Shenanigans (Brooklyn, #6; Brooklyn Bruisers, #9)

by Sarina Bowen

“That might be tricky. It might be hard to forget playing with those. They’re pretty spectacular.”

“Neil, there are two kinds of people in the world—the kind who eat their feelings, and the kind whose feelings eat them. I think I’m the latter.”

“Help me out, here,” I try. “Didn’t you tell me last year that you didn’t do guys?” “Well…” She looks guilty. “Those weren’t precisely my words. I didn’t say that I don’t like dicks. I simply said that I would never ride a hockey player’s dick. Do you hear the difference?” “I guess I do. But—” “You just assumed I meant all men. But I was just laying down some rules so that nobody would hit on me.”

“And we’d throw in Neil’s disability.” “Hey!” I argue. “It’s not disabled. Usually it works.” “He means your diabetes,” Charli corrects. “Not your penis.”

Everyone thinks that professional athletes are well paid. That’s really only true if you’re a man.

A half an hour later, I’ve got Charli moaning. “Oh God, oh God.” She lets out a dreamy sigh. “I didn’t know it could be this good.” If only she’d take her clothes off and say that again. For the moment, we’re sitting at the table, enjoying a nice steak.

A word of advice, though? If you’re set on staying out from under me, better lay off the sauce yourself. I’ve noticed you like me a lot better with a couple of drinks in you.”

My accidental husband is super hot. At least there’s that.

“Do not ever refer to a hardworking athlete as a bitch. Or any woman. Especially not my wife.”

But our time on Earth is finite, and I just happen to understand that a little better than most guys in their twenties. It makes you cautious. And sometimes it makes me live scared.”

God, I love her. I really do love her. That’s going to scare the crap out of her when I admit it.