Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 102607 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102607 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
Then when I matched with her?
I nearly dropped my fucking phone.
But there she was; Nova Montagalo—flirting with me.
I’d have to be a goddamn idiot to let an opportunity like that pass me by.
I plan to jump in the shower, telling myself I’m not putting in any more than any guy would before drinks with someone new. I’ll shave with precision. Debate which cologne makes me smell sexy and hot enough to have a woman wet between her legs.
Standing in the bathroom as I wait for the water to heat up, I swipe a hand over my jaw, checking my reflection in the mirror.
Damn I look good…
More importantly? I look like someone who knows exactly what he’s doing, which is a complete fucking lie. Honestly though, I am clueless, operating solely on my sense of humor and an unhealthy amount of fake confidence.
When in doubt? Make her laugh. Make her smile.
The truth? I’m not all that confident.
People assume I am; because of the way I carry myself, because of my size, because I know how to throw a punch during a fight on the ice and can take one without flinching. But confidence is something built when you’re told you’re worth something. When you grow up hearing you’re smart, or talented, or even good.
I didn’t.
I grew up with a dad who never outright said I was a disappointment, but he never had to. It was in the way he sighed loudly when I missed a play, the way he compared me to my teammates who were bigger, faster, better. My mom—she meant well, I think. But she taught me early that love was conditional.
I had to earn it…and even then, it could still be taken away.
Shaking my head as if to clear those thoughts, I climb into the shower. The water’s too hot, but I don’t care. It wakes me up, cranks my energy up a notch. Tonight isn’t a date—at least, not technically—but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t looking forward to it.
Nova’s fun. She’s the kind of person who keeps you on your toes, who makes it impossible to predict what she’s gonna say next. And yeah, she’s hot. Stupidly hot. But it’s more than that.
I scrub my hands through my hair, lather up quickly. I don’t need to overthink this. I just need to show up, look good, and not make an idiot of myself. Should be easy.
Rinsing off, I cut the water and step out, grabbing a towel. The mirror’s fogged up, but I don’t need to see my reflection to know I’m grinning like a dumbass.
6:03
I’ve got some time to figure out what the hell a guy wears to a non-date that he secretly hopes turns into more.
I want Nova to like me.
No—scratch that. I want her to want me and my dick.
I walk into my closet and stand in the center of it, eyeballing my dress shirts. Rainforest Café or not, I am going to make an effort, and I reach for the blue polo shirt with cream-colored buttons. It’s soft, pulls taut across my shoulders, and shows off my biceps.
I flex in the mirror.
“Hey,” I say to my reflection. “I totally just threw this on—What? You think my arms are nice. You’re welcome.”
Grabbing my best pair of dark jeans, the ones that sit just right on my hips, I shimmy into them and debate what shoes to wear. Boots? Sneakers?
Loafers?
Yeah, loafers.
One last glance in the mirror and I’m thinking, if Nova doesn’t at least consider climbing me like a tree by the end of the night, I’ll be personally offended.
I twist my wrist to check the time: 6:32
It takes less than three minutes for me to fuck with my hair, decide I detest it, fix it again, then question if it was better the first time.
“Shit,” I groan, raking my fingers through it one last time before forcing myself to step away.
6:35
Jesus. What the hell am I going to do with all this extra time?
Dousing myself with the cologne I bought on a trip to France, I pace my living room, glancing at the clock every thirty seconds like that’s gonna speed things up.
Flop down on the couch and flip through new movies, staring absentmindedly at the screen, not really seeing anything. I could start one, but let’s be real—I’d be sitting here checking the time every five minutes, counting down like a kid on Christmas Eve.
6:42
I toss the remote onto the coffee table.
Maybe I should just leave now. Show up early, act like it was an accident. Oh, you said eight? Thought you meant seven fifteen. My bad.
My knee bounces nervously, and I tap my fingers against my thigh, sit up again, restless energy buzzing under my skin.
“Chill, dude.”
But all I can think about is Nova—what she’s going to smell like, how she’s going to feel pressed up against my body if she goes in for a hug, and if she’s been thinking about tonight even half as much as I have.