Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 89503 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89503 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
“Who the fuck was that?” he asks, his tone sharp.
“It’s fine,” I say, sniffling and heading toward the court.
He stays a couple of steps behind me like he might have to pivot and head to his car to go commit an act of violence. And as much as I appreciate that, as much as I’d love to fold myself onto his lap, I can’t even look at him, or I’ll cry. And I’ll be damned if I let him see me cry.
“That’s not the question that I asked you,” he says.
“Well, that’s the answer you got.”
“Markie …”
I open the gate and toss my bag on the bench. I hate being obtuse with him, but he doesn’t need to be brought into this. He’s Miles’s friend, after all, and staying in his house. We’re having a sibling quarrel, and it doesn’t involve him.
It shouldn’t involve him.
Besides, I don’t think I can recount what my brother said to me. I can’t look Jory in the face and tell him that Miles said I’m embarrassing and messy, and he apparently thinks I just fuck anyone I come into contact with. How humiliating.
I busy myself with my bag, digging through my stuff. Thankfully, it’s a bit of a clusterfuck, and sorting through the balls, towels, and empty water bottles gives me a moment to clear my head. Miles is just a dickhead. I’m here now, with Jory, and that’s all that matters.
Take a breath, Markie.
I do, and blow it out slowly, allowing my heartbeat to settle.
“Did you bring the paddle you took home the other day, or do you need one of mine?” I ask, digging through my stuff.
“I need you to answer my question.”
Steeling myself against my emotions, I turn toward him. The concern in his beautiful face is enough to break me, but I keep it together. Barely.
“Not now.” I hold his gaze long enough for him to see that I’m okay. Maybe then he’ll let it go. “Can we just play? I need to hit something hard.”
“And you didn’t even make a sexual joke. This must be bad.”
The laugh that erupts from my belly feels good, and the tension on my shoulders crumbles—at least a bit.
He pulls me into a hug before I can stop him, nestling his face against the top of my head.
My eyes flutter closed as I breathe him in, letting the scent of his cologne and soap and sweat recenter me. The mix is a magic balm. It’s almost impossible to feel like anything is too bad when Jory’s arms are around me.
“You’re okay?” he whispers.
“I’m fine. Better now.”
“That’s what I like to hear.” He kisses my forehead and then lets me go. “I have a problem, though.”
I pull back, looking up at him. A hundred thoughts zoom through my mind, everything from maybe Miles called him with similar accusations today, or something happened to Gus, or that he forgot his paddle. “What is it?”
He pinches the back of my shirt, tugging it away from my body, then letting it go. All the while, his eyes stay glued to mine.
“I’m not following you,” I say.
“What in the fuck are you doing with another man’s name on your back?”
“What?” I peer over my shoulder, confused. Did someone put a sticky note on my back when I wasn’t looking? But this shirt was clean and I just put it on and came straight there … “What are you talking about?”
He rolls his eyes and grabs his paddle from a backpack, then sets off for the other side of the court. “The back of your shirt says Landry.”
“Oh,” I say, sighing in relief. “I thought something was actually wrong, asshole.”
“It is actually wrong. You’re wearing some other guy’s shirt.”
I roll my eyes right back at him. He better be kidding because I’ll fight him today.
“It’s not some other guy’s shirt,” I say, taking my spot behind the baseline. “It’s a shirt Mira bought me for Christmas a few years ago that just happens to have Lincoln Landry’s name on it.”
“Yeah. I can read.”
“Good,” I say, serving the ball.
His return lands at my feet. “I probably have a half a dozen shirts with my name on the back.”
I punch the ball down the line as I realize what’s happening. He might be playing around, because there’s no way he can take this seriously, but there is an element of truth to it.
Jory’s jealous.
My core begins to burn as I internalize this fact. Jealousy looks so hot on him.
I lunge to my left side just in time to tap the ball across the net. “If it bothers you so much, I’ll order something online tonight.”
“No need for that,” he says, as he volleys it back. “You can keep the one I fuck you in when we get home.”
I stop moving in the middle of the court as the ball bounces in front of me. He follows through the motion, moving toward the kitchen with a smirk, feeding the fire burning between my legs.