I’m Alabama’s star wide receiver. I’ve got mad skills on and off the field, and it’s no secret I’m heading into the draft after the upcoming season. But I’m home for the summer to make some cash before my senior year. Being back under my parents’ roof isn’t the ideal situation, but the moment I see Marin, the star of my adolescent fantasies, I know it’s about to get interesting. She may not have noticed me back then, but I’ve got a feeling it’s just a matter of time before she lets me turn those fantasies into reality.
The last time I saw Trace Forester he was just a kid tearing up the neighborhood on his skateboard. That was when I was foolish enough to think I had the perfect husband and the perfect life. But now my life is in shambles and Trace is back, all grown up, hot as hell, and exuding major confidence. It would be so easy to fall for his good looks and undeniable charm. So easy to let him into my life. Too bad I learned the hard way that nothing worth having ever comes easy.
I pushed myself to my feet and unlocked the door, yanking it open with vigor. “What?”
Trace stood there barefoot, like he’d just rolled out of bed in a white sleeveless T-shirt and basketball shorts hanging low on his hips. “What? What the hell was that text about?”
I dug my hands into my hips. “I thought you wanted to say goodbye?”
I scoffed. “Well, did you have something better to do?”
His face scrunched up. “What are you talking about?”
“It would’ve taken two minutes to come by.”
“I did come by,” his voice raised incredulously. “The douchebag wouldn’t let me see him.”
My eyes rounded. “You came by?”
He nodded as his eyes slowly descended, taking in my totally inappropriate booty shorts and tank top pajamas.
Tremors rocked through my body.
“You texted and thanked me.”
“I was being sarcastic.”
He peered inside my living room at the empty bottles on the coffee table. His eyes jumped back to mine. “Did you drunk-text me?”
I crossed my arms, suddenly feeling foolish—and in need of something to cover me up.
“You did,” he said, his smile growing. “That’s fucking hilarious.” His brows lifted. “Were you thinking about me?”
“Yeah. And I wanted to clock you for not saying goodbye.”
He moved forward. I had no choice but to step back into my house. Once inside and on even ground, he slammed the door shut behind him and stared down at me. “Clock me or fuck me?”
Hi there! I’m a mom and wife by day (and night), aspiring writer (in my dreams), and an avid reader (every day of the week). This is my little corner of the web to post about ALL things books. I live in Copenhagen, but I am a Canadian girl (born and raised) at heart.