Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 115763 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115763 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
“Shopping,” I reply slowly. “You?”
I can be conversational too. Hell, I’m one of the most talkative people you’ll ever meet. I just don’t talk to . . . him. But at this point, I think Mom would be proud of my politeness, given I haven’t told Griffin to fuck off . . . yet.
“Oh, uhh . . . there’s a place . . .” He looks over his shoulder, and I lean over to see what or whom or where he’s looking. But all I see is the sidewalk, the usual stores, and a few people who aren’t paying us any attention. When his eyes come back to mine, he seems even less sure about what he’s saying. “Right around the corner, that I go to sometimes . . .”
He’s dragging out his answer like there’s an entire novel-length explanation for what he’s doing downtown, and suddenly it hits me. “You’ve got a booty call down here.”
“No!” His eyes widen, and the barked word is enough to tell me that I’m spot-on with my guess.
“All good, Honey,” I say, purposefully using his team nickname. The official story on that is that he’s sticky on the ice. The unofficial, probably truer story is that puck bunnies stick on him like flies on flypaper, so I’m not surprised he’s got a woman here. I’d be more surprised if he didn’t. “I won’t tell Red about Downtownie, or tell Downtownie about Red.” I mime locking my lips with an invisible key and throwing it over my shoulder. Then, ignoring the locked lips, I open one tiny crack on the side of my mouth to ask, “Wait, are Red and Downtownie the same woman? Probably not, huh?”
“What?” His brow furrows as he shakes his head like that made less than zero sense, but it did. And we both know it.
“Or Blondie either.”
And that’s when recognition dawns on his face. I can see the light of understanding in the depths of his dark-brown eyes. For the tiniest second, he almost looks shocked, and then a sly grin forms on his face. “You jealous, Pen? You don’t need to be. I didn’t go home with that woman at Pro-Bowl.”
I hate it when he says my name. No, I hate it when he says it like that. Like I’m an annoying brat he has to put up with, not a whole person with feelings that get hurt. Ignoring that, I also notice he didn’t argue about having a fuck buddy downtown again.
“I’m not jealous.” I stomp my foot to prove that point, which in retrospect, probably does the opposite, because his grin grows even larger and the light in his eyes turns into a twinkle of teasing in a blink. He knows I’m lying through my teeth, since there’s one thing I’m not good at . . . well, there’s a lot of things, because I also can’t do calculus, but that hasn’t come up as often as the undeniable reality that I’m an awful liar. “Just worried about you passing the STD screening at next month’s physical exam.”
I know the guys on the team get physicals all the time, including a full panel of lab work every month, because Dom always whines about the needle stick. Some guy full-sending a puck right at his noggin? No biggie. A teeny-tiny needle prick? Terrifying. My brother is such a baby.
“I always pass. No worries there.” He chuckles like that’s funny for some reason.
I shrug like it’s not my concern either way. “So if you’re not here for a hookup, what’re you doing?” I don’t know why I ask again. Maybe because it seems like he really doesn’t want to tell me, and that makes me that much more curious? Curiosity might’ve killed the cat, but at least he died with answers to his questions.
“You really want to know?”
I nod, but doubt is starting to creep in at the return of the taunting tone in his voice. “Unless it involves spiders. Hate those things.” I feign horror, although it’s only half feigned. I do hate the little fuckers. “I shouldn’t have told you that, should I? You have to promise to never put one in my bed. I will freak out so bad that I’ll jump out my apartment window to my death, my last action on this earth being to light the building on fire to destroy the spider and save the world like the hero I am.”
Griffin stares at me in confused silence, which I wish I could say was a unique reaction to the things I say, but it’s not. “No spiders, promise.”
“Good,” I say, whooshing like I’m utterly relieved at that. I tilt my head and quietly confide, “I’m actually not that scared of them, but they are creepy-crawly, you know? All itsy and bitsy . . .” I wiggle my fingers like spider legs and promptly lose my grip on the brown bag I’ve been clutching tightly for the whole run-in with Griffin.