Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 93683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 468(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 468(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
He smoothly removes his cowboy hat revealing thick, light brown locks I hate myself for wanting to run my fingers through. “I never said it was.”
“But that’s what Moose – who I’m now guessing isn’t actually named Moose-”
“Correct.”
“-called you.”
“Hometown nickname.”
“Trough…” slowly slips past my lips as I gradually nod, “as in if you were to combine Thayne Groff…”
“That’s what I tell people when they ask, but it ain’t exactly the whole truth. It’s jus’ a version that eventually became true. It also became the easier one to express.”
Curiosity gets the better of me. “What’s the original truth?”
“I’m a farm boy.” He innocently bounces his shoulders and tosses the object on my desk. “And big city pylons aren’t exactly clever about shit.”
“It was meant to be an insult?”
“Yup.” One hand slides into his shorts pocket. “Farm boy means I eat like farm animals, which would be out of a trough. Lucky for me, Dubs and Moose both had my back. Convinced other folks who heard it that it was jus’ a shortened version of my combined name ‘cause to them that’s what it was. What they wanted it to be. Somethin’ I didn’t have to be ashamed of.”
It’s impossible to stop myself from melting.
But I’m trying.
Fuckme, am I trying.
“Had I properly introduced myself like I wanted…” his deliciously large frame gradually creeps closer to mine, “I would’ve told you to call me Thayne.”
“The boys call you Groff or Groffee.”
“And the most important people in my life have always called me Thayne.”
Sinking my teeth into my bottom lip barely blocks the whimper the statement conjures.
Ohhhhhh, this is bad.
This is so very bad.
This is cancelled my new favorite show in the middle of its first season level of bad.
I shouldn’t be swooning.
I should be ripping the wings off the butterflies swarming around my stomach with dental forceps.
“Thayne…” is thoughtlessly spoken in a faint whisper that has his muscular frame buckling similar to mine.
“You want me on knees, Gillybean?” The breathless question turns me into the same. “”Cause that’s how you get me there.”
Okay, when I put in a plot twist request to my life writers, this wasn’t what I meant!
I was asking for a cute barista to scribble his number on my to-go cup, not for the man of my dreams to be completely off-limits.
And he is!
He absolutely fucking is!
Thayne places his free palm against the door beside my head and coos, “I haven’t stopped thinkin’ about you…”
Instinct has me wanting to echo the sentiment, yet logic drills holes in it. “How did I not even consider you were a player? How did I not put the word choices together? How did I not just recognize you?!” The pinching of my brow is followed by a heavy, annoyed sigh. “Why do you all look so damn different out in the wild?! It’s like a fucking bait and switch situation!”
Loud, carefree laughs I never thought I’d hear again hit my ears with so much force that I’m left with no choice but to reach out.
Touch it.
His chest.
Allow the vibrations to rattle against my palm until every ounce of resistance has faded.
Completely dissolved.
“I want you to go out with me,” he adoringly declares at the same time he removes his other hand from his pocket in order to let his fingers sweetly rest on top of mine. “Tonight. Tomorrow night. Any night.” They sweetly curl. “Every night.”
“I um…” my gaze makes the mistake of stealing a glimpse of the romantic cradling action I’ve never had, “I don’t think…” Another squeeze of his fingers has my shoulders further sagging during my proclamation. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Scrunching my nose mindlessly occurs. “No. I know that’s not a good idea.”
“Why?”
“You mean aside from the fact you’re like a whole moody teen girl younger than me?”
“Love’s like music, Gillybean. It can transcend decades.”
“Okay, first of all, one decade – and a little change – baby teeth.” My sassiness gets him snickering. “And second, why do you keep calling me Gillybean?”
“’Cause it’s like jellybeans.”
“Your favorite candy?”
“The one I can never get enough of.”
My fingers momentarily latch onto his linen shirt like it’s second nature rather than totally insane. “You can’t say shit like that to me…”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not used to it.” There’s no fighting the urge to tug him a little closer. “Because I don’t know how to get used to it.”
“Pracky, Gillybean.” His face leans a little closer. “That’s the only way we get better at anything.”
His particular word choice – that I’m somehow gonna blame the country music for me not noticing when we first met – drags me back to my senses. “My brother is your coach-”
“One of my coaches. I’m a tendy. I’ve got at least two.”
“And dating hockey players – especially one of his players – isn’t something he’d want me to do.”