Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 117872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
“Please. You’ll have bids out the wazoo.” He lets go of my tie with a quick frown. “Wait. Can I say wazoo?”
I roll my eyes. “You can say wazoo.”
He steps back, regards my attire. “You look good. How are you feeling?”
It’s a loaded question. I take the first stab at an answer. “About the auction?”
“Sure. Let’s start with that.”
I count off on one finger. “Let’s see. I have to mingle with Beck at the cocktail hour. That’ll be fun. Not,” I mutter.
“It’s hard seeing him, isn’t it?”
Hard doesn’t even cover it. “He can barely stand being in the same room as me.”
My dad tilts his head like he’s considering a puzzle. “His coping mechanism?”
Hmm. I hadn’t thought about it like that. I’d only thought about it from my point of view, and his avoidance feels like a jab, then an uppercut, then a chokehold. “Maybe,” I say.
“And how are you doing?”
I square my shoulders, but what’s the point? I let them slump again. “Miserable. Awful. Terrible.” Then I affect a plastic smile. “But no one can tell.”
“Jason,” Dad says, full of concern and love.
I sigh. I’ve got no fight in me.
“What if there was a way for you to be together the way you want?”
I rub my ear. There’s no way Dad said that. “Like what?” I ask, incredulous. “What way would that be?”
“I don’t know, but you can’t possibly be the only rivals in the history of the world who fell in love,” he says.
I hold up a hand to object. “I don’t think he’s in love with me.” I certainly won’t let myself believe he is.
My dad scoffs. “I’m not going to convince you. That’s his job. My job is to tell you what I’ve been thinking since you split. Think about whether you’d be willing to brave being together the way you want. Being together would be hard, but it’s possible.”
I turn that word over in my head—possible. That’s how I felt on Thanksgiving. Like a future with Beck was possible. I’m intrigued that my dad can see it too. I want to sit down with a beer and dig into this conversation all night long.
But I’m due to mingle soon. “I should go,” I say as a flash of black and white fur skids past me on the counter, stopping short at the end. Taco stares at me with big green eyes and unleashes a monster meow.
“Oh, shoot. I forgot to feed him. Now he hates me more,” I say.
My dad points to the door. “I’ll feed him. You go.”
I take off, trotting downstairs to the garage, climbing into my car, then heading across the city.
I park in a garage a block away from the Luxe Hotel and pep-talk myself as I cover the distance. I can do this. I can fake my way through any event.
I’ll stride across the stage when the emcee calls my name. I’ll smile and wave like I haven’t been tunneling my way through cartons of small-batch ice cream and bags of habanero cookies for the last four weeks.
Fine, fine. It was one night I did that. Maybe two. I have no regrets. Mostly.
Every man has his own way of moving on. Beck has his, and I have chocolate peanut butter swirl.
When I reach the hotel, Nate’s stepping out of a Lyft, dressed to the nines in a charcoal suit and a wine-red tie. That’s odd. He’s not in the auction catalog.
I stride up to him. “You’re going to bid on me as a practical joke?”
My buddy cracks up. “You wish.”
“It’s not that funny. No points for you.”
He straightens and claps my shoulder. “It’s a little funny.”
I gesture to his fancy get-up. “What’s the story? Are you a last-minute entry?” I ask, a little surprised since he and Oliver haven’t finalized the divorce yet. I didn’t think Nate was ready to advertise his single status to the world yet.
Nate shakes his head. “Maybe I’ll bid on Cafferty,” he says, an evil glint in his eyes.
All the humor drains from me. I go stock-still. That’s not remotely funny.
He points in victory. “I fucking knew it!”
I roll my eyes. I almost don’t care that he’s officially figured it out. “Don’t bid on him,” I hiss out.
My friend grabs my shoulder and hauls me away from the entrance, scanning the street left and right. It’s quiet enough for a night in late December. “I was right. You’re involved with him,” he says.
At this point, who cares? Nate is a vault. “Correction: was.”
He sighs heavily. “Shit, man. I’m sorry. Is that why you’ve been in a funk these last few weeks? You didn’t even sing karaoke when we went out to celebrate our playoff slot.”
I couldn’t muster the enthusiasm for Frank Sinatra or Ed Sheeran last weekend. “Yeah, you’re right. And I didn’t say anything while it was going on, but we were together for . . .” I pause, blow out a breath, and stop lying. “Pretty much since a few weeks into the season until right after Thanksgiving.”