Total pages in book: 199
Estimated words: 200280 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1001(@200wpm)___ 801(@250wpm)___ 668(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 200280 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1001(@200wpm)___ 801(@250wpm)___ 668(@300wpm)
“Listen here,” I begin, stepping closer to him, glaring, “you fucking asshole, if you even think about using me against my brother, I’m going scratch your eyes out. And then I’ll stomp on your fucking feet with my sky-high heels and I’ll do it so hard that you won’t be able to play your beloved game for the rest of the month. Do you understand? So I want you to let me go before I hurt you like no girl has ever done before.”
Still, he takes his time looking me over. Then, “You’re a firecracker, aren’t you?”
“Yes.” I push at him again. “And I’ll set you on fire, if you’re not careful.”
He chuckles again but this time it’s softer, more like a puff of air as he keeps taking me in. “Although you don’t feel like one.”
“I don’t —”
“You feel more like a” — a curious frown emerges from between his brows — “Firefly.”
I go still then.
Because his tone has changed, become something akin to… reverence.
Which I’m sure is wrong but I don’t know what else to call it.
“Fragile and bright. Glowing in the dark.”
And since he sounds reverential — which as I said is wrong and ridiculous — I push at him the hardest. And by some miracle — either he wasn’t expecting it or he was getting tired of my pushing and snapping — he lets me go.
But it makes me stumble and teeter on my four-inch heels.
Like he was the only thing holding me and keeping me tethered to the ground and now that he isn’t there, gravity has got me in its clutches and I fall.
Down on my knees.
My bones hitting the pavement with a crunch.
It must be painful but I don’t feel it.
There’s a much larger pain in my chest.
Like before, he wraps his fingers around my bicep and hauls me up. But unlike before, he doesn’t keep his grip on me. Or maybe I’m too ferocious in this moment to let him keep his grip on me and he can sense it.
“You really don’t know how to fucking walk in heels, do you?” he growls then. “What the —”
“Don’t,” I snap, wiping my hands on my skirt, hardly feeling the gravel rubbing across my skin. “Don’t touch me. Ever. I don’t know what I was thinking. I don’t know why I thought…” I swallow. “I thought that you had more to you than what people say. I don’t know why I thought you were… different. You’re not. Clearly. And you know what, my brother’s right to hate you. And I hope he fucking beats you in your stupid contest.”
With that, I turn around and start walking away.
I start walking to my car.
I don’t look back. I don’t think about catching a last glimpse of him.
I simply get in my car and get out of there.
Twenty minutes later as I’m waiting for the garage door to open, I think I spy bright headlights in the rearview mirror. I think I know those headlights. I know that vehicle. It’s a beat-up black truck that I’ve been following around for the past week.
But before I can confidently conclude that, my garage door slides all the way up and I decided to not dwell on it, choosing to drive forward.
Because nothing about him should matter to me.
Nothing about him should be important or vital or life-changing.
He’s not the guy I should be in love with.
He’s the Angry Thorn. Soccer royalty of Bardstown. Soccer god.
My brother’s rival and enemy.
And I will do whatever it takes to get over him.
Chapter Three
Her Beautiful Thorn
Long-as-fuck hair.
Creamy skin. Mouth plump and pink like cotton candy.
A short fucking dress partially hidden under the winter coat but not enough to hide how tight it was.
Not enough to make me forget.
The trail of blood running down her knees. Because of her fall.
Or that her blue-gray eyes were misty and wet when she left.
Truth be told, it’s none of my business. That she left here bleeding and crying. Heartbroken.
What else did she expect?
Given who she is and who I am.
Given who her fucking brother is.
For all I know this was one of his dirty tricks. Using his sister to distract me from next week’s game so he could win this year’s contest. So he could fuck with me on the field like he always does.
Even as I think it though, I know it’s not true.
If there’s one thing that asshole loves more than himself, it’s his little sister.
And as much as I hate to admit it, I get it.
I get it big time because I’ve got a baby sister too and I’d blow my fucking lid if she ever got close to him. I’d blow my fucking lid if I found out that he ever — ever — set his dirty eyes on her. Or worse, watched her from afar.