Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 89519 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89519 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
“The one staying across the lake.”
Still nothing.
I can’t tell if she’s this unimpressed or has zero clue what I’m talking about. Either way I find it incredibly annoying.
“Jesus,” I mutter. “I play for Arizona. Defensive line. You might’ve heard of Harris Bennett?”
That gets her attention. “Harris? As in Lucy’s Harris?”
Bingo.
“That Harris.” I clear my throat. “Technically this is a recovery week. Harris and the rest of the team were here for the preseason retreat—and when they were all raving about the solitude, well . . . my knee is jacked up, and I needed somewhere to recuperate.”
She lifts both brows. “And instead you got me.”
“I got you,” I agree, deadpan.
We stare at each other for a beat too long. One of her earrings is twisted backward. Her hair looks like it was attacked by the hammock gods. And she’s annoyingly cute as hell.
“Well,” she says after a beat, “I too was promised tranquility and good Wi-Fi, and so far, I’ve got neither.”
Is she trying to one-up me? Can’t decide.
“We’re stuck here until someone decides to call you back—if they call you back. Which is probably never.”
Annabelle huffs. “There’s only one bed, so one of us has to leave.”
I gesture toward the door, relishing the way her eyes linger on my bicep. “Feel free.”
“Look, sir—I’m not thrilled about the idea either. But we’re both here. Neither of us is moving. And unless we want to alternate nights in the world’s worst futon, we should probably act like adults and—God, I don’t know—create a chart or something.”
A chart? So we know who gets the bed and when?
I don’t fucking think so.
“Absolutely not. I’m literally six-five and one bad night’s sleep away from permanent physical therapy.”
She hums, pretending to consider. “Rock paper scissors?”
“No.”
“Arm wrestle?”
I deadpan. “What part of jacked up from a torn ligament are you not understanding?”
“So that’s it?” Annabelle throws her arms up. “You’re claiming the bed?”
“Correct.”
“Rude! You can’t do that!”
“Says who?” I glance around. “Last time I checked, we were the only two here.”
“You, sir, are no gentleman!”
“No shit.” I laugh. “What gave it away?”
Her eyes trail down my neck and land on my chest, nostrils flaring. “Would you go put a freaking shirt on?”
I smirk. “Why? Is it distracting you?”
“No,” she says way too quickly. “It’s disrespectful to air out your nipples during a housing crisis.”
I glance down. “My nipples are literally minding their own business—they’re not even hard.”
“Well, they’re making me uncomfortable.”
I laugh again, heading toward the bedroom to find a T-shirt, hobbling most of the way there ’cause my leg has begun to throb.
Behind me, Annabelle mutters, “Oh fantastic. He’s limping. His pain and suffering keeps getting better.”
“Speak for yourself,” I grunt, grabbing a soft tee from my bag and yanking it over my head with a wince. The knee flares again, hot and sharp, and for a brief second, I have to pause to catch my breath, gripping the bedpost.
God, I hate this part. The postsurgery throbbing. The slowed-down version of myself I barely recognize. The way my body feels like it’s constantly two steps behind my pride.
But I shake it off and walk back out like nothing happened. Can’t let her see that.
Annabelle’s curled up on the couch now, blanket wrapped around her, like a burrito of indignation, scrolling something on her phone with exaggerated aggression.
“You look cozy,” I say, settling into the armchair nearby. “Don’t get too relaxed. You could be out on your ass at a moment’s notice.”
She narrows her eyes. “Ha ha.”
I grin. “Just saying. You should probably sleep with one shoe on. Makes it easier to run when the rental company inevitably realizes you’re the clerical error.”
“Oh my God.” She shudders. “Why did Lucy never warn me that Harris’s teammates were—”
“Hot?” I offer helpfully.
“I was going to say ‘unbearably full of themselves,’ but sure, let’s go with ‘hot.’”
“Hey,” I say, quieter now. “I wasn’t totally kidding. If they don’t call back by tomorrow, I’ll help you sort it out. Worst case, I contact the resort and borrow a cot for you to sleep on. I’m sure they have the nice kind the size of a twin bed.”
She folds her arms, lips twitching. “Wow. I’m too stunned at your horrible offer to be offended you’re offering me a bed with wheels. What’s next? You gonna warm up some tea and ask me about my feelings?”
“Absolutely not.” Gross.
“Would you offer me the bed if I sprained my ankle?”
“No,” I deadpan. “Because I have a busted knee. I’d put a Band-Aid around yours and tell you to walk it off.”
If I were romantically interested in her, I might even kiss it . . .
She laughs, soft and surprised, and I hate how much I like the sound of it.
“Hmm,” she hums, shifting to tuck the blanket tighter around her legs. “I guess I could do worse than a smart-ass with a bum knee and a healthy protein addiction.”