Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 69452 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 347(@200wpm)___ 278(@250wpm)___ 232(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69452 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 347(@200wpm)___ 278(@250wpm)___ 232(@300wpm)
“Did you get the same thing?” I asked.
“No,” he offered me his cup, and I took a sip.
This one was weird.
“Is that…Dr. Pepper and Coke?”
“Dr. Pepper and lemonade,” he answered.
I took another, bigger sip, and handed it back to him. “I’m not sure what to think.”
“I graduated from suicides—where you take a little bit of every drink on tap—to these two things when I was twelve or so. My family hated it when I got suicides, they said it was nasty. And they hated it even more when I asked waiters to do it for me when we went out to a sit-down restaurant. So I started ordering it like this. These are my two favorites,” he explained.
I studied him for a few long seconds.
I took in the bags under his eyes. The way his hair was a little bit wild. The way he was dressed—comfortably in sweatpants and a sweatshirt.
Then I crossed my arms over my chest and said, “So we’re getting married, huh?”
He flashed me a grin. “Sometimes it’s easier to just go along with it.”
“If you say so,” I grumbled.
I’d just opened my mouth to ask him something else when a loud, excited voice sounded from beside us.
“Over here, Nash!”
Nash didn’t look, but I did.
My eyes were blinded moments later when a camera was practically shoved in my face.
“When’s the wedding, Nash?” the man asked, taking more photos.
Nash growled under his throat.
“Why aren’t you at the race today, Nash? Is she why?” the man continued his line of questioning.
“Actually,” the old black man from earlier said, “I’d love to know the answer to that, too, son.”
Nash’s eye started to twitch.
“Nash is suffering from a bout of vertigo,” I lied. “He’s having inner ear imbalance issues, and he has to rest to get that in check.”
The old man was already nodding. “Actually, I’ve experienced that myself. I was flat on my back for days, because every time I was vertical, my head would spin. It was the worst feeling in the world, and I’ve never been happier to never experience something like that again in my life. Hell, I’d take back skin cancer over that.”
The mention of cancer had my tummy tensing, and Nash stiffening.
“We’re trying to enjoy a meal, though, sir,” I said to the man with the camera. “We’ll pose for photos after?”
The man looked overjoyed at that, even though I wasn’t sure I could get Nash to agree to it when we were done. But it did get him to go away.
He went and ordered himself some food, then went out to his car to wait.
The old man waved goodbye, then shuffled out the door behind the photographer, leaving us blissfully alone.
Again, I was about to ask him another question, but the food arrived, silencing our thoughts.
“This one is yours,” I said as I handed it to him.
It was skinnier than mine, and my mouth was already watering to be able to dig into a double cheeseburger.
He pulled his burger open, and I was disappointed to see that they’d forgotten the pickles.
“I can order some onion rings on my app if you want them,” I offered when he curled his nose at the salad that I’d gotten him.
“It’s okay.” He pulled the top off the salad and reached for the ranch. “You’re right about the salad. I haven’t had anything green in a week.”
He’d just taken his first bite of it when his phone rang.
He glanced at the screen and cursed.
“What’s wrong?” I demanded.
“My PA,” he grumbled. “I’m guessing the guy shared about me and you, already.”
“What’s it matter?” I asked.
He ignored my question and answered his phone, leaving it on speaker in between us.
“Nash!” the man on the other end of the line labeled as ‘Criss’ answered. “What is this I hear about you getting married?”
“It was an accident,” Nash sighed. “I was trying to actually enjoy a normal life when someone overheard my comments and took them out of context.”
There was no taking anything out of context. He’d said what he said.
I didn’t call him on it, though, instead listening quietly as he spoke and ate while I did.
“How are you feeling?” Criss asked. “Ready to be back next game?”
“More than,” he answered. “But we’ve already talked about this. I’m not cleared by NASCAR yet, and I won’t be for a while.”
That made my heart hurt.
“How long?” Criss demanded.
“As long as it takes, bro,” I said. “We’re in the middle of eating lunch. Can he call you back?”
“Is that her?” Criss asked.
“That’s her.” Nash silenced me with a look.
Or he tried to.
Instead of garnering the reaction he wanted—silence—it only made me lean forward and say loudly, “Bye, Criss!”
Then I hung up on him, causing Nash to sigh loudly.
“Eat,” I urged.
He picked up his fork again and ate the entire salad before reaching for his burger.