Rushing In (The Blackhawk Boys #2) by Lexi Ryan

Author:Lexi Ryan [Ryan, Lexi]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Ever After, LLC
Published: 2016-08-28T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-Three

Grace

After Chris leaves, I type a quick email to Drew Gregory—oh my God, my first email to Drew Gregory and it’s to admit that I’m an idiot. Awesome!—and then my phone buzzes with a text.

A quick look tells me it’s from an unknown number, and I tap my screen to open it.

Unknown: Talk is that Chris’s dad might be his new coach. I’m wondering if Coach knows what a whore Chris’s new “roommate” is. I doubt he’d approve.

I know without asking that the text is from Jewel or one of her cronies. I wish she didn’t know anything about my life or living situation, but in Champagne, gossip spreads faster than syphilis at a sex club.

I read the text three times, and with each pass something different stabs me in the gut. The word whore. The quotes around roommate. The implicit threat. The fact that if what she says is true, it’s big news for Chris and he hasn’t said a word about it to me.

I won’t reply. You don’t bait the trolls. I’ll let her think I didn’t see it, let her wonder if I changed my number, anything but give her the pleasure of knowing she’s gotten through to me.

But doing nothing makes me want to pull my hair out, so I do the next most obvious thing. I pull out a bottle of Bailey-recommended cheap red, and I start drinking.

Half a bottle of wine and a disproportionately sized pity party later, I decide there’s no reason to be in my interview clothes when I can be in pajamas. I find a pair of cotton sleep shorts and a fitted polka-dot tank top and brush my hair into a ponytail.

When I get back to the living room, I stop in my tracks. Chris is lying in the middle of the floor, shirtless and sweaty, and doing sit-ups. He’s so focused on the movement that he doesn’t notice me at first. I just stand there for a minute, admiring the way the muscles in his abdomen bunch and flex, and concocting inappropriate fantasies in which I put the look of sheer concentration on his face into another context.

When he spots me, he stops and pushes himself off the floor. “Hey!” He grabs his shirt from the back of the couch and uses it to dry the sweat off his face.

I swallow hard just to keep the drool from dripping down my chin. “Were you exposed to radioactive slime as a child?” I swear, his chest has gotten even broader since I last saw him.

Frowning, he looks down at his sweaty skin, confused. “What?”

“You know, like the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles? Were you exposed to the slime that turned them from adorable little creatures into mammoth-sized heroes?”

He laughs and heads to the kitchen, where he fills up a glass of water. “No slime and no rat dojo.”

He lifts it to his lips and drains it in one go, his neck working as he swallows gulp after gulp. A bead

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