Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 73021 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73021 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Okay, yes, I had just fantasized about her sucking me off while another woman was doing it, but guys did that. It was normal.
Me: Did you get a new editor?
I’d felt somewhat guilty over shipping off the editor she had always worked with while she was in the middle of a book, but he was a dick, and she needed him out of her life. That took the guilt away.
Shakespeare: Yes, they reassigned someone to me as a trial run. To see if we work well together. I like her as a person, so I’m hoping we’re a good fit.
A female editor. I liked that.
Me: Good.
The door swung open, and my head snapped up as I glared at Gathe.
“Ten minutes. They’re gonna have them in the gate soon,” he told me.
Stolen was about to race in the Breeders’ Cup. I nodded and motioned for him to close the door, then looked back at my phone.
Shakespeare: You’re watching the Breeders’ Cup, I’m assuming.
Me: Yeah. Crosby’s horse is about to race.
Shakespeare: Which one is it?
Me: Stolen. Are you watching it?
Shakespeare: I am. I have money on it. Wish I’d known about Stolen though.
She bet on a horse? What the fuck?
Me: When did you start putting money on races?
Shakespeare: A couple of years ago. I don’t with every race. Just the big ones.
Me: Who did you put money on this time?
Shakespeare: I always pick the prettiest one.
Chuckling, I replied, not needing her to tell me the name. There was one horse that a woman would think was the prettiest in this race.
Me: Bad idea, Shakespeare. Smoking Wheel is not good on this track, and besides that, he doesn’t have good odds.
Shakespeare: But he’s a pretty silverish-gray color.
I paused and debated sending what I was thinking, then figured, What the hell? It was friendly. We were friends.
Me: Almost like the color of your eyes.
She read it, but no little dots appeared.
I glanced at the time and saw it had been five minutes since Gathe had come to warn me. Getting up, I headed back to the door and into the great room. Forge had come in from outside, along with the female he’d taken out there. Locke was back in the room as well with Sonya now perched on his lap.
My phone buzzed, and I quickly lifted it up to read her response.
Shakespeare: I’ll be cheering for Stolen.
She’d never known Crosby. I doubted he’d ever spoken to her. Hell, there was a good chance he’d said something hurtful about her at some point. He wasn’t cruel, but he had been a teenage boy who didn’t think about others’ feelings. But she was cheering on his horse regardless, and I knew it was because of me. And, dammit, that made my chest warm or some weird shit—I didn’t know.
Turning my attention back to the screen, I watched as the announcers talked about the odds, and we already knew that Stolen came in third with the lineup of who was predicted to win. But that didn’t matter. I’d seen some not in the top five take the win. My hand gripped the phone tighter as the room went silent, except for my heart hammering in my chest so damn hard that I was afraid it might do damage.
I tried not to think about Than right now and how he was handling this. He was a big boy. If Stolen didn’t win, he’d survive. Just like he’d made it through the darkest days of our lives. After Crosby was killed.
The gates flew open, and I stopped breathing as I gripped the edge of the sofa, watching as the horses shot out. Gathe sucked in a breath so hard that it was audible. I didn’t take my eyes off the sofa to see why. I knew why. Stolen was coming around the number one pick to win. Neither was out front yet, but they were real damn close. Bane didn’t believe in a jockey taking a horse to the front of the pack right out of the gate. Even if the horse had the ability to, he went with holding them back just a touch until it was time to allow the horse to break free.
The final stretch. The announcer calling out names and positions over the television faded away as my eyes stayed on Stolen. Hooves beating down on the dirt track seemed to keep the same pace as the beating in my chest.
Stolen and Running Board were nose-to-nose as the voices on the television grew louder.
“And Stolen does it in the Breeders’ Cup Classic!” was the last thing I heard over the television before Gathe let out a loud, “Hell yeah!” jumping up from the sofa.
Forge was the only other one sitting, and he, too, sprang up with a fist in the air and a loud shout.