Page 60 of Curveball

His jaw clenches. “Those two are getting mighty chummy.”

I shrug. “I think they realized being friends is easier. That’s all it is.”

“It better be.”

“Why do you care? She’s a big girl. Layton seems like a good guy.”

“He’s a womanizer.”

“So are you, Abbott.”

He adjusts himself. “Stop calling me Abbott. It makes me think of the Mariana Trench, which, incidentally, has been in my dreams a lot lately.”

I sigh. I’d be lying if I said that little interaction doesn’t play in my mind from time to time as well. Both the good, he made me come so hard, and the bad, it was our last time together before I ruined it by telling him that I love him.

Without thinking, I look down at his dick. The bulge is, in fact, becoming a bit more prominent. I have flashes of what he feels like inside me. What he tastes like. I had many nights taking that monster deep into my mouth and driving him crazy. And the one time I did it to him in the car…

“Are you thinking about that time on the way to Lake Jackson when you sucked my dick in the car?”

I turn my head toward the window. “No.” Shit. Busted. I went down on him while he was driving, and then we parked overlooking the lake where he bent me over the hood of the car and gave me three orgasms.

He squeezes my leg. “I was thinking of it too.”

I close my eyes. It’s a mistake to spend time alone with him. I hate how attracted I am to him. When will it finally go away? Why can’t I feel this with other men?

The drive starts to get bumpy. I look around and realize we’re on a gravelly, dirt road. “Where are we?”

As we reach a clearing to a big, empty piece of land, I see aman with shoulder-length hair in jeans and a blue button-down shirt, waiting by a big pickup truck.

“I bought this lot. I’m having a house built on it.”

“A house? How come?”

“I’ve never owned one. I think I want to stay here in Philly even after I’m done playing, but I’m sick of city living. I’ve been doing it for twelve years. I want space with a big yard. I want a giant media room, a pool for parties, and that kind of crap.”

I point to the man. “Is he the architect?”

“No, he’s the builder, but he offers design-build services. The team owners recommended him.”

“Oh, I met one of them. Reagan Daulton.”

He nods. “Yes, she and her husband, Carter, recommended this guy. Apparently he built their house, which is supposed to be the nicest in Philly. You have great taste. I thought you could help. I don’t know about paint colors and shit.”

“A pre-design meeting with a builder has nothing to do with paint colors.”

“You know what I mean. I want a woman’s touch. I don’t want the house to be a bachelor pad cliché.”

“You want me to help you design your new house?”

He nods. “I do.”

“You could have asked your sister.”

“Hmm. I prefer the taste of redheads, and I mean that ineveryway possible.” He wiggles his eyebrows up and down and I roll my eyes.

We pull up next to the truck and get out of his car. The man, about forty years old, who incidentally is ridiculously attractive, smiles and holds out his hand to us. “I’m Collin Fitz. It’s nice to meet you both.”

Quincy shakes Collin’s hand. “I’m Quincy Abbott. This is my wife, Ripley.”

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