Total pages in book: 54
Estimated words: 53233 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 266(@200wpm)___ 213(@250wpm)___ 177(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 53233 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 266(@200wpm)___ 213(@250wpm)___ 177(@300wpm)
“Oh.” I look down at the arm that was burned, now hidden beneath my dress shirt and suit jacket, and then back at her. “It’s nothing. I’m fine. How are you healing?”
“Good.” She glances at the doorway and says, “Can we talk in private?”
“Of course.”
My heart pounds at the thought of being alone with her. Just this small interaction has me feeling more longing than I have in a while.
I want to take her in my arms and kiss her. Hold her and never let go. Feel her hair against my cheek. And more…much more.
“We can go in my dad’s office,” she says, turning to lead the way.
The photographer, a shaggy-haired guy in his thirties, follows. When Daphne walks into a dark-paneled room and stands aside for me to enter, the photographer tries to come in, too.
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “Wait out here.”
He wrinkles his face in confusion. “I was given an exclusive.”
“And you got it,” I tell him.
“This is gonna be the best part.”
I shake my head. “You’re not coming in.”
He mutters something as I close the door. I forget he even exists as I walk over to Daphne, who’s standing by a wall lined with bookshelves, all filled with books, plaques and awards of her father’s.
“Do you think he might be listening?” she asks softly.
I walk over to the door and open it to check. The hallway is empty.
“All clear,” I say, closing the door again.
She sighs, looking relieved.
“I’ve thought about what I’d say when I met you so many times over the past month,” she says. “And now, nothing feels right.”
“You don’t have to say anything.” I approach her and she sits down on a leather couch, gesturing for me to sit next to her. “What I did was just instinct. You would have done the same.”
“I hope so,” she says as I sit down on the other end of the couch, reluctantly leaving the middle cushion empty. “But none of us really know until we’re in that situation. When I watched the video and saw all the people just standing there, I realized…” Her smile is sad. “If you hadn’t been there, I don’t think I’d be here right now.”
“But I was, and you are.” I want to reach over and take her hand, but I don’t. I remind myself that we don’t really know each other.
“I can never thank you enough. And I want you to know, I’ll pay it forward. Somehow, in some way, I’ll make the world a better place.”
“It sounds like you already are, with your work.”
She smiles, and this time there’s no sadness there. “I try to. I really do try, every day, to lift people up and give them hope. I’m going back to work tomorrow, and I can’t wait.”
“What do you do at your job?”
“It depends on the day. We’re a resource for homeless people, so we help find rooms in shelters, and we’re a stop off site for meal deliveries. We have a doctor who comes in to see people once a week, we help connect homeless kids with tutors…that kind of thing.”
“Sounds rewarding.”
“I think so.”
I resist the urge to tell her I provide the majority of the funding for a homeless shelter and restaurant operated by Reese Deveraux, the wife of a Blaze player. Something tells me Daphne wouldn’t be impressed by anything to do with money. She’s been there, done that and chosen a different direction for her life.
“I hear we’re a hashtag,” I say instead. “Or we have a hashtag? What’s the terminology on that?”
She laughs. “Don’t ask me, I’m thirty-one. Practically a senior citizen in terms of Internet lingo.”
“Well, I’m forty-one, so you have to be better than me.”
Daphne holds my gaze, and I feel something passing between us. Damn, I hope she feels our chemistry as strongly as I do.
“Anyway…” She looks at her lap and then back up at me. “Thank you. And thanks for doing this dinner, and being okay with the photographer. I think once the world sees a photo of us meeting and we go back to our everyday lives, this will all pass.”
“You don’t like all the attention,” I say, because given her tone and expression, it’s not even a question.
“No. My family has money, and with my dad’s work, I’ve always felt like we were in the spotlight. And finally, I’m away from all that.” With a sheepish grin, she says, “I mean no offense by this, but the world of the rich and famous isn’t for me.”
“I understand.”
And I do. I wish I could live my life with less scrutiny, but it’s just not possible. Once I passed a certain level of wealth, people became interested in everything about me. Where I’m traveling to. Who I’m with. How much I tip at restaurants. And the level of interest is highest in Chicago, since I own the Blaze.