Total pages in book: 54
Estimated words: 52975 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 265(@200wpm)___ 212(@250wpm)___ 177(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52975 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 265(@200wpm)___ 212(@250wpm)___ 177(@300wpm)
“I’ve got it,” I assure him. “Some of this stuff is staying in the car because it’s going to the lab.”
I blow a stray strand of hair out of my face.
“Why didn’t Shane pack your car?”
A wall of defensiveness pops up inside me. Bash is always full of questions about Shane, and every one of them insinuates that he’s lacking.
“He was busy.”
“Busy with what?”
A video game tournament, but I’m not going to mention that. I just cut Bash a glare.
“I’m not a woman who needs a big, strong man taking care of me so I don’t break a sweat.”
A small snort escapes him. “Good thing, since Shane’s about a buck sixty.”
“Bash.” I fold my arms and push out a hip. “Can you not start your shit before I’m even inside the house?”
He puts his palms up. “Fine. Tell me what to carry in and I’ll do it.”
“Start with the mouthy hockey player. Set his ass down on the couch and leave him there for the rest of the day.”
I open the passenger-side back seat door of my car and reach for the tall, rectangular black suitcase my dad loaned me. Bash’s longer arm shoots past mine, his hand wrapping around the handle.
“I’ve got it, Lane. There’s Malibu and pineapple juice in the kitchen. Go make yourself a drink.”
I hesitate. Am I pissed that he’s trying to coddle me or touched that he made sure to have the ingredients of my favorite drink on hand?
I don’t even know. An argument with Shane before I left has me off balance. He was busy with friends last night, which was fine, but he wanted me to come by his place before I left, and he told me to plan on staying for at least half an hour.
It was because he wanted sex. I felt like an afterthought, so I told him I didn’t have time. He didn’t take it well.
“Thanks, but I don’t drink in the afternoon,” I tell Bash. “And I have to be sharp tomorrow.”
He pulls out the suitcase that I struggled to lift into the car, easily holding it in one hand.
“What else?”
“My other stuff is in the trunk; let me open it.”
I pop open my trunk and he surveys the boxes and three fully stuffed bags.
“The boxes stay in the car. The ones in the back seat stay, too. Everything else I’m bringing in.”
I reach for a bag.
“Stop. I’m carrying your shit in.”
The stern note in his voice stops me. I’m sweating on this ninety-degree afternoon because the air conditioning in my car is broken. This isn’t a hill I need to die on.
“Okay, thanks.”
I open the front door for him and walk into the kitchen with Bruce while he carries my things to an upstairs bedroom.
Even though I’ve been here a few times with Eric, I’m still awestruck by Bash’s house. We grew up in a very middle-class neighborhood in Columbus. There were houses with weed-filled cracks in driveways and window air conditioning units humming along in the summer. Tractor tires doubled as planters.
Bash’s house is the nicest I’ve ever been in. Someone back home said he paid two million dollars for it. It’s huge, with dark hardwood floors and tons of windows. The biggest room on the main level, which I’d call a living room, is an open two stories, with automatic blinds on the floor-to-ceiling windows, lots of comfortable leather furniture and framed black-and-white photos on the walls.
The room is open to the kitchen, which is bright and modern. It has white cabinets and white marble counters, six stools lined up at a massive island. The stainless appliances look like they belong in the kitchen of a gourmet restaurant.
The counters are mostly empty. There’s a glass jar beside the stove filled with treats for Bruce, and a crock with utensils on the other side of the stove, and that’s about it.
I can’t wait to try out his Wolf oven. The only thing I cook or bake is sourdough bread, and I’m slightly obsessed with it. I take my starter out of the oversized bag that comes everywhere with me and set it on the back of an empty span of kitchen counter.
“What’s that?”
I turn as Bash walks into the room. “That’s Dough Goldberg.”
He arches a brow.
“My sourdough starter. I’m going to make so many things in that oven. Bread, pizza crust, muffins—I even have a recipe for granola.”
Leaning back on the island, Bash crosses his arms. “You’re going to love Harry.”
“Who’s that?”
“One of Suki’s best friends. She’s my teammate Carter’s wife. I spend a lot of time at their house. My trainer has me on a high-protein, low-carb diet. I have a chef who comes here to make me stuff.”
I lower my brows. “So you won’t eat my sourdough?”
“I’ll have some. But I have to watch my sugar.”