Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 91501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
“I heard your speech at dinner.” Another sardonic laugh. “I’m sure half the ovaries in the room shriveled up and died, while the other half still want a piece of you.”
My sister-in-law didn’t invite any bimbos to the wedding, if that’s what Sunny is implying, so her theory holds no weight. Still, the fact that she thinks those are the only women who are attracted to me stings.
I’m butthurt. “Are they paying you to come here and harass me?”
“No, they’re paying me to get a photo of your brother getting a piece of cake set on his tongue by his lady love.”
“That happened an hour ago—why are you still here?”
“You never know what’s going to happen, and you, my friend, just made my whole evening of skulking in the corner worth it.”
“I hope they aren’t feeding you,” I grumble. “You’re nothing but a thorn in my side.”
Sunny laughs. “I think I’m the least of your worries. Everyone watching that video now thinks one of two things: One, you’re a dick who pissed off that girl enough she tossed you. Two, you’re a pussy.”
Are women allowed to use that word?
“Jeez, Sunny, don’t you have someone else to go harass? Noah Harding is here with his girlfriend—why don’t you go stalk them?”
“I talked to them already and got the pictures I needed.”
Dammit. “Go dance.”
“I’m here to work.”
“What about Duke Zemetz?” They call him Z-Man, and he’s actually not a teammate of my brother’s, but a member of another professional football team Buzz happens to be good friends with. A Pro-Bowler running back with a long career in front of him.
Nice dude.
Her ears perk up. “Duke is here?”
Bingo! The diversion I need. “Last I saw, he was by the snack buffet.” Hollis and Buzz had finger foods brought in, as well as food trucks outside, to feed guests and make sure no one left here soaked. Sloshed. Blitzed. Drunk.
Ubers and vans are lined up outside, too.
Sunny is already halfway across the room toward the food and Duke, giving me the chance to slip out the side door.
No one will miss me.
Least of all Chandler Westbrooke.
Eight
Chandler
Voicemail one: **beep!** Chandler, honey, it’s Mom. Are you going to call us back about that Wallace boy? What’s going on, sweetie? Mommy loves you, kiss kiss.
Voicemail two: **beep!** Chandler, Dad here. Mom told me to call you. I assume you’re coming to work on Monday like we planned—don’t forget to meet with HR first. And call your mother.
Voicemail three: **beep!** Hi Chandler, my name is Sunny Bellefonte and I’m with SportsCenter. We haven’t met, but I was a guest at your cousin’s wedding this past weekend. Well, maybe not a guest, but I attended and got some fabulous photos and footage. I tried tracking you down at the reception, but you’d already gone and slipped through my fingers. I was hoping you’d have a chance to talk and would give me a call back. My number is…
* * *
On and on they went.
And the voice messages don’t come close to comparing to all the texts.
I hide.
Hole up in my new place for days, ignoring the messages that aren’t from close family and friends.
Hollis.
She brought me takeout last night, wanting me to feel at home, despite the reporters and paparazzi now breathing down my neck for an interview.
Breathing down my neck they are.
In droves.
Not that I blame them—they get paid when they get the scoop, and not a single one has gotten a sound bite from me. Not that they haven’t stopped trying.
I do feel a little guilty about the headlines, though. And the memes with Tripp’s shocked face as he hit the floor, stunned.
Chicago Blues star goes too far and gets tossed by pint-sized mystery woman…
This was before they discovered my identity as one of the Steam heiresses and didn’t know what to call me, though finding me wouldn’t have been difficult with more digging.
Lazy.
Chicago Blues star Tripp Wallace goes to the boards for bad behavior…
To the boards? That’s a hockey reference, so that reporter clearly had no idea what they were reporting. Typical.
But the part about him being thrown on his ass for unbecoming behavior? Makes me feel terrible.
Proof that things aren’t always what they seem, but I can’t very well come out and tell Sunny Bellefonte I used hard-earned karate skills for no good reason—flipping Tripp after he called me boring one too many times.
Petty much?
Yeah, no. I can’t say that or I’ll be the one who looks like a douchebag.
Still, it makes me uneasy seeing his face plastered all over the news, bad press roasting him.
I can’t eat.
Can’t sleep.
Guilt is a terrible bed partner…
Nine
Tripp
My phone is blowing up.
Has been for days.
Everyone wants a statement about the flip. The video has gone viral; news outlets from around the globe are having a field day with the story, with the video of Chandler and me dancing. Us arguing with our surly expressions then her tucking her hand beneath my armpit, lowering her head, and tipping me onto the cold, hard floor for the whole damn world to see.