Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 116597 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 583(@200wpm)___ 466(@250wpm)___ 389(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116597 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 583(@200wpm)___ 466(@250wpm)___ 389(@300wpm)
I was aiming for casual. Cool. Collected.
Totally not sweating bullets over the fact that Livia-fucking-Young was on her way over to boss me around again, and I’d jerked off about ten times in the past few days preparing for it.
I ran a hand through my hair and turned in a slow circle, checking the living room for anything out of place. The vacuum lines on the rug were still visible, which felt like a win. Candles were lit. The lights were low, music soft in the background — not the beat-heavy music that Livia had on in her condo, but a jazzy, chill playlist I usually saved for post-practice decompression.
Zamboni let out a low woof and pawed at his water bowl.
“Don’t worry, Zambo. You’ve got nothing to worry about.” I refilled his water before patting his butt. “You only almost chewed her shoe to bits at Aleks and Mia’s wedding. It’s not like you actually did. And how could she not love you? She has to. Look at you.” I crouched to scratch behind his ears, his whole body wiggling with joy. “But just in case, maybe try to avoid jumping up and slobbering all over her, okay?” I stood, smoothing my hands over my shirt. “That’s my job.”
I took a breath, scanning the place one more time like Livia might show up with a white glove and a clipboard to inspect it.
My house was small by pro athlete standards, but it was all I needed. It had a modern coastal vibe and was tucked away at the edge of a canal that fed into the Hillsborough River. It was quiet, peaceful, and just ten minutes from the arena.
Perfect.
The whole back wall was floor-to-ceiling glass, opening up to a deck with string lights, a pair of well-worn Adirondack chairs, my paddleboard, and the boat I barely used enough to justify owning. Inside, the colors were light and clean — white walls, pale wood floors, navy blue and gray accents. A few framed jerseys lined one hallway, along with a shelf of game pucks and photos from my rookie season. My bag of golf clubs rested in the corner, serving as décor as much as any vase would.
I didn’t pretend to be an interior designer. Everything was minimal and masculine. Lived-in, but not messy.
I’d never once given a single shit about my place and how it would appear to anyone other than me until this very moment.
Something about knowing Livia would be inside these walls any minute now had me on edge. She’d seen me naked. She’d quite literally sat on my face. She knew about my insecurities, about all the ways I fell short and needed her help.
But somehow, this felt more vulnerable than any of that.
It was nerve-wracking, letting her into my space and hoping she would like what she saw, that she’d feel something other than amusement for the man who called it home.
I heard the purr of her car when it pulled into my driveway — and even if I hadn’t, Zamboni barking his head off would have given away her arrival. I put him in his crate, promising him I’d let him out quickly if he was a good boy, and then I made my way toward the door at the sound of three punctuated knocks.
I tried to play it cool, but I was triple checking everything in my head.
Wine decanted and ready to pour? Check.
A board of meat, cheese, fruits and olives on my kitchen island just in case she’s hungry? Check.
Electrolyte drinks in the fridge? Check.
Heart pounding like a fucking war drum in my chest?
Checkity-check-check.
With one last deep breath, I plastered on my best relaxed smile and opened the door.
Livia stood on the other side like an award-winning photograph, everything about her so sexy and put-together, it almost seemed impossible to be real. Her hair was down tonight, straight and silky, falling like a glossy curtain over her shoulders and brushing the tops of her arms. A brown cowboy hat sat snug on her head, the brim casting the perfect shadow across her face and only adding to the drama of her entrance.
Her makeup was soft but striking — long lashes framed those sharp eyes, her skin was glowing with a golden warmth, and her lips shimmered with a nude gloss that made my gaze drop to her mouth instantly.
I knew she clocked that little slip when the edges of her lips quirked up.
She wore a sheer black dress that tied just beneath her chest, the fabric fluttering open to reveal the high-cut leopard shorts underneath, and a statement belt that gleamed at her waist like a warning sign.
Or an invitation.
Chunky silver jewelry glinted at her wrist and collarbone, and the whole look was tied together with a pair of worn-in brown cowboy boots. She looked like the kind of trouble that shows up on your doorstep after you told her to stay away, unbothered and breathtaking, just to see if you’ll break and let her in.