Snap Count

by Daphne Loveling

  Snap Count

  A Bad Boy Sports Romance

  Daphne Loveling

  Contents

  Join Daphne’s MAILING LIST

  A note from DAPHNE

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Epilogue

  Sneek peak

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Join my mailing list

  Please leave a review

  About Daphne Loveling

  Books by Daphne Loveling

  Dedication

  Copyright

  Join Daphne’s MAILING LIST

  One of my favorite things about writing are the relationships I build with readers. I occasionally send newsletters with details on new releases, special offerings, and exclusive bonus material to readers who subscribe to my mailing list.

  See the back of this book for details on how to sign up.

  A note from DAPHNE

  I’ve included a special bonus novel, GETTING THE DOWN, at the end of this book.

  To read GETTING THE DOWN, just continue turning pages after the end of SNAP COUNT.

  1

  IVY

  What’s the point of having a giant bull mastiff as your guard dog when he doesn’t guard, and barely knows he’s a dog?

  Weighing in at a solid one-hundred thirty pounds, with enormous jowls that could easily fit around my head, Zeus ought to strike fear into the hearts of anyone he meets. That’s one reason Franklin got him as a puppy, he tells me. He was hoping that Zeus would be good protection out in public, and better than an alarm system at home.

  The day I arrived in my tiny car loaded up with the few possessions I own, Franklin introduced me to my future roommate as: “the worst security system ever. He eats me out of house and home, sleeps twenty-three hours a day, and makes sure to lie around in high-traffic areas so I’m always tripping over him. I might as well train him to open the door for any intruder who happens to stop by and invite him in for snacks.”

  Which is why Zeus is lying splayed out on the floor, snoozing like an old geezer, when three men just appear on the balcony one morning.

  My balcony. With no curtains on the French doors that open out onto it.

  Oh. And did I mention I’m not wearing any clothes?

  My name is Ivy Kincaide. I graduated from Saint Anne’s College for Women last year, and I just completed my first year of graduate studies in neuroscience at Springville University. Franklin Reynolds is the gentleman for whom I am currently house- and dog-sitting, while he’s off on a wild romantic adventure visiting his boyfriend Juan Carlos in Argentina.

  Franklin’s been a friend of my mother’s since they were both in college years ago. Which is how I got this perfect gig: free rent, in an absolutely beautiful condo I could never afford in a million years. And all I have to do is feed and walk a giant fur-covered sofa three times a day.

  Housesitting for Franklin is a dream job for someone who’s short on cash, like me. Having free lodging means I can survive on the meager stipend I get from my department for being a part-time research assistant to Dr. Roza Pataky, one of the top neuroscientists in her field. Not to mention Franklin’s condo is a perfectly calm, quiet place to study and work on my master’s thesis. Plus, even though Zeus isn’t the greatest protection in the world, having to walk him periodically gets me out of the house on days when I’d otherwise be holed up like a monk with my books and laptop.

  Which means I’m often at home in the mornings, writing and studying.

  Like this morning.

  Yeah, still not wearing any clothes.

  I’ve just gotten out of the shower, and padded out to the kitchen to make myself some coffee. It’s the middle of June, at the beginning of what looks like it’s going to be a long, hot summer. Already this morning, it’s feeling pretty steamy, even inside. But I’m loathe to put on the air conditioner just yet, preferring to keep the windows open as long as I can stand it.

  So, I’m basically drip-drying as I wander around the house, which isn’t a problem because the condo is on the second floor. It’s a corner unit, too, which means that there’s only one neighboring unit next door. That place has been empty for months, too, which gives me even more privacy. On the other three sides, trees obscure the view through the windows and the balcony. It’s sort of like living in a tree house, and I love the feeling of seclusion it gives me.

  Except today.

  As I stand in the kitchen, I decide it’s too hot for my usual cup of coffee, and decide to go for the iced brew I keep in the fridge instead. As I’m pouring the cold coffee over ice in a tall glass, I hear the murmur of voices that sound like they might be coming from the condo next door. Frowning, I glance up toward the wall our units share. From Franklin, I know that the owner of the condo, an elderly lady named Mrs. McGregor, died a few months back. I haven’t seen a “for sale” sign go up in front of the building, though, or any evidence the place has gone on the market recently.

  Maybe whoever is in charge of Mrs. McGregor’s estate is finally selling the place, I think as I take my iced coffee out into the living room.

  And promptly drop it onto the hardwood floor with a shriek when a pair of vivid blue eyes meet mine.

  “Damn,” the owner of the eyes says, as they travel slowly down my body and up again. “This is one hell of a welcome wagon.”

  2

  KNOX

  I wasn’t so sure this condo complex was gonna be a great fit for me at first. At first glance, it looks like the place might be filled with a bunch of cranky retirees, who probably don’t like loud parties or rowdy football players.

  I have to say, though, the view from the balcony is pretty damn good.

