Page 225 of Bona Fide

“He isn’t getting tired,” I retort, gesturing to the flat screen. “The ump is calling bullshit plays.”

She peers over her shoulder at me, brows knitted together, and I love it.

I love how she’s so into this game and everything is such a big deal. I mean, it is when the Sox and Yanks play, but I’d take sitting here with her over anything.

“Your pitcher blows better dick than I do.” An unexpected laugh breaks through my lips as I tuck my chin into my chest and rub one of my temples.

Her weight suddenly plops down beside me, her body brushing mine and gaining my attention.

“Wanna place a wager on the game? I remember you wanting me to burn my Boston gear once.”

I smirk and grab my tumbler of whiskey off the side table. “Was a good idea at the time.”

“Is that what you want if the Yanks win?”

“What happened to your side of the couch?” I softly chide. She twists her body to face mine.

“I like being close to you.”

I hit her with a dead-on stare. “You’re a pain in the ass.”

“Speaking of ass,” she muses. “If I win, I want you to fuck mine.” I choke, fist coming up to my chest as I pound on it. Reagan is on me within a second, hitting my back and telling me to cough, but I don’t miss the delight in her tone.

So this is how it ends. I choke to death after Reagan offers her ass to me.

Fucking great.

I finally get my whiskey to go down my throat and my breathing in unsteady inhales, but I’m alive.

“Too much?” she jeers with an innocent lift of her lips.

“Geezus, are you trying to fucking kill me?”

“I was serious.”

I hit her with an exasperated look. “Absolutely n—”

“You’re confident in your team, aren’t you?”

“You’re not a psychiatrist. You can stop with the analyzing and mind-twisting.” She looms closer, brows furrowing.

“Bet.”

“I’m not—” I stop when her lips curl—confident, prepared, and dangerous.

“Yes, you will. Because I get what I want. And you’ve never fucked with a bitch like me.” She bats her eyelashes. “Remember?”

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