Second Chance Season by Liora Blake

Author:Liora Blake
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pocket Books

16

(Garrett)

Welcome to my very own wretched hell.

Cara’s hand falls to my knee, using the position to urge herself up from where she’s been curled against me for the last few hours, her head resting on my aching shoulder while she works over a red wine buzz and occasionally writhes around when she needs to stretch.

Unfortunately, because this is Cara, I’m willing to subject myself to the torture just to be near her. Torture that also includes Real Housewives. All of whom are fucking terrible. How a woman as smart as Cara finds this bullshit entertaining, I cannot understand. We’re two hours in and I’m about one more Vanderpump away from losing my goddam mind.

As for my shoulder, it’s killing me. Thanks to three dislocations from my high school wrestling days, my right shoulder is already junk. And after humping all those bags of mineral salt into Kenny’s truck yesterday then shooting my bow today, the damn thing feels like it’s about to go out again.

Cara leans up to take a sip from her wineglass, and I seize the opportunity to let out a quiet hiss of discomfort. I close my eyes and slowly adjust the position of my shoulder while twisting my neck to the left, praying that will dampen the worst of the pain before Cara takes up her spot again.

Just as I start to stretch, a heady waft of the Creamsicle scent I associate with Cara hits me.

Jesus. Now what? If I open my eyes, will she be sitting there sucking on a Popsicle?

Slowly, I lift one eyelid and take a cautious look her way. No seductive Popsicle licking, thankfully. Instead, she’s sitting cross-legged on the couch, a small glass bottle in one hand, dribbling some sort of oil into her other palm. After setting the bottle on the coffee table, she rubs the oil between her hands and then extends one leg out, slowly drawing her palms over the smooth, toned skin on her thighs.

Slowly. Like, erotically, painfully, slowly.

Another pour of the oil into her hand. A new episode of those idiot Housewives is playing, and all her attention is on the screen, her eyes wide and her jaw tipsily slack as her hands follow the same slicked-up path, but on her other leg. I roll my shoulder again and consider that it might be better if it did go out. Then I’d be too distracted by the pain to think about the growing ache behind my fly.

Cara turns just as I grit my teeth and one side of my face crinkles up into a grimace.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Well, that’s a load of bull. Your face is all squished up. Are you sick?”

I shake my head but decide to grab my forearm with the opposite hand and outstretch it across my chest, pressing tentatively to see what happens. What happens is that it hurts even more.

Cara listens to me cuss under my breath, then scoots closer and draws her fingertip over my shoulder. “Here?”

“It’s an old wrestling thing. I’ve

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