Page 8 of Wild Card
“And how many people have you covered for?”
“Does it matter? Every minute of experience is invaluable. I’m a few months away from boards.”
“You’ll ace that like you do everything. What about having a life?”
“I have a life! Last weekend I went out with friends.”
“Did this outing involve studying?”
“No, smartass. We went to a charity softball event and then to a bar.”
“A bar, huh? Did it serve alcohol or those frou-frou coffee drinks?”
“Alcohol.”
Grandma wiggles at my side, squealing. “Any cute guys?”
The memory of the gorgeous stranger floods my mind. The way his body surrounded mine protectively, the heat in his touch, the husky deep voice whispering against my lips.
The eyes… God, those eyes.
Lashes thick and lush, highlighting the most exquisite color I’ve ever seen.
Blue-gray rimmed with a darker shade of something unique. Whatever the hue—green, cobalt—it was captivating.
Strong jawline, covered with a stubble so soft.
The swipe of his tongue, curling around mine as his fingers pressed against my scalp gently.
“Think the answer is yes, Grams.” Chase chuckles.
“I hate you,” I mumble, earning a lop-sided smirk.
“This is definitely a turn of events. Tell me everything.”
“Nothing to tell. It was a typical bar with a ton of testosterone and the normal cocky crowd. We left after a few drinks.”
She studies me, her glare reading right through my lie. But she drops it and nods. “Okay, let’s call your grandpa. He’s probably crawling the walls without me.”
“This is true.” I reach for my phone.
“And tell him to bring decent alcohol. The wine isn’t cutting it.”
“Don’t worry, that was first on my list.”
Bex walks by again,shoulders back, head and eyes forward, not sparing a glance. It’s been like this for the last hour. While it’s been nice to finish up my notes, the silence is unnerving.
“How about I make us dinner?”
She side-eyes my way, dropping in her chair. Her computer monitor comes alive as she pounds furiously on the keyboard.
“Pesto chicken?” I play my cards, knowing she never turns down my homemade pesto sauce.
“Your bribery is useless here. I’m still not talking to you.”
“May I point out that you just indeed spoke?”
She swivels in her chair so fast it hits the wall. “If I was speaking to you, I’d point out there is no way you have the ingredients for your pesto chicken in the empty vessel you call a refrigerator. Which means you have to go to the store, buy the ingredients, go home, prepare, and cook. Since you’ve workedyourself to the bone, you’ll pass out somewhere in that time—burning the sauce and my dinner. Then I’ll be starving and pissed about the mess. My idea of going out to dinner is loads morepractical.”
