Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 102185 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 511(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102185 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 511(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
She slides the puck down the shuffleboard table, knocking my puck right off the side. With a grin that reeks of victory before the game is even done, she struts toward me at the other end of the table and pokes my arm. “Take your best shot, Greene.”
With a mouth that can hold its own in any shit-talking arena, why does she have to be so fucking beautiful when she does it? Fucking hell.
I give her a little wink as I pass. “One shot is all I need, Dover.”
“You sure about that?”
Glancing back at her, I grin. “Abso-fucking-lutely, sweetheart.”
She rolls her eyes, but I see the smile that’s tugging her lips up at the sides. Maybe I’ve been coming at this from the wrong angle. Is banter her foreplay? I laugh as I grab the puck, bend down, and narrow my eyes on the target at the other end of the board. But my gaze lands on her when she leans over the edge of the table in that damn sexy jersey that no button could hold closed. Two fingers tap the lane in front of her and then lift. When I follow them higher, she points at her eyes with a formidable look shaping her face under raised eyebrows, a discerning glare in her eyes.
“Up here,” she mouths.
I grimace, knowing I fell right into that trap of hers. Shifting my eyes back to the target, her puck, I slide mine down, knocking hers out of contention. I stand, and my arms go wide. “Looks like I won.”
She laughs and doesn’t let me appreciate my win long before she sidles up to me and says, “It’s a beer, not the World Cup.” Before I can snap back with something I know would have her reeling in the cutest way, she’s back at the bar.
When I rest my forearms down next to her, she adds, “I’m closing the tab, so if you want something else, better order it now.”
“A beer is reward enough.”
My dad sets the pints in front of us, eyeing me with disapproval. “Don’t ya know to let a lady win, son?”
“Trust me, Dad, Cricket here wouldn’t accept anything less than an honest and fully earned victory.”
“No one has to let me win, Mr. Greene. I can hold my own.”
Giving her a smile, he says, “I have no doubt you can. You’re gonna need to with my son.” He shoots me another look before he starts for the kitchen.
“Oh, nothing is needed with your son because I don’t . . .” She gives up when he’s out of earshot. Turning to me, she says, “I don’t need anything with you.”
After taking a sip, I smirk. “It wasn’t a dare.” Bumping my foot against hers, I add, “Weapons down, remember? I know you can hold your own. You don’t have anything to prove.”
She takes a drink, her eyes staring ahead at the mirrored wall full of glasses. As if a thought occurs out of nowhere, she looks up at me. “Why do I feel like I do?”
“Generational belief system?”
“Huh?” It’s cute the way her nose scrunches and her eyes blink quickly before her expression settles back to a natural, sweet little shape again. “I don’t understand.”
Angling to face her, I reply, “Dover versus Greene. It’s something I’ve been thinking about lately.”
“I’m still lost.” She takes another drink and slips onto the stool like she just might stay a while.
“Did you ever hear any stories about the Dovers not liking the Greenes?”
She pauses, and then under a soft laugh, says, “A little. Who hasn’t? But I never heard anything that could be substantiated. What about you?”
“No specifics from anyone, which makes it more confusing. Why is there a preexisting competition of sorts, like one is better than the other and they don’t like each other?”
Her eyebrows shoot straight up as she asks, “The Greenes don’t like my family?” Offense coats her tone as much as shock widens her eyes.
“As the official spokesperson for my family, they have no issues with your family. I’m assuming by your reaction that your family has no issues with mine.” Leaning closer, I lower my voice. “That’s the thing, though. Is this just folklore passed through generations of our families with no actual evidence to back it?”
She blinks again, several times, before her lips twist to the side. “I’m going with folklore.” Her tone is curt as she’s over this topic of conversation. “What is there to say anyway? Of course everyone talks about the Greenes because of the ranch, the farm, and even the orchard. Then there’s the county. I’ve heard a few jokes over the years about crossing enemy lines, but nothing that would give it legitimacy.” She looks out at the restaurant behind us. Some tables have emptied, but a healthy crowd remains. When she turns back to me, she whispers, “Why do rumors run rampant like we’re the Hatfields and you’re the McCoys?”