Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 102523 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102523 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
I turn back to Wyatt, ready to handle whatever his business is fast and quick. Cold and hard, I inform him, “I didn’t need your help. I had it perfectly under control.”
“Roddy’s a big guy,” Wyatt replies easily, seeming not offended in the least by my ungratefulness. “Looked like he was about to walk away from the bet to me. Or worse.”
I roll my eyes. Roddy might know this hunk, but this hunk definitely does not know me. “Puh-leeze. Roddy wouldn’t have laid a finger on me. He’s been a regular for years. He gets a little hotheaded sometimes, but nothing I can’t handle. Especially with Joan of Arc backing me up.” I pick up my cue, brandishing the pink maple like a lightsaber, complete with sound effects, causing a few nearby people to step out of the way of my swinging arc. Wyatt chuckles at my antics, and the deep, full rumble tickles something within my core, making the fine hairs on the back of my neck rise.
My body’s traitorous response to his voice annoys me. I’m not exactly celibate, not even close to it. I get hit on by people here at Puss N Boots so often that I could easily get laid more than a hooker working Main Street during a parade. But the flip side of that is that I see too many no-good cheaters walk through these doors and have seen the fallout of a betrayal firsthand, because Aunt Etta hasn’t been the same since she swore off men after catching her fiancé cheating on her on the eve of their wedding. And that was so many years ago, we measure it in decades at this point.
So I make it a habit to be selective. To the point of . . . wait, how long has it been? I try to think back, but when I start counting months in the double digits, I decide to examine that later. Much later. And alone.
“Your pool cue is named Joan of Arc?”
“Nope, we’re not doing this,” I reply to his question, holding up a palm to stop his get-to-know-you small talk.
His smile blooms, white and bright. He’s not just lumberjack-magazine sexy; he’s a toothpaste commercial too. “We’re not? It kinda seems like we are . . . I’m here, you’re here, we’re talking.” He shrugs one shoulder, daring me to disagree with the obvious.
Point taken, I spin in place. Game. Over. “Bye.”
My plan is to beeline to another pool table, play a stress-free, no-stakes game to relax and forget about Mr. Modern Logging–Sex God–Prince Charming–Asshole.
“You forgot something.” The deep voice behind me stops me in my tracks, and I groan in annoyance. So help me if I turn around and he says something stupid like “saying thank you” or “your phone number.” I will have to teach him a lesson the same way I was willing to teach Roddy one.
But when I look over my shoulder, Wyatt is holding up a ten-dollar bill. I grit my teeth and trace the few steps back. When I grab at the money, he lifts it high, using his height against me. “Let’s play a game. Double or nothing.”
I jump, snatching the money from his hand. Fuck, I hate it when tall guys do that. I know it’s just to make my boobs bounce. “Except this is already my money.”
The jump puts me even closer to him, though, and a waft of his cologne works its way into my nose and lights up my brain. It’s woodsy and spicy, reminding me of leather and pine trees, a combination that suddenly seems sexy as fuck. My nipples perk up and my ovaries stretch from their long slumber, hopping up like a pair of joyful jelly beans, both of them demanding a little extra attention.
What the hell is wrong with me? Am I ovulating or something? I’ve heard that can make you hornier. Or maybe Wyatt has some megawatt pheromones that are wreaking havoc on me?
“Then let’s play for bragging rights,” he suggests, which is honestly a bigger gamble than a few bucks. My reputation’s worth more than money around Puss N Boots.
“Let’s don’t and say we did. Besides, I don’t play newcomers,” I explain, adding, “for your protection. Grumpy losers are bad for business.” I gesture toward the door, where Roddy stomped out moments ago.
“Newcomers?” he echoes, his brows pulling together. And then he grins. “You don’t know who I am, do you?”
“Should I?” I scan him again, making note of the thick thighs, narrow waist, broad shoulders, tanned skin, and gorgeous face. There is something vaguely familiar about him, but if I’d seen him before, I definitely wouldn’t have forgotten him.
Instead of answering, he repeats, “Let’s play.”
Nope, no way, nuh-uh. These are all the responses that run through my mind, but my mouth doesn’t get the memo, and to my surprise, I hear myself say, “Okay.”