Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 87536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
That way of putting it gives me a chuckle, and despite myself, I laugh. She’s really fucking cute. I’m not used to women like her.
Uncomplicated and real.
“We’re gonna grunt it out, unless you want to stretch and shit.”
“Stretch? To hike?”
I nod. “Yeah, absolutely. You’ll see people at the base of the trail stretching out their quads and whatnot, so if you want to do that, I can lead you through some exercises.”
Layla pulls a face. “Um no, I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
“Suit yourself.” But I wouldn’t mind bending her over and working out her hamstrings or legs . . .
She smiles sly at me. “Look at you, Mr. Osha.”
“Safety is sexy.”
We roll into the trailhead parking lot. A few early birds are doing exactly what I predicted—lunges, toe touches. A couple holding a plank for Instagram. Layla clocks them, then looks at me like I’ve betrayed her with facts.
“Shit,” she says, popping her door open. “If I cramp, know I died too stubborn to listen to you.”
The climb is steady and slightly more brutal than I remember. Gravel crunches, birds chatter, desert sage lifts a peppery smell each time we brush past. We move in the same rhythm without talking.
When the path narrows, I fall in behind her, palm hovering at the small of her back on the off chance she slips and loses her footing. She’s sure footed, though, careful without being timid, and something in my chest loosens another notch . . .
I admire her calves.
Ass.
The sweat on her exposed skin.
Halfway up we stop in a sliver of shade. I hand her a bottle; she drinks in neat swallows, eyes on the valley opening below us.
“About last night,” I start, because I didn’t sleep and because honest feels safer than silence. “If I made it weird—”
“You didn’t,” she says, eyes still on the horizon. “Trust me.”
I nod. “Good.” Cool. Great.
“Yup.” She caps the water and tucks it away in my bag, mouth curving into a secret smile. “I loved it.”
I loved it.
Heat blooms under my sternum like I swallowed the fucking sun.
“Yeah?” I manage like I’m fourteen again, getting all googly eyed and idiotic over Stephanie MacBee, the first girl I jerked off to by closing my eyes and imagining her naked. She always had me stuttering.
Layla tips her head. “Oh yeah.”
Okay then . . .
We continue upward. The trail tilts up, switchbacks drawing us higher through desert plants and boulders and rock. When the narrow path widens again and the top of the cliff is visible, she reaches back without looking and finds my hand—threads our fingers.
Simple gesture.
I stare at our hands.
Then up at her ass in front of me, letting her guide me to the summit.
The view punches open—wind blows over us, lifting the sweat, cooling us instantly. A curl has wriggled free at her temple, and I reach forward to smooth it behind her ear.
“Thanks.”
I nod, wanting very much to kiss her.
On the overlook we sit on warm stone, knees touching on purpose. I split a protein bar, watch her chew, watch her watch the desert landscape far below, relishing the pleasure on her face that she hiked a mountain and succeeded.
I gaze out over the horizon as we ignore the people who have also reached the summit, most of them taking photographs and selfies.
“I’ve never had anyone spend the night with us.”
Beside me, she nods. “A woman, you mean?”
“Yes.” I clear my throat. “As you’ve probably noticed, it’s because Benny gets attached. I, um—think she understands we’re friends and that you are returning home in a few days, once you’ve soaked in all the sun.”
Layla is quiet. “It’s been a relaxing twenty-four hours.”
I feel my brows go up. “Has it?” Because I’ve been a walking ball of fucking stress—nothing relaxing about having her under my roof.
“No.” She laughs. “I was being sarcastic.”
Oh.
Right.
I try again to make light conversation. “How old did you say you were?”
She turns her head to look at me. “Twenty-nine.”
“I’m sorry, was that rude?” I have no idea if asking a woman her age is socially acceptable these days.
“I’m not offended.” She bites into the protein bar, then hands it to me. “What about you, Grandpa?”
“Thirty-one.” I scratch my jaw. “Practically fossilized in NFL years.”
“Please. You’re, like, grade A prime rib.”
“Damn. I’m flattered.”
Layla rolls her eyes as if she thinks I’m full of shit and couldn’t possibly be pleased by her compliment.
“What?” I ask her. “Do you think women tell me how good looking I am on a daily basis? Because they don’t.” I hesitate. “And the last time one of my coaches complimented me on anything other than my stats, or reps, was never.”
Her hand reaches over, and she pats my thigh, fingers lingering over my hamstring. I flex my leg to impress her.
She laughs. “You did not just flex your leg muscles.”