Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 79800 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79800 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
“Then you can take it home, and you can have leftovers.” He plops down onto the couch and pats the cushion next to him. “Let’s watch something while we wait.”
“What are we watching?” I ask, kicking off my shoes and sitting on the couch. I leave the cushion next to him open because he’s being all cute and protective, and I’m already crushing on this man. I don’t need his nearness to tempt me, as if one couch cushion is a lot of space to keep us apart. It’s a big-ass couch, but still very little space.
“I’ve been watching film all day, so anything besides football.”
“Foster Vaughn! Don’t let your coach or your teammates hear you say that,” I tease.
“Trust me, they’d understand.” He stares at the television as he scrolls through our options. “Scary? Action? Rom-com? What are you feeling, Eden?” he asks.
“I really don’t care. I don’t watch much television.”
“No?” He turns to face me. “What do you do other than work and visit the children’s home?”
“I like to read.”
He nods. “What’s your favorite genre to read?”
My face heats. I don’t know why. I’m not embarrassed, but damn, I don’t usually have this conversation with a sexy-as-sin professional athlete either. “Romance.”
“What’s this about?” Even though we’re a cushion apart, his long arms can reach me as his thumb lightly feathers across my cheek. “Why are you blushing?”
“I don’t know. I don’t usually talk about the books that I read with anyone but Carrie.”
“Do you blush with her?”
“No.” I shake my head, and his hand falls away.
“Maybe I should read one.”
“What? No. That’s a terrible idea.”
“Why? Because I’m a jock, I can’t read?”
“No. I know you can read, Foster, but you don’t need to read what I read. Be your own man,” I say, huffing out a nervous laugh.
“I am my own man. And I want to read one of your books. I need an author’s name and title,” he tells me, his phone poised and ready to enter the information. “I need your favorite.”
He stares me down until I cave. “Fine, but listen here, mister. We don’t discuss it. I don’t care what you think, or how you feel about what happens—just no. I’ll give you the author and the title, but you keep your comments to yourself.”
“But what if I need a book buddy to talk to about it?”
“Find one. Not me.” I point to my chest. “This is a terrible idea,” I mumble.
Foster laughs. Not just a chuckle. No, this is a whole-body, shaking-the-couch, contagious kind of laugh, and it’s endearing. He’s even sexier with his eyes lit up with happiness. He finally composes himself and nods for me to go ahead.
“Harper Fleming. Love Binds Us.”
“That sounds kinky.” He winks.
I shrug, and his grin grows even wider. I point an index finger at him. “Not a word.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says as the doorbell rings. “That’s dinner.”
“That was fast.”
“About thirty minutes, give or take.”
Damn, it feels like seconds, maybe a couple of minutes tops, since he called in the order, but I guess when you’re too busy trying to distance yourself from him and protect your reading privacy, time flies.
“Let’s eat in here. I’ll grab some plates and napkins. What do you want to drink?” Foster asks as he places the pizza on the coffee table.
“I can help.” I stand and follow him into the kitchen.
“Plates are in the pantry.” He nods toward the pantry as he takes a stack of napkins from the holder on the island. “But you already know that.” He chuckles and opens the refrigerator. He starts rattling off options.
“Just a soda for me. I have to drive home.”
“Right.” He nods, grabbing me a soda and a water for himself.
“Do you even drink soda?” I ask him.
“Nah, not usually. I do like sweet tea, though.”
“Why do you have it?”
“Guests. I don’t have them often, but when I do, I like to offer them drinks. Although since the guys have been settling down, our get-togethers are usually at one of their places. They’ve been on me to buy a house next to them.”
“Are they all neighbors?” I think he mentioned that to me once before.
“No, but they live close. Within walking distance in a gated community. It’s nice, but the houses are massive, and I don’t need a mansion for just me.”
“Says the man who lives in a two-story four-bedroom condo, with an attached garage.”
He chuckles. “Trust me, Eden, this place looks like home for peasants, compared to their houses.”
“If you say so. My entire one-bedroom apartment would fit into your living room.” I follow him back to the couch, where he tosses two slices of pizza and a breadstick onto my plate, before doing the same for him.
“All right, let’s see what we’ve got here.” He points the remote at the television, and a popular rom-com fills the screen.