Page 31 of So This Is War
OC:Uh . . . what do you want me to do?
Levi:Write me a synopsis of the history between you and Grace. Have it in my locker in a week. If you want happiness, don’t skip out on the details.
With that, I shove my phone in my pocket and pick up the email from Coach Wood that’s on my island counter. I look over the list a few more times, shaking my head at how stupid this all is. I’m an easy target for Coach Wood because he knows I’m a people pleaser. He knows I’ll do just about anything asked of me. Not to mention, he has me by the balls because sure, he helped me out with that one reporter, but that wasn’t the only night he’s helped me out. There have been many others when he’s pounded on my door just to get a clinger out of my hotel room. So yeah, he has me in a rough fucking spot.
I fold the paper in half just as there’s a knock on my door. In a panic, I slip the paper between the pages of one of my coffee table books—get rid of the evidence—and then move to the entryway.
Well, here we fucking go.
Keep it professional.
Don’t stare at her.
Don’t drool.
And keep it together unlike your nimrod friends who have no idea how to act around a woman.
Shoulders back, I open the door and feel my stomach immediately turn warm from the sight of Wylie.
Fuck me, she’s so hot.
The epitome of what I look for in a woman. Gorgeous face with those steely gray eyes, the lightest smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks, and she has bow-shaped lips that glisten under the lights of my entryway. Her dark red hair is silky smooth and long, enticing me to wrap it around my fist to seewhat kind of hold I can have on her. And her curvy and sensual body is out of this world.
Today, she’s wearing high-waisted wide-leg jeans, a black shirt tucked into the waist, and a blazer with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. She’s professional but also casual at the same time. Her hair is down and straightened over her shoulders, and her eyes are highlighted by a thick coat of mascara.
What I wouldn’t give to grab her by the neck, pull her in close, and finish the night we shared.
“Hello, Mr. Posey,” Wylie says, knocking me out of my thoughts. “Is now still good?”
“Yeah,” I say, but don’t invite her in just yet. “But listen, you’ve got to cut it out with that Mr. Posey shit. It makes me feel ancient.”
“Well . . . aren’t you?” She smirks, and goddammit, it takes me back to that night when I was tasting those lips and looking for so much more.
“Ancient?” I shriek. “I’m not ancient. I don’t even have gray hair . . . or hair on my balls.” Her eyes widen, and I realize what I said. “I mean . . . not like in a prepubescent kind of way, like the testes haven’t dropped yet, because they have. They’ve dropped. I was just referring to my manscaping.” I pull on the back of my neck. “Have you heard of manscaping? Uh, well, I have nice balls because of how I take care of them and lotion them. Not that you needed to know that, but old men don’t usually manscape. They just let the hairs run wild, and that’s not the case here because I’m neither old nor ancient. So, to conclude, call me Levi, I have nice balls, and I manscape.”
Her smile is so bright as she says, “Don’t forget the lotioning.”
“Right.” I nod awkwardly. “The lotioning.”
She helps herself in and says, “And I meant in hockey years, you’re old.”
Ahh, yes, well, that makes more sense.
Trying to recover, I say, “Well, that just means I get to retire early on a mountain of cash.”
Ignoring my comment, she walks past me, and because I’m desperate and pathetic, I attempt to check out her ass, but her blazer covers it. That’s probably for the best. I shouldn’t be checking anything out.
She glances around my apartment, taking in the subtle decorations I purposely used to create a cohesive and well-put-together theme for my apartment. A theme I like to call electric thunder. I know what you’re thinking—how does one decorate with the theme electric thunder in mind?
Well, it’s a combination of dark, moody colors, pops of unsuspecting accent hues, and not too much texture where you think, whoa, my eyes are offended.
Unlike Halsey, who lived in a jail cell before Blakely came along, I have taste and a keen eye for interior design.
I have a personal Instagram account no one knows about, and I follow some of my favorite profiles, like Pottery Barn, Rejuvenation, and especially Joanna Gaines—I like her decorating style. Very neutral design style while she’s moved away from some of the farmhouse trends and taken a more modern aesthetic. I also follow a few baking accounts. One of my favorites is of a Turkish lady who makes the best bread-inspired recipes. When she punches that dough after it rises . . . fuck me, it’s chef’s kiss!
But back to my apartment. I went for the whole dark cigar-room vibe even though I don’t smoke cigars—see, electric thunder. Blacks and gunmetal grays span the walls and in tasteful accents while camel-colored leather furniture takes center stage. An oversized area rug adds a cozy feel, tasteful art decorates the walls, and cream-colored curtains add a touch of lightness to the space.
“This is really nice,” she says. “I half expected to walk into a bachelor pad, but this is a man’s apartment. Like a man’s man.”
