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)
“Thayne,” I definitively insist without hesitation. “Please, call him Thayne. That’s what all the important people in his life do.”
“Except Gilly,” Bronny adds commentary once more. “She calls him Jukes ‘cause he’s like Spotify on skates.”
Mom struggles not to snicker prior to delightedly investigating. “And what should we call you, young man?”
“Trouble,” my boyfriend playfully insists.
“Bronny,” leaves me as I let my beaming return. “Short for Bronson.”
“Nice to meet you, Bronny,” Dad greets first while Mom promptly follows suit. “What do you think we should grab to eat?”
“Za!” he excitedly answers, consideration for anything else non-existent.
“Is that…” Mom’s face crinkles in confusion, “some sort of fusion food?”
“Short for pizza,” I announce alongside an amused headshake. “How about we do Italian that way you can have pizza,” my face tips forward towards him, “and your brother can have something that will align better with his pre-season training meal plan that’s been coordinated by the new on deck personal chef who specializes in athlete nutrition.”
“Lord have mercy, Gillybean,” croons my boyfriend, warranting my focus, “you truly are ‘Your Song’ you know that?”
“Is that an Elton John reference?” Mom asks, shock and awe coating her stare alike. “Did you just make a 70s Elton John reference?!”
“Why yes ma’am I did,” replies Jukes, gaze still glued to mine. “And I meant every word of it.”
“See,” cockily mutters the teen. “Apple Music in shorts that ain’t got no drip.”
“Italian sounds perfect,” Dad agrees in such a way we all divert our attention back to him. “And so does getting an update on our daughter’s life, especially your two new additions…”
Chapter 13
Thayne
Preseason suck?
Fuck early pracky.
Preseason gino?
Falling asleep and waking up next to the woman that should permanently be wearin’ my name.
We’re talkin’ on more than just her sweater.
We’re talkin’ on more than just her body.
We’re talkin’ on more than just her morning coffee order from LMC.
She’s wifey.
Albeit future wifey, since I ain’t technically asked yet.
But she fits that Next song.
Especially the line about having my kids.
I can’t fucking wait for that.
Or…you know what?
Maybe I can.
Co-parenting a teen has been facing seventy plus shots on goal fucking rough.
Gettin’ my truck dealership clean after muddin’ frustrating.
And I like mud!
I rarely mind a bit of it on my truck or my boots!
Look, I knew this shit wasn’t gonna be easy.
The best things in life never are, they’re just worth working for.
Gramps taught us that.
And I know that raising Bronny – er – helping raise him will be no exception.
This… “transitional period” – as Cap’s wife calls it – has been – to channel the future Mrs. Tendy – like pulling teeth.
I swear, he’s being a defiant, difficult, little shit, just to be one.
For realiskies.
I don’t remember being nearly that much of a pain in the hide at his age.
Grams would’ve never let me see seventeen if I had.
Exiting the closet into my ensuite bathroom immediately reveals the woman I thank the zeb in the sky for every morning and every night and sometimes in the middle of the afternoon for good measure.
Gilly lazily ruffles her dark curls with one hand while reaching the short distance across my marble counter for her toothbrush with the other.
Rather than continue to my mapped-out morning routine, I switch plays.
Relocate my earbud to my pocket.
Slowly stroll closer taking every step of the way to appreciate the vision that’s been keeping Teddy Pendergrass, Luther Vandross, and George Michaels on steady repeat in my truck as much as my pods.
Hand to The Great One.
Sexiest thing in this whole world is seeing my woman wearing my name and nothing else.
“Mornin’ Slayer,” I quietly greet during my creep closer.
Gilly retrieves the toothpaste tube at the same time she lovingly coos, “Good morning, Jukes.”
“It definitely is when I get to wake up next to you,” leaves me upon my arrival behind her.
“You always say that.”
“That’s ‘cause,” it’s impossible not let my lips lightly feather the side of her neck, “it’s always true.” The happiness of her hum encourages me to plant another kiss on the opposite side. “You’re up early for a Monday.” She resumes her morning tooth chore. “You should still be stretched out in my sheets…” a third kiss is delivered near her collarbone, “face pressed to my pillow…” the next is dropped onto her shoulder, “legs open…” gently nudging them apart is met by no resistance, “waitin’ for me to come say goodbye…”
Additional pleased whimpers precede her somewhat muffled retorting, “I’ve got CE today.”
I should know what those letters mean.
I know she’s told me.
She happily talks to me about work over dinner and in between TV episodes even when I have no idea what the hell any of the medical terms mean, so I know I’ve heard it.
I just can’t quite remember its definition.
Probably because she’s practically naked.
We’re talkin’ so close that slipping my fingers just underneath the backside of this sweatshirt grants me a warm, plump, delish handful of ass.