Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 93683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 468(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 468(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
He completely lost his shit the one time an attempt was made.
Not only did he punch out his own captain – a major unspoken crime in the barn – he refused to talk to me for over a week.
Mari and Mom had to trick him into a family dinner to simply give me a chance to be heard.
M explained how he felt lines had been crossed and that trust was now in question and that he needed certain things separate in his life.
He didn’t ask me what I needed.
Or wanted.
No one has.
Thayne sweetly smiles in my direction.
Almost no one.
“Everything okay with Coach?” inquires the man whose delectable abs are quite distracting at the moment along with his cut V and great cock.
Bit more thickness than length, yet I have no doubt in its abilities.
Nor can I wait to experience them.
Should I even let myself experience them?
Should I even be considering it?
“Yeah, um…” my head shakes off the runaway thoughts, “he’s on vacation for a couple weeks and was just checking in.”
“You two are pretty close, aye?”
There’s no stopping my shoulders from dropping further during the confession, “He’s my best friend.”
Thayne slowly nods his understanding but doesn’t rebut.
“And that means…that…we…probably…shouldn’t…” the end of my sentence is left to linger in the air despite the words not actually forming.
“I hear ya,” he sweetly announces, voice soft and sympathetic, “but does he hear you?”
The question furrows my brow.
“You’re always worried about what other people want or want for you, but who listens to what you want, Gillybean?” His lips briefly press together. “Shouldn’t you get a chance to say what that is? And if you don’t know, shouldn’t you get a chance to figure it out?”
Stopping my mouth from sliding towards my lap is impossible.
“Shouldn’t you get a chance to explore what makes you happy and who makes you happy?”
Bobbing my jaw seems to be all I’m capable of.
“I know who I want, Gillian.” Brightness in his beam is blinding but exhilarating. “I’ve known since the minute I saw you in that blue jean dress that I was the one that would be willin’ to do anything to put boots on those feet.”
I can’t hide my giggles or blushes or lip biting.
“Do you really wanna hit stop on whatever we’ve got goin’ on between us or do you wanna spend the next couple of weeks pullin’ a Lionel?”
“Meaning?” is practically whispered.
“Do you wanna see if it’s me you’ve been lookin’ for?”
Chapter 8
Thayne
Bronny dramatically throws his head in my direction at the same time he gags, “Cringe.”
I pull my midnight black Chevy truck up to the stop sign and grunt, “Why you gotta say cringe?” My attention briefly cuts over to him in the passenger seat. “Why can’t you jus’…Idontknow? Cringe?”
“Extra. Cringe.”
“Says the bud sportin’ a haircut that makes him look like the Withers’ alpaca.”
“Girls love my hair.”
“Girls love your hair products.”
“Julliard said we could ship jus’ based on my hair.”
That girl is the embodiment of that Will Smith & DJ Jazzy Jeff Song.
We’re talkin’ every single verse.
We’re talkin’ the extended remix edition.
“Yeah, I don’t think that datin’ someone jus’ for their hair is a good idea.”
“Why not?” He asks as I turn left. “Dubs shipped a girl for like six weeks ‘cause they liked the same paint.”
“Dubs is definitely not a good player to call to the ice for the assist.”
“At least he dates.”
“We’re literally pickin’ up my date right now.”
“Yeah, but she’s like the first one you’ve had since the trade that got you here.”
“Not true.”
“Not fake news.”
“I-”
“Let me cook.”
“Wh-”
“And,” he snaps with so much snark I wanna nut check him for his tone, “it’s obvs ‘cause you got no rizz, meanin’ you’re the last simp that should be poppin’ into the pod for a mic drop.”
“I hate everything you jus’ said.”
Bronny makes a mocking sympathetic face. “’Cause it’s true?”
“’Cause it’s further proof I – was in fact – born in the wrong fuckin’ decade.”
Not that I needed more proof.
My choice of tuneskies, bowties, and belief that romance didn’t die when rubbers were invented, demonstrates it enough.
Smoothly pulling my truck into Gilly’s driveway, I firmly point to his door. “Get out.”
“Whyyyyy?” whines the teen that’s got me questioning whether it was a good call to bring him along.
“First off,” killing the engine occurs, “it’s the polite thing to do. You’re meetin’ someone for the first time, particularly someone important to the person haulin’ your ass all around town for the next few weeks, so it’s courteous to get your ass out of the vehicle and make that connection face to face, which is basic manner trainin’, somethin’ I see I need to reintroduce you to.”
Bronny pulls his lips to one side of his face but doesn’t argue.
“Second,” my head moves to maintain eye contact, “we let the driver’s date – regardless of gender – sit in the passenger seat.”