 by Lauren Blakely.jpg)
Total pages in book: 14
Estimated words: 13369 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 67(@200wpm)___ 53(@250wpm)___ 45(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 13369 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 67(@200wpm)___ 53(@250wpm)___ 45(@300wpm)
That felt great.
So I escape to the beach with a book, where I'm politely drooling over a seriously sexy guy on a paddle board when...smack. The hottie gets whacked in the head by a rogue surfboard.
Time for me to play lifeguard to a man who turns out to be...California's hottest professional quarterback.
And he wants to take me home tonight.
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
Prologue
Drew
* * *
I’ve learned a thing or two from playing football most of my life. To be competitive, you need good hands and a fast mind. But nothing else matters if you don’t have great teamwork.
Football’s a little like good sex. No shade against solo sessions, but sex is best when you and your partner play well together. My best skill between the sheets? Listening to a woman in bed. I follow her cues, learn her likes, take care of all her needs.
I bring those talents to dating too.
And, fine, I’ll admit that as a quarterback I definitely have an advantage in the dating department—it’s literally my job to find chances and then to go for it.
So when I meet a beautifully brainy woman right before the season starts, I’m all in, making a helluva big play for her.
But then, out of nowhere, the universe sacks me.
Oof.
1
The Hottie Goes Kersplat
Brooke
* * *
Are you kidding me?
I stare at the email from my ex in disbelief.
This has got to be a prank. Or he’s doing it for upvotes on some Reddit post—Wildest things an ex has ever said, or something.
Or maybe I just haven’t had enough coffee.
The Los Angeles sun streams through my kitchen window as I cross the kitchen to pour another cup of ambrosia. I swallow a hearty gulp and let it work its magic on my brain cells.
There.
I’m fueled up after the worst week ever and ready to read this bizarre request again.
* * *
Hey, Brookey Babes!
So, you probably follow me online. If you don’t, you totally should. Started a new profile. I call it The Shirtless Esquire. You know, since I used to be a lawyer, and “esquire” just sounds so fucking cool.
Anyway, I’m doing a hot new series called “Conversation with my Ex” for The Shirtless Esquire OnlyFans page. Get this—I’ll be interviewing my exes about what went wrong. It’s gonna be insightful and healing, and it’ll give me a chance to tell both sides of the story. And I know it’s been a hot minute since we were a thing, when I think of exes, you’re one of my faves. How about it? Wanna help me break the Internet?
Love ya much and always,
Sailor
P.S.: Yeah, I’ll be shirtless for the convo. Feel free to do the same, but no pressure. Totally up to you.
* * *
And…I did read it right the first time.
Exasperated, I contemplate a reply. Something like: “Shockingly, Sailor, I do not want to be part of your interview series. Or to speak to you shirtless. We split because you went pants-less with other people. Maybe you should try keeping your clothes on for a change?”
Ugh.
I’d ignore the email and forget about it, but I know Sailor will call too.
And yup. My phone trills and his face flashes on the screen.
I grit my teeth, send the call to voicemail, then text a reply.
* * *
Brooke: Thanks for thinking of me. But feel free to lose my number.
* * *
Then, I block his. I down the rest of my coffee, blow out an exhausted breath, and stare at the kitchen counter, littered with reminders of my hellish week. My bottle of migraine meds got a workout these last seven days. So did my wallet, thanks to the bill from the tire shop after I drove over a nail in the grocery store parking lot after I got rear-ended by a mom texting in her minivan. And over in the corner, a wilted bouquet of peonies dies miserably, fallen petals collecting around the vase in a stinky mess.
Who sends flowers to someone who didn’t get a promotion? My boss. Why can’t Stephen make it easier to be mad at him? But I guess I should be grateful. Flowers and no promotion are still better than redundancy and no job. It’s hard to get ahead in my industry, and I need the money, so I’ll just have to water the peonies, smile, and go to work tomorrow, ready to do it all again.
But there’s only one thing for me to do today as the weekend draws to a close.
Hit the beach and read a book.
Nothing cures a bad week like some sun and an escape into make-believe.
After a few hours spent basking on the beach, immersed in the latest escapades of Axel Huxley’s vigilante-for-hire, I’ve nearly forgotten my ex’s ridiculous request. The sea and stories have always settled me, ever since I was young. Today, the combo does its trick, washing away my week.
Normally, I wouldn’t let an ex bug me so much, but I can’t escape The Shirtless Esquire. He’s become a thing on social media. My co-workers update me about his online antics, more than one of them noting how hot Sailor is.
I wish I could whatever him away with a pure give-no-fucks attitude, but hearing from him reminds me that in the year since we split, my dating life has been a desert.