  Just last week, I signed a six-month lease on this condo, which the realtor for the Springville Rockets found for me before I got to town. The Rockets just signed me on as a starting wide receiver for the team. I moved here from Atlanta, where I was born and raised, and played football there for four and a half years in college. I got drafted to Carolina for four years after that, then signed on with the Rockets when they made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.

  I didn’t have a lot of time to come up to Springville to check out places to live before making the move. So, I ended up choosing this place mostly sight unseen, except for a few photos sent over email, and the assurance of the realtor that it was a nice place. It’s definitely good enough for now — at least until I get to know Springville better and can look around for someplace to buy. The only problem is that when the movers showed up today with the van full of my stuff, they figured out pretty quickly that the narrow front stairwell wasn’t going to accommodate my huge leather couch.

  Pete, one of the movers, suggests we try to haul it up through a window or something. He and I and the other guy, whose name is Matty, are standing on the large balcony that stretches from the unit I’m renting to the one next to it. The two of them are arguing about whether the railing is strong enough to hold the couch, so I wander over toward the open French doors of the condo ne
xt door and happen to glance in.

  And come face to face with a red-headed, green-eyed beauty.

  Naked and glorious for all the world to see.

  Well, for me to see, that is. And believe me, it is glorious. My dick instantly rises to attention at the sight of her there, and gets hard so fast it almost hurts.

  Full, lush breasts, the nipples rosy pink, standing at attention as my eyes devour them, my mouth almost watering to taste them. Creamy, smooth skin. A petite waist leading to curvy hips, and a round, pert ass that makes me ache to sink my fingers into the flesh and pull her onto my hard, waiting cock.

  The need to fuck her hits me almost physically. It’s so immediate and strong, it makes me think of the force of being tackled from head-on. Jesus, what I wouldn’t give to just walk right up to her and have my way with her on that couch against her living room wall.

  A look of sheer horror and panic crosses the redhead’s face as she sees me staring at her. She lets out a piercing scream that shakes me from my fantasy, and drops the glass she’s holding. It falls to the floor and shatters, dark liquid and glass going everywhere.

  “Damn, this is one hell of a welcome wagon,” I remark with a smirk.

  “Oh my God!” she yells as she awkwardly tries to cover herself. “What the hell are you doing out there?!”

  Pete and Matty look over curiously. Pete starts to walk over, but I stop him with a quick shake of my head.

  “I’m Knox Harper,” I say with a slow grin. “I’m your new neighbor.” My eyes slide over her body again, noting how prettily her smooth, creamy skin flushes when she’s embarrassed. I wonder if it does that when she’s aroused.

  I make a mental note to send the team’s realtor a fruit basket.

  The hot redhead shrieks again as I take a step through the French doors into her condo. “What are you doing?” she cries, moving back a step and grabbing a sofa pillow to hold in front of her. “Don’t you dare come any closer!”

  I ignore her and look around, surveying the damage. “You’re gonna get your feet all cut up,” I tell her, nodding toward the floor. “You should go put some shoes on.” Then I walk into her living room, and almost trip over a fucking huge-ass dog I didn’t even notice was there at first. He’s kind of a brindle color, with a giant head that looks more like it belongs on a bear or something. The dog lifts his head to look at me, and his giant tail begins to thump heavily against the floor.

  “Damn it, Zeus,” she fumes at him. “You are the worst guard dog ever.” The dog glances up, looks at her and then back at me, then lays his enormous head back down between his paws and closes his eyes with a deep sigh.

  “Looks like you offended him,” I laugh. “You got a broom handy? I can get started on cleaning this up while you go get some shoes on.” I rake my eyes over her curves again. “But be my guest if you wanna skip the clothes.”

  “Shut up!” she spits at me. “Why are you still here? Get out! I should call the cops on you!”

  “Far as I can see from here, you don’t have your phone on you,” I say easily. “Besides, I’m not taking no for an answer, until you go get some goddamn shoes on.”

  With a tiny roar of suppressed fury, she turns and flees down a hallway, and I take advantage of the opportunity to cop a glance at her full, luscious ass. My hard-on comes raging back, and I reach down to adjust the tent in my jeans. I look over at Zeus and say, “Is she always like this?”

  His tail thumps twice as his mouth opens in a big, slobbery grin. I guess that means she is.

  Then I head to where I think the kitchen is, to look for a broom.

  A minute or so later, the redhead comes back into the living room, disappointingly with clothes on, and a pair of flip flops.

  “You call those shoes?” I frown at her as I sweep up broken glass, but I decide to let it go.

  “I asked you to leave,” she says pointedly, pointing to the balcony.

  “Didn’t your mama teach you any manners?” I reply. “I’m cleaning up this broken glass for you, after all.”

  “You broke into my house!” she cries. “And you scared the hell out of me. Which is why I dropped the glass in the first place. And I should thank you for that?”

  I scoff. “Your doors were open. That’s hardly breaking in. That’s just walking in. Completely different.”

