Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 98846 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 494(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98846 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 494(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
“So it’s a convenience thing?”
“Mostly, I guess. Once I accidentally put a red shirt in with my whites and everything turned pink, which I’m not opposed to, and I was in the middle of a breast cancer campaign for my cousin, so it wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, but you can see how the colors can be an issue.”
“Okay, so let me get this straight. You drink milk because you have a sensitive stomach and it’s good for you.”
“Correct,” I supply.
“And you wear khakis because they’re convenient and white shirts because it’s easier than colors.”
“Also correct.”
“And you’re a famous goalie.”
“I’m not famous.”
“You are, at least in the hockey world, and it’s not something to feel bad about.” Queenie taps her lip. “How many long-term serious relationships have you had?”
“What does that have to do with my wardrobe and sensitive stomach?”
“Nothing. I’m just curious and trying to figure you out. Plus, I know what you’re like when you get naked, and it doesn’t match the milk-drinking, khaki-wearing Boy Scout.” She’s smirking, and her eyes glint with mischief and maybe some memories of that night.
“That’s not really what I’m like.”
“That’s not what you’re like, period, or that’s not what you’re like with anyone but me?”
“That’s . . . I don’t . . . I’m not—” I stumble over my words, unsure how to respond, because I’m not sure the truth is something I should divulge if we’re supposed to be keeping this platonic.
“Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked that.”
“The alcohol made me less inhibited,” I blurt.
“So, lowered inhibitions are to blame?” Based on her grin, I think she’s still poking fun at me.
“Yes. No. I don’t know. I’ve only been drunk three times.”
Queenie’s eyes flare. “Like, ever? In your entire life?”
“Yeah. I had a bad experience as a teenager that I haven’t wanted to repeat ever again.”
“Did you get trashed at some hockey party in high school or something?”
“Uh, no. Let’s just say my older brother wasn’t a great influence.” And not much has changed since I was a teenager.
“Still, sort of an extreme reaction, to never drink again.”
“I drink, but usually only one, and never shots,” I explain. “What about you?”
“I’ve made plenty of bad decisions while under the influence; unlike you, I don’t seem to learn from them.”
“But you said you don’t usually go home with random strangers.”
“Oh, I don’t. That was a first for me. And just so we’re clear, you were actually one of the best bad decisions I’ve ever had the misfortune of making.” Queenie winks.
I focus on my glass, wishing this situation were less complicated, and that I’d taken her out on a date before we’d ended up in bed, naked, and then almost had sex. “I’m glad you feel that way. And I’m still sorry about . . . how overzealous I was.”
“I happened to enjoy your overzealousness.” Queenie blows out a breath. “Anyway, let’s change the topic, since this one is probably going to get me into trouble. What’s your favorite thing to do when you’re not playing hockey?”
“Trouble how?”
“It’s probably not a good idea to stroll down that memory lane, you know? Especially since we’re working on the friend angle.”
“Right. Good point. I like pretty much anything that’s a physical activity.”
Queenie laughs. “Well, you’re good at physical activity, so that makes sense.”
“What about you? What do you like to do when you’re not at work?”
Queenie shrugs and focuses on cutting her steak. “I used to like to do arty things.”
“Arty like what?”
“Whatever I felt like, really.”
“So you’re creative, then? How did you end up working as your dad’s assistant?”
“The crafty stuff is a hobby. And I ended up working for my dad because his old assistant’s husband had a heart attack and needed surgery, and she decided to take early retirement. I was between jobs, so I offered to help him out until I can figure what the heck I want to do with my life.”
“You mean career-wise?”
Queenie points her fork at me. “Whoa, hold up, it’s my turn to ask a question.”
“I didn’t realize we were taking turns.”
“You get a question and then I get a question.” She pops the bite of rare beef into her mouth and chews thoughtfully for a few seconds. “What’s your favorite TV show?”
“The Big Bang Theory.”
Queenie snorts a laugh. “Why does that not surprise me in the least?”
“My turn. What’s your dream job?”
“For a while I wanted to be a therapist.”
“But not anymore?”
She wags a finger at me. “My turn.”
“You didn’t even answer the question, though.”
“Sure I did. I said I wanted to be a therapist.”
“For a while, which implies past tense.”
“It’s not a realistic goal, hence the whole dream-job thing. I’d ask what yours is, but I think you’re already doing it, aren’t you?”
“I am. Why isn’t becoming a therapist a realistic goal?”
“I don’t think I’d be good at helping people.”