Total pages in book: 244
Estimated words: 236705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1184(@200wpm)___ 947(@250wpm)___ 789(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 236705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1184(@200wpm)___ 947(@250wpm)___ 789(@300wpm)
“How do you know so much about baby showers?” I ask, flummoxed.
River shoots me a breezy look. “Give someone a drink and they talk about everything. Just last week, these two guys in leather were planning a baby shower for their surrogate. I also told them to avoid the dirty diaper game.”
“Are they going to play a leather game instead?” Nisha asks.
“If there is one, I bet they will,” River says.
“I don’t even know what the dirty diaper game is,” I say.
Nisha pats my arm. “Trust me, O. You don’t want to know.”
We go inside, and all my PR peeps are here including Reese Fallon, a fun and brainy sports publicist I outsource work to sometimes. She’s a rising star in the San Francisco sports publicity world, and she’s also involved with one of the baseball players on the team I work for—our All-Star second baseman, Holden Kingsley. He’s a great guy, and I truly like working with him.
But all of a sudden, I feel like I’m at work.
And I have to slide into let’s-keep-everyone-happy mode.
Everyone excluding me.
20
RIVER
The universe clearly has something against me. Eros, or Cupid, or whoever, is cursing me.
There’s no other explanation for the magical fucking dog van to have appeared. It’s like that kids’ book, with Ms. Frizzle and the bus that traveled underwater, and through the solar system, and back in time, and fuck that bus.
All I wanted was to sit down with Owen and talk, and ask if he thinks we can pull this off. If he’d be willing to break that pact we made. If he can throw the Harry and Rod rule to the wolves.
I have no idea if he’ll say yes or break my heart like the Big Dick Law dictates he will.
So instead of talking to Owen about all things D and L-O-V-E, I’m making drinks at three o’clock on a Saturday.
Cheers to me.
At the makeshift bar, aka kitchen counter, I whip up a martini for Jillian and an old-fashioned for her husband, Jones. “Beauty and brains before brawn,” I say to the woman who runs her own boutique PR agency in the city, and her football player hubs, giving her the drink first.
“And to think we were almost stuck with just wine, until a real bartender arrived,” she says.
“Surely that’s why Nisha sent the dog van for me,” I say as I measure out the whiskey.
“And I’m so glad she did.” Jillian takes a sip of her drink and gives an approving moan. “This is divine.”
“You’re going to make me jealous, babe,” Jones says in a deep rumbly voice that suits his big frame.
I wag a finger. “No jealousies at my traveling bar, hun. All my drinks are equally divine.”
“Excellent,” Jones says, and when I slide an old-fashioned his way, he joins in the drink moaning too.
They’re a fun couple—she has an Ali Wong vibe about her, and he’s the all-American football star with a dry wit. Ordinarily, I’d chat them up about the sport, work, and dogs, since they train their Chihuahua mixes to do agility competitions.
But I’m not in my best mood today, so I return to mixing and slinging drinks, serving up concoctions for the other guests. Like Tobey, who’s single, as well as Brooks and Steven, who remind me of Jesse Williams and Tom Ellis. They both do non-profit PR and have been together nearly a year. And Reese and Holden, one of Owen’s PR friends and her baseball player beau who’s on Owen’s team.
Which means Owen is wearing his game face as he slices carrots.
He can’t help it. Every time he interacts with a ball player, his instinct is to look out for their needs. It’s why he’s good at his job. It’s why he’s risen up through the ranks at the San Francisco Dragons.
But it’s also bugging the hell out of me today.
Then again, everything is, and I hate being annoyed.
It’s not in my nature.
And yet . . .
“You have to do the Big Dipper run on Heavenly, Reese. It’s exhilarating,” Owen tells the blonde, then turns to Holden. “But you will just sit and wait in the ski lodge like a good second baseman who’s not allowed to play any sports besides baseball.”
Holden salutes him. “Aye-aye, boss.”
I bristle, annoyance ratcheting up in me.
And I definitely need a drink now, since there’s no way Owen is going to let down his guard here, so I mix myself an old-fashioned too.
Another tall, strapping man—I’m not complaining about the eye candy, even though there’s only one piece of candy I want—shifts closer to me. “Want to send one of those bad boys my way?” TJ asks as he pulverizes potatoes with a masher.
“Nothing goes better with mashed potatoes than . . . well, than everything,” I say as I mix. “They go with literally everything.”
“Mashed potatoes are a perfect dish,” TJ seconds. “As long as there’s butter in them.”