Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72589 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 290(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72589 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 290(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
I nod, my brow furrowing as I take all that in. “Okay. If that’s what you want, then you should go for it, but…” I search for a delicate way to make my next point, but eventually just ask in the gentlest tone possible, “Is shooting for forever with a walking red flag really the smartest choice? Kind of sounds like you’re setting yourself up to fail before you even get started.”
He sighs. “I know.”
“And someone who brings out your dumb side doesn’t sound great either,” I add. “The team needs you smart and sharp. Hell, you need you smart and sharp.”
He nods slowly. “Yep. Excellent points. You’re right and I know you’re right, but this is some powerfully potent pussy, brother.”
“Say that three times fast,” I say dryly, slinging my bag back over my shoulder.
As we push through the locker room doors, he adds in a whisper, “I called it a Voodoo Vagina the other day. She was so pissed. I thought she was going to strangle me with my own jock strap.” He sighs again, a dreamier one this time. “She’s so great.”
I laugh as we move down the hall. “So, it’s too late for logic, then. That’s what you’re saying.”
“Basically,” he confirms.
“Then just have fun, man. Enjoy it while it lasts. Who knows? Sometimes troublesome people change their ways.”
“You sure did,” he says as we step out into the late spring sunshine, the air warm and sweet. “Aw, look. There she is now, your lady love.” He slugs me on the bicep with a laugh. “Jesus, you should see your face. You are so gone on her.”
“So gone,” I agree, grinning at where Steph leans against her car, her hair in that cute-as-fuck little puff ponytail on top of her head that she’s been wearing since deciding to give her scalp a break from the extensions and braids.
She’s wearing one of my old Badgers T-shirts knotted at her waist with ripped up jeans that make it impossible to think straight.
God, she’s just…fine as hell.
And mine. So far, that’s not even close to growing old or becoming something I take for granted.
She lifts an arm, waving our way, her smile widening as I jog across the pavement toward her. Stone makes a gagging sound behind me before shouting, “Call me later this week. Let’s set up a date to go mountain biking before it gets too hot. Have a good night, Steph.”
She wiggles her fingers and calls, “Thanks, you too, Stone,” before fixing her full attention on me. “Well, hello there, you. Happy summer vacation.”
“Happy summer vacation,” I murmur, dropping my duffel to pull her into my arms. I kiss her, smiling against her mouth as I add, “Fuck, I’m looking forward to three months of sleeping in with you.”
She laughs, her breath puffing softly against my lips. “Some of us still have classes to teach four morning a week, mister.”
I hum low in my throat. “Shit, that’s right.” I pull back, smiling down at her as I add, “Guess I’ll just have to get used to yoga in the morning instead of the afternoon and come with you.”
“Or you could sleep in with Mr. Sniffles.”
I grunt. “With his stank ass? I’ll pass.”
“Oh, he’s been much better lately and you know it,” she says, as I reach for the back door, tossing my gear onto the seats. “The childproof lock on the compost was an inspired idea.”
“Speaking of inspired ideas,” I say, circling around to the passenger’s side. “Want to put off unpacking for another day and take a drive to the beach, watch the sunset on the sand? Maybe grab dinner at Sugar’s Seaside?”
We love our new apartment, a two bedroom closer to both the arena and her studio, with lots of room for Mr. Sniffles to explore when he’s home alone. But so far, we’ve been too busy to get to the “low-priority” boxes stacked against the wall in the living room.
Her eyes light up. “You know I love an excuse not to unpack.”
I bob my brows. “I know you do.” I nod toward the parking lot exit, “Drop me off in front of our building? I can be up to the apartment and down with Mr. Sniffles, poop bags, puppy snacks, and his bed for the backseat in ten minutes.”
“Grab a bag of wipes in case he drools on the floor at Sugar’s when he smells all that yummy fried food, and you’ve got a deal, baby,” she says with a wink.
Fifteen minutes later, we’re on the highway headed toward the coast, Mr. Sniffles hanging his head out the window in back, Steph’s hand in mind, and nothing but clear skies ahead.
I can honestly say, I’m happier than I’ve ever been.
I’m pretty sure I couldn’t be any happier, in fact, but then Steph says—”Oh, I forgot to tell you! I signed us up for that breakdancing class at The Dance Warehouse. They had two spots left. We start next Friday night!”—and I realize all over again that I should never underestimate how good things can get with this woman.