  “Oh, my God! Either way, it’s trespassing.”

  “Eh. Details,” I shrug, and continue sweeping.

  Outside, Pete yells my name. “Hey, man,” he says, his face appearing in the doorway. “We’re gonna go downstairs and rig up the couch.” His eyes flick toward the redhead. “Ma’am,” he says to her, his eyes moving over her curves.

  “Sounds good,” I tell him. “You guys need me?”

  “Maybe, yeah. You and Matty can be up here to hall it in.”

  I nod. “Got it. Be there in a sec.” I turn toward the redhead. “Sorry, cupcake, I gotta go help the movers. Maybe we can continue this conversation later?”

  Her lips part slightly in disbelief as her brows furrow. I am seriously pissing her off, and unfortunately for her, it’s cute as hell.

  “You call this a conversation?” she fumes.

  “Hey, you’re talking to me, I’m talking to you. That’s a conversation.” I finish sweeping the last shards of glass into the dust pan, and empty the whole thing into a waste basket I find in the kitchen. “There you go. You can thank me later,” I say generously.

  She scoffs. “Fat chance.”

  I stride over to the French doors, carefully stepping over the huge dog. “See you later, Zeus,” I say to him. His tail thumps once. Then I look back at the hot redhead, who’s still throwing daggers at me with her eyes. “You got a name?” I ask her.

  “Go to hell,” she spits.

  “Huh,” I say, cocking my head. “That must be a hell of a thing to explain in job interviews. You know, you can change that down at the courthouse for a few hundred bucks.”

  Then I leave her there, looking like she’s contemplating seven different ways to kill me, and go help the guys pull up my couch.

  3

  IVY

  I spend the rest of the morning trying to salvage the last shreds of my dignity.

  Which is exactly as difficult as you’d think it would be, after a total stranger has just walked in on you completely naked in your own living room.

  Even worse, when that total stranger is apparently your new neighbor.

  And worst of all, that total stranger is alarmingly, shockingly hot.

  Geez Louise, I never knew men actually existed who were that freaking gorgeous. I mean, sure, I’ve seen pictures of models and movie stars online and in trashy magazines. But I always just assumed they were airbrushed and altered and made up to look that way. Plus, if you’re a celebrity who’s paid a ridiculous amount of money just to be beautiful, you’re going to have an army of personal trainers, hair and makeup people to make sure you never leave the house without looking absolutely perfect, right? So I console myself that I don’t look as good as the movie stars and celebrities by telling myself that no one actually looks like that. Not really.

  But this guy… I mean, he was just moving into his condo, and he still looked like he was ready for a darn photo shoot. Even in a faded and threadbare red T-shirt, a pair of well-worn khaki shorts, and some busted-up flip flops that looked like they weren’t long for the trash… Holy wow. The memory of his piercing blue eyes is already etched uncomfortably in my mind. When he looked at me, it felt like they would be able to stare straight through my clothes. If I had been wearing any, that is. And the scruff of his beard, which looked like he hadn’t bothered to shave that morning, only accentuated his strong, square jaw and somehow made him even hotter. Then the shock of dark blond hair, just messy enough to give him a sort of roguish bad-boy look. And full, sensual lips that turned into a lazy grin and were almost impossibly distracting. It was hard not to stare at them as he spoke. They looked soft. They looked kissable. So much so that
I felt my traitorous nipples pebble as his lazy southern drawl slid over my skin, intimate as a caress.

  No one should be allowed to be that sexy, I tell myself crossly as I try in vain to put my irritating new neighbor out of my mind. Especially not someone I’m going to be living next door to for the foreseeable future. I don’t know how I’m going to manage to avoid him. I realize now with dismay that I’m basically going to have to declare the balcony off-limits.

  And buy some curtains for the French doors. I can’t risk another incident like the one that just happened.

  Still grumbling to myself, I sit down to try and make some headway on a literature review I’m working on. As I stare at my computer, working at a snail’s pace, I alternate between congratulating myself on not giving my irritating new neighbor any information about me, and being a little regretful that I didn’t try to get more information out of him. After all, it would be easier to prepare for a future of trying to avoid him if I knew whether he’s just renting or whether he’s bought the place. Or what his job is. Maybe he works the night shift and he’ll be asleep all day. One can only hope. The only thing I actually do know about him is his name — Knox Something-or-other, he said — and that he’s good-looking enough to be a male model.

  Well, and that he’s an arrogant jerk who has no problem barging into someone’s home uninvited.

  I try to work until my stomach starts to rumble, then close my laptop and go to the kitchen to grab something to eat. I make myself a peanut-butter and strawberry jelly sandwich — which I eat standing over the sink, because I don’t want to risk going into the dining room and having Mr. Cocky McHottiepants catch another glimpse of me through the French doors. I have clothes on now, of course, but still. The memory of the way his eyes slid over my naked body, taking in every inch of me, is enough to make my skin flame with embarrassment.