Total pages in book: 54
Estimated words: 51193 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 256(@200wpm)___ 205(@250wpm)___ 171(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 51193 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 256(@200wpm)___ 205(@250wpm)___ 171(@300wpm)
A rustle upstairs, followed by the sound of glass breaking, interrupts my humming. Jamie had mentioned having the day off from practice and that his teammates had planned to sleep in. Two loud voices boom above me. Then, I hear their feet bang against the floor. From the sounds of it, two people are fighting.
With how loud they are, it won’t be long before everyone in the house is awake. Keeping that in mind, I finish up with the bacon leaving it on a plate with paper towels to soak up the grease.
“Is that bacon I smell?” a deep voice asks from behind me. I turn around to see Drake Donovan approaching me. He peeks over my shoulder at the stove and smiles. “Sweet. I’m starving.”
“You’re always hungry,” someone says from behind him.
He’s the starting goaltender for the Strickland Senators, a giant who towers over me. Drake is close to seven feet tall. His large frame blocks the entrance to the kitchen, so I don’t see Tucker at first. Accompanied by his twin, Tucker pulls out a chair at the island.
Tucker tips his nose in the air and takes a big whiff. “You making eggs?” he asks me.
“I can… if that’s what you want.”
“Yeah,” Tucker says. “I like mine scrambled.”
“Me, too,” says Trent.
“Don’t make them shit,” another deep voice says. Killian Kade enters the kitchen, shoving a hand through his black hair, pushing it off his forehead. “But I’ll take mine over easy.” He winks at me as he takes a seat next to Drake at the island at the center of the room.
Glancing at the egg mixture on the counter next to me, I chuckle. “I’m making French toast.”
“Nice, I’ll have that, too,” Tucker says, and I want to smack him across his adorable face. “Put extra cinnamon on mine.”
These guys are so damn spoiled.
They must be used to having someone wait on them hand and foot. Money buys a lot of comforts. Either their moms or their maids must serve them. Judging by the condition of this house, they expect someone to clean up after them. And now cook for them. One dinner was enough, and here I am acting like I’m the help.
Ignoring all of them, I turn around to face the stove, dipping bread into the mixture to add to the hot griddle. Midway through the first batch, I feel hands on my waist. I’m about to smack them away when I hear Jamie’s voice rumble in my ear. His breath on my earlobe causes me to freeze, chills shooting down my arms.
“Morning,” he whispers. “I rolled over, hoping to go another round before class, and your side of the mattress was cold.”
My side of the mattress? I try to push down my excitement and fail miserably. The broad grin turning up the corners of my mouth is so wide my cheeks hurt.
“I thought I would surprise you and bring you breakfast in bed. But your friends came down and ruined it.”
“Let me guess,” he says. “Drake was down here first.”
“Yeah, how did you know?”
He nods at the plate of crispy bacon. “Because that’s how his mom used to wake him up for school.”
I chuckle. “With bacon?”
Jamie smirks. “Uh-huh. He wouldn’t get out of bed in middle school unless he could smell bacon cooking.”
We both laugh.
“That’s hilarious.”
“You think that’s bad?” Jamie glances over his shoulder to see if his friends are behind him before he continues, “When we were kids, Tucker’s mom had to iron all of his shirts before school. He’d throw a fit and refuse to go if she didn’t.”
I cock an eyebrow at him. “So, what’s wrong with ironing a shirt?”
“He wouldn’t get dressed if his shirt wasn’t warm.”
“Your friends are such brats.” I snort from laughing so hard. “And what about you? You have a weird story, too?”
“Are you kidding me? If I as much as complained when I was a kid, my dad would tell me a sob story about his childhood and how he never knew if he’d eat. Then, he’d tell me I should consider myself lucky that I don’t have to walk to school or starve to death.”
“Sounds like your dad grew up more like me.”
His expression darkens, his voice lower. “Is it really that bad for you?”
I shake my head, turning away from him to flip the French toast. “No, not at all. But we don’t have any money. Just enough to get by.”
“My dad said if he could give all the money back, he would. That’s why he donates so much of it to charity. He feels guilty.”
“He shouldn’t,” I say. “He works hard for it. Your dad kinda gives me hope. If someone who came from a worse situation than me can build an empire, then I can make my dream happen, too.”
“My dad will like you,” he says. “He loves people with entrepreneurial minds. Actually, he has an internship program for young entrepreneurs.”