Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 116028 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 580(@200wpm)___ 464(@250wpm)___ 387(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116028 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 580(@200wpm)___ 464(@250wpm)___ 387(@300wpm)
A knock on the door spares me from what probably would’ve been a solid hour of overthinking. Hunter saunters into the room and throws his lean, muscular body onto my bed.
“I need a nap.”
My mouth quirks in a wry smile. “Sure, go ahead and make yourself at home.”
“Aw, thanks, Blondie.” He winks, and proceeds to get even more comfortable by sprawling on his back and propping his arms behind his head.
Um, two tickets to the gun show, please. His arms are incredible. He’s changed into a wife beater that shows off defined biceps and broad shoulders. And his sweatpants ride low enough on his hips that I can see the smooth, tanned stretch of man vee. It’s just as tantalizing as the gun show.
Hunter is hot and he knows it. His lips curve when he notices me checking him out.
Ugh, those lips. I still remember how they’d felt pressed against mine. He was a good kisser. Not too aggressive, not too eager, the perfect amount of tongue.
I wonder how Fitzy kisses.
Like a jerk, Summer, my inner Selena Gomez says firmly. He kisses like a jerk.
Right. Because he’s a jerk.
“Why are you in my room, Hunter?” I ask, leaning a hip against my desk.
“Figured we should tackle the Big Talk right out of the gate.”
I sigh ruefully. “Good idea.”
“A’ight. Let’s do it.”
I graciously gesture toward him. “Men first.”
He snorts. “Coward.”
Laughing, I hop up and sit on the desk. “Honestly? I don’t even know what to say. We made out. It wasn’t a big deal.”
His dark eyes zero in on my bare legs, which are dangling over the edge of the desk. It’s obvious he likes what he sees, because his gaze turns molten. He reminds me a bit of Dean’s friend Logan, and not just because they look similar with their dark hair and hard bodies. Logan radiates sexual energy. I don’t know how to describe it, but there’s just something so raw and dirty about him. Hunter gives off that same vibe, and I can’t deny it affects me.
But just because we find each other attractive doesn’t mean we have to do anything about it.
“I know we texted a few times after that night, but I felt like there was more to talk about. You never really told me what it—” He stops abruptly.
I wrinkle my forehead. “I never told you what?”
He sits up and drags a hand over his scalp. He’s buzzed his hair since I last saw him, but it’s still long enough to rake his fingers through. “I was about to ask you what it meant.” He stares at me in horror. “I’ve become my worst nightmare.”
I burst out laughing. “Oh, honey. It’s okay—lots of men try to find meaning in New Year’s kisses.” I give him a pointed look.
He groans. “Don’t rub it in, Blondie.”
“Sorry, I had to. You were so cocky that night, acting like any girl you kissed at midnight would demand to have your babies.” I stick out my tongue. “Well, who’s the one who wants to have my babies? You!”
His shoulders shake with laughter.
I slide off the desk. “Tables have turned,” I say in a singsong voice.
Hunter gets to his feet. He’s taller than I remember, standing at well over six feet. Same with Fitz, but I suppose most hockey players have the height advantage. There’s one guy on the Briar team who’s five-nine, though. I think his name is Wilkins. One time I heard Dean raving about how tough he is considering his size.
“Don’t worry,” Hunter says. “I’m not thinking about babies just yet.”
“No? What are you thinking about, then?”
He doesn’t respond. Those dark eyes lower to my chest before flicking back to my face. I’m not wearing a bra. He definitely noticed.
And I’m definitely noticing that his sweatpants seem a bit tighter in the crotch area than they were two minutes ago.
When he notices me noticing, he coughs and angles his body slightly.
A sigh flutters out of my throat. “You’re not going to make this weird, are you?”
Two ridiculously adorable dimples cut into his chiseled cheeks. “Define weird.”
“I don’t know. Be awkward? Tiptoe around me?”
He takes another step toward me. “Does it look like I’m tiptoeing?” he drawls.
My heart beats faster. Damn, he’s smooth. “Okay. Then are you going to get all lovesick? Write poetry about me and cook me breakfast?”
“Poetry isn’t my style. And I can’t cook for shit.” He edges closer, until our faces are inches apart. “I’m happy to make you coffee in the morning, though.”
“I don’t drink coffee,” I say smugly.
His answering chuckle brings out his dimples again. “I can already tell you’re going to make this hard for me, eh?”
“This?” I echo warily. “And what exactly is this?”
He slants his head, contemplating for a beat. “I don’t know yet,” he admits. His breath tickles my ear as he leans in to murmur into it. “But I’m kind of excited to find out.”