.”
He reaches down, extending a large, rough hand. His fingers have obviously been broken a number of times, different digits extruding different ways. It’s kind of gross and kind of sexy, but before I can think about it too much, my hand is in his and he’s yanking me to my feet.
Jogging down the beach, he stops and faces me. I’m half afraid I’m going to stand here and gawk at him and get hit upside the head like in a cheesy romantic comedy. I see how that happens now. It’s a real thing.