Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 81333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 407(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 407(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
“I like the first one,” he says, touching my computer screen. His forearm extends above me, this close to hitting my breast but not quite. “I mean, if you’re wanting an opinion. You’ve wavered back and forth between the two images for ten minutes now.”
“How long exactly have you been standing there?”
“Long enough,” he grins, stretching back again. “If you don’t mind me asking, how do you make money doing that?”
I select the image he prefers, the one I was leaning towards anyway, hit save and then close my computer. Before I answer him, I take him in.
He’s stretched out beside me in a pair of purple shorts. His hair is wet like he just got out of the shower, the dark blond strands sticking together and up every which way. There’s a dose of stubble dotting his cheeks and chin that gives him a touch of scoundrel that appeals to every sexual organ in my body and most of the others.
Clenching my thighs together, I watch him watch me. He seems unhurried, like he has nowhere to go and the genuine curiosity laced in his question makes me give in.
“I get paid in different ways,” I admit. “There’s ad space on my blog and I have a newsletter that works the same way. I also write pieces for magazines and a few affiliates.” He still seems interested, so I continue. “I’ve also just started to sell online training courses about decorating, makeup, and blogging. You’d be surprised how many options are out there if you aren’t scared to work.”
“Maybe that’s what I can do when I retire. Do online training courses about actual training.”
“You could. Teach younger athletes how to work out like a champion.”
“That would be one course. I hear the big money is in porn.”
“I think that’s true, but only if you have the goods,” I sigh. “Big goods, big money. Little goods, little money.”
“By goods, do you mean cock?”
Laughing, I nod my head. “Yes. Sorry that wasn’t clear.”
“So I could just quit football now and work in porn? I don’t know what the concussion risk is like, but I’m guessing a lot lower.”
“I would think so. Does everything go back to sex with you?” I ask, lifting a brow.
“Babe,” he grins, “if a guy ever tells you they don’t think about sex at least twenty times a day, they’re lying.”
“I just assume every time a guy opens their mouth they’re lying.”
His laugh makes me laugh, and before I know it, I’m completely lost in his grin. And eyes. And the start of a dimple in his right cheek that lends a slight adorableness to his overall charm.
“You were right,” he says finally, rubbing a hand down his thigh.
I try not to follow the movement and stay focused on language. “About what?”
“Every time I look at you or think about you I’m wondering why you had a sex therapy card in your purse.”
“Branch . . .” It’s more of a whine than I care to acknowledge, but a whine nonetheless.
For a split second, I wish Poppy and Finn hadn’t gone into Linton for lunch so I could excuse myself to see what they were doing. There’s no way out of this conversation.
I place my computer on the table next to my drink. “Can’t you just forget you saw that?”
“What on earth would a woman like you be doing at a sex therapy class? What even is that? Is it kinky? Should I sign up? Is it like a giant orgy? If you’re into that—”
“No, I’m not into orgies,” I chuckle, rolling my eyes.
“Such a shame.”
“A lot of thought went into that,” I note. “Does this mean you’ve thinking about me, Branch Best?”
“A hell of a lot more than I should be, Layla James Miller.”
A large lump takes residence in my throat as I try to play off his comeback as the trait of a player and not for face value. That would get me in trouble I know better than to get into.
“While we’re on the topic,” he continues, “is James your middle name or some kind of holdover from a previous marriage?”
“Holdover. I was married when I was eighteen to this world-renowned rock star that visited Chicago. When we divorced, right after he left me with our triplets, I decided to keep his last name as a middle name.”
His jaw drops.
“Of course it’s a middle name,” I laugh. “It was my mom’s maiden name.”
“I was wracking my brain for rock stars with the last name James,” he teases. “Okay. We can move on now.”
“No, no way. Now I want to know why your name is Branch. There must be story behind that.”
He shrugs. “Not really. My great-grandfather was a Baptist minister. When his wife had my grandfather, they named him Branch because he was a ‘branch,’” he says, using air quotes, “that would spread the word of God to the rest of the world.”