Off the Grid by K. Bromberg EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
- Status: Available for Free Download
- Authors: K. Bromberg
- Language: English
- Genre: Sports Romance
- Format: PDF / EPUB
- Size: 2 MB
- Price: Free
SCOUT
Four months later
“How do you want me?”
Hazel eyes.
An arrogant smirk.
Those are the first two things about Easton Wylder that grab my
attention when he peeks his head around the training room door.
I open my mouth to speak but fall silent when he walks over the
threshold and comes into full view. And it’s not just because he’s shirtless—
that’s par for the course in my job—but rather it’s everything about him that
knocks the words from my lips. The bare, tanned, and very toned chest. The
low-slung gym shorts showcasing a perfect V of muscles. The happy trail
ever so slightly visible, which draws my eyes to where I shouldn’t be
looking.
But I do look.
And that’s a problem. Because even if it’s only for a moment, it’s still
long enough for him to notice. I snap my eyes back up and over his dark
scruff to once again be greeted with that cocksure smirk that I swear taunts
me and asks if I like what I see.
Another day. Another client. Another player.
I shouldn’t have expected any less.
He’s hot. I’ll give him that. Like the mouthwatering, stop-traffic, drawall-eyes-when-he-walks-into-a-room type of hot. And not only that, but he’s
a freaking god on the field. One of the best catchers I’ve ever seen. Batting
average, on-base percentage, caught-stealing percentage, pick-offs, pass
balls—all his stats say if he stays on this track, he’ll be one of the greats
someday.
The total package.
But if first impressions are any indication—the arrogant lift of his
eyebrows and cocky set of his shoulders—I already know he’s going to be
like every other total package I’ve worked with before. Great to look at but
a bore to work with. Conceited and one-dimensional. If it’s not about him,
he doesn’t want to talk about it.
I hope I’m wrong, or else this is going to be a long three months. Not
only that, but I’ve admired his career over the last few years and would
prefer to keep admiring the man I perceived him to be, too.
“On my back?” he rephrases his question before I can recover from my
thoughts, and takes a step closer. “On my stomach?” He stops and scrubs a
towel over his face so that his dark brown hair sticks up every which way,
yet somehow it only adds to his appeal.
Give him a chance, Scout. He’s baseball royalty. Besides, he might not
be that bad. Does it really matter if he’s a conceited jerk? There’s still a
contract, a set timeframe, and he’s still your client. So, chop-chop. Get to it
and do your job.
“Uh,” I say as I glance down again, trying not to let that body—the
hard, damaged, perfection of it—scatter my thoughts and undermine my
professionalism.
“Uh?” he repeats, as those multicolored eyes of his laugh at a joke only
he seems to understand.
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