Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 83358 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83358 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
“I’d like that,” I admit. “But…”
His brows lift. “But?”
“I do have a date tonight,” I say carefully. “With someone else.”
He goes still for a second. Not angry. Not surprised. Definitely processing.
Then he nods. “Right. The experiment.”
I nod. “I just… want to be fair to what I started. Even if this”—I gesture between us—“is starting to feel less like data and more like something I don’t totally understand yet.”
His voice is quiet. “I can work with that.”
I smile, soft and small, because that’s not what I expected. No guilt trip. No possessive vibes. Just… understanding.
“I’ll text you,” I promise.
“It’s a plan. And hey”—he stands as I rise from the booth—“no matter how the data shakes out, you can’t deny the pancakes were top tier.”
I laugh. “They were. And so were you.”
We step into the morning sun. He walks me to my car, not touching me but close enough I feel his warmth.
“Good luck tonight,” he says, but his eyes twinkle mischievously. “I hope he’s everything you’re not looking for and the data supports I’m a much better catch.”
I hope so too. But I don’t dare voice that.
“Good luck at the game tomorrow. I’ll be watching.”
Lucky smiles, bends down and kisses my cheek. I have to force myself not to touch the skin, which actually tingles from his touch.
He starts to walk to his vehicle and my eyes inadvertently drop to his butt. Damn… he’s got an amazing ass.
When my gaze lifts again, he’s got his phone out, holding it up in front of him with the reverse camera pointed back over his shoulder—squarely in my direction.
He’s recording a TikTok.
I can’t hear what he’s saying, but I know that smirk. He grins like he’s just won something, and I’m guessing I’m the punch line. Or the headline. Or both.
My mouth drops open and I call out, “Are you filming me right now?”
He doesn’t answer. Just keeps walking, casually lifting his hand in a wave before climbing into his Tahoe.
I stare after him, completely flustered. I should be annoyed. I should yell something clever. Instead, I fumble for my keys with a ridiculous smile spreading across my face.
That man is a menace wrapped up in a confoundingly charming package.
And I think I might like it.
CHAPTER 12
Lucky
The gym at the team’s hotel in Dallas is about what you’d expect—rows of treadmills facing a muted television, a rack of mismatched dumbbells, and a pile of damp towels that I’m pretty sure haven’t been rotated out since Tuesday. But it’s quiet, which is what I need.
Just me, the low whir of my stationary bike, and an older man walking slowly on a treadmill. He didn’t recognize me when I walked in, which isn’t unusual at away games. Fans tend to know what their own players look like and not the enemy. At least, not third-line enemies. Sure, Drake, Penn, Stone… those guys always get recognized no matter what. That doesn’t bother me in the slightest, and in fact, I just realized… that kind of makes me more normal.
More average.
More acceptable to Winnie’s high standards. Or are they low standards? I’m not clear on that, but I intend to address it on our next date.
I’ve already done weights, stretched and burned through a few miles of cardio. Now I’m killing time, scrolling TikTok like a stalker. Which, let’s be honest, isn’t far off.
Winnie posted a video last night about our breakfast—just her, sitting in her car with sunlight streaming through the windshield. She was smiling like she doesn’t quite trust it, hair a little windblown, eyes soft.
Her caption reads: When the guy who stitched your dating experiment buys you pancakes, listens more than he talks, and makes you laugh until your cheeks hurt.
#BreakfastWithLucky #SecondDateEnergy #StillNotAverage
I grinned like a fool when I watched it and maybe about ten times since. Something about the way she looks in that video knocks the wind out of me. No filter, no fancy angles—just her. Her eyes are this ridiculous shade of hazel that catch every bit of light. And her mouth… God, when she talks, it’s expressive in a way that pulls you in. The corners lift before she even finishes a thought. It’s not just pretty, it’s disarming.
It makes me want to kiss the fuck out of her and that realization hits me hard. This isn’t just about experimenting and gaining more TikTok fame. I’m attracted to her in a way that I know I’ll never be satisfied with a few dates.
And that hits me square in the gut. This woman, with her smart mouth and soft eyes, is rapidly becoming the only thing I want to keep watching.
I glance through the comments and they’re a mix of support, swooning and some douchey comments.
@BookishBarista: You two are so cute I’m filing a formal complaint with the universe.
@TenureTrackChaos: Is it too soon to ask if Buttermilk approves?