Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 95340 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 477(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95340 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 477(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
She’d been bored waiting.
And I’m slightly bored now. Or could be.
That would be my excuse anyway.
For a brief second, I wonder if the only reason I'm having these thoughts is because Brodie has expressed zero anything toward me. In fact, the guy is acting as if he does this sort of thing all the time—rescuing damsels in distress even though, let’s be honest, I’m only faking it.
But I might as well be a dude for all he cares, making small talk with me on his bed at the same time as watching the television affixed to the wall in front of us.
Maybe I should go out of the bedroom and see what his roommates are up to if only to get a little bit of attention. Would that be so bad?
Stop it, Lizzy. You’re pouting.
You’re not pouting. You just want his attention.
He’s your captive audience, and he’s clearly not into this conversation. Spice it up!
“How long have you been playing hockey?” I ask, pulling the world’s most mundane question out of my ass.
“Since I could stand on skates.”
“Why? Are you from Canada or something?”
Brodie smiles—the hint of a smile, not a full-blown one, causing the corners of his eyes to crinkle in the cutest way.
“New York.”
New York! “I would not have guessed that.”
“Upstate. Like Buffalo, nothing exciting. I’m not from the city or anything.”
Huh.
Interesting. I’ve never been to New York City, let alone Upstate, which I hear is gorgeous.
“I’m from Minnesota.” Not too far from here but not as close as Jill’s family.
He nods. “That’s cool.”
Is it? Is it cool to be from Minnesota? “Both big hockey states, eh?”
God, why am I still talking? And why would I purposely try to sound Canadian by saying ‘eh’? I want to face-palm myself, but that would be weird. He has no idea the thoughts going through my head, and if he did, he’d probably move back to the couch.
Ha.
It’s like I said—Brodie might not be classically good-looking. And he’s certainly not setting anyone’s panties on fire, and I can’t put my finger on what it is, but…there’s something.
With him stretched out next to me, it's almost impossible not to give him a once-over, my curious eyes trailing down his torso to the tips of his toes.
His feet are big, and he could use a pedicure—but what guy couldn't?
Plus, aren’t his feet in skates all the time? And for real, isn't that something, a guy who can skate?
Why does that turn me on so much?
Because back when I was younger, my mom used to make me watch this movie growing up about this bitchy, high-maintenance figure skater who desperately needed a skating partner, and the only guy they could find to do it was a retired hockey player.
Shoot, what was the movie called?
The cutting something. Edge.
The Cutting Edge.
That's some serious cinematic goodness right there.
Brody catches me staring at his toes and gives them a wiggle.
“Are there any guys on your team who are actually from Canada?” I blurt out, for lack of anything more interesting to say, fueled only by my knowledge that Canada is a huge hockey country, yeah?
“Sure.”
Sure? That's all he has to say, giving me no opening for more questions, and he's already told me he's been playing hockey as long as he could stand in skates, so I can’t ask about that. And his dad is in finance, so I can’t ask about his parents. Two siblings to my none.
“Favorite meal?”
“Breakfast.” Zero hesitation.
“Like. What, though?” Be more specific. What is it about breakfast you like?
“There is seriously nothing better than eating healthy all week, lean protein and all that shit—vegetables, whatever—then just deciding to go out for breakfast one morning on a Sunday and order a stack of pancakes with butter and eggs and sausage and getting so full you want to literally shit yourself.”
My brows go up.
Shit himself?
Ew.
Also: we didn’t need that visual, did we? He could have stopped short of needing to shit himself, thankyouverymuch.
But also, I know what he’s talking about because I hardly ever indulge in those kinds of breakfasts anymore, but when I do, they just hit so good.
“What about you?” He finally asks a question in kind, and I preen at that, straightening myself so I can get a better view of him from the vantage point I have, which is still flat on my tummy, lying half across his bed.
“I love a cute dinner.”
Brodie blinks.
Blinks again.
“What the hell is a cute dinner?”
So glad he asked.
“It’s when you get dressed up all cute and go for dinner, wine, dessert. Any excuse to put on makeup, a cute outfit, and show off the girls,” I say, referring to my boobs. “Even when I’m with the girlies—is cute dinner.”
I don’t mention cute dinner is best served when it’s a date night that includes flirting, and sometimes sex is involved.