Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 117872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
He laughs, a little helplessly. “Hell if I know. Got any ideas?”
I scrub my chin, giving him a once-over. Damn, he’s handsome. But that’s irrelevant. I shake off the thoughts of his good looks. I’m not interested in admiring straight men and their stubbled jaws, intense irises, and full lips.
“You’re a smart guy, right?” I ask.
“I like to think so,” he says, uncertain.
“You think so, or you know so?”
This time he owns it, saying with confidence, “I know.”
“Lean into that then. Maybe your shtick is the thoughtful QB. Play around with some options. Because the reality is this—when you’re the quarterback, you can’t shy away from the media.”
“True words,” he says.
A chime rings from my smart home on the table. “Unfinished Business starts in ten minutes,” a cool, robotic voice announces.
I sit up straight, hunting around the cushions for the remote. “Sweet! I’ve been waiting for the new season to binge,” I say.
Beck’s quiet for a beat, looking down, but a smile seems to tug on his lips. “Me too.”
It comes out soft but with a hint of hope in it.
Maybe this is ridiculous, but it sure sounds like he wants to watch it. With me. When Beck turns my way, the look in his deep brown eyes borders on sexy, maybe even dirty.
A little like the show. Unfinished Business is one of those romantic comedies that centers on several different couples—some gay, some straight. Watching a show like that together is kind of date-y, especially when the show gets kind of sexy, as it does.
But I’m probably reading something into nothing. Lots of people like the show. And I have heaps of straight guy friends. Maybe Beck is just a straight dude who wants to hang. Nothing wrong with that.
Don’t overthink this. Just be the mayor. “Want to watch it?” I ask in my best cool and casual voice.
Before he can answer, Bandit skids into the room, leaps onto the back of the couch, and jumps onto Beck’s lap.
The other quarterback scratches the kitten’s chin. “Hey there, little dude,” he says, then, without meeting my eyes, Beck says, “Let’s watch it, Jason.”
Not McKay.
Jason.
The back of my neck prickles. I find the remote behind a stack of books on the coffee table, and out of the corner of my eye, I can tell Beck’s watching me, looking at me.
I point the clicker at the flat-screen and turn on the streaming service, grateful to focus on the show. The soft light of dusk streams through the window. Curfew is a couple more hours away for him.
As the opening credits roll, I put the clicker on the cushion and settle into the couch. Beck looks cozy with my new kitten curled on his shoulder. “I told you. He’s part parrot,” he says, in a hushed tone, like he doesn’t want to disturb the kitty.
I don’t respond to his parrot comment. I don’t know what the hell to say.
I focus on the show. One of the characters leashes up her dog for a walk then bumps into the cute guy, Jamie, in the apartment lobby. If this were a date, I might remark on how absolutely fucking adorable Jamie is, and he might agree, but I zip my mouth closed.
When Jamie meets up with his work buddies later—two guys who just started dating each other—I keep quiet too and stare harder at the screen.
But out of the corner of my eye, I notice Beck looking at me. Then he swallows and darts his eyes away.
What the fuck is going on? My straight friends don’t steal glances at me when we watch TV. And I’m not going to check him out, no matter how soulful those brown eyes are.
Nope. Won’t go there. I am too much of a sucker for great eyes to even risk a peek.
I try to concentrate on Jamie and Zoe, Garrett and Carlos, but I’m too keenly aware of Beck on my couch, mere feet away. His can I ask for your help with the media request is suddenly loaded with new possibilities.
Midway through the episode, Beck clears his throat and rises, the kitten in his arms.
Oh, okay. I guess he’s done. That’s fine. If he’s taking off, that puts an end to my confusion. I kind of want him to go so I can stop wondering, but I don’t want him to leave either.
Ugh.
“Bathroom down the hall?” Beck asks.
Oh. He’s not going at all, so I get to stay confused. Great.
“Yup. Down the hall,” I repeat.
He bends closer and hands me the cat, his fingers brushing mine.
He did not just touch me intentionally. That was a cat handoff, that’s all.
As he heads away to the bathroom, I drag a hand through my hair, trying to process the shift in the mood—the date-like feel of the night, the way he’s giving off flirty vibes.