Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 85838 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 343(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85838 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 343(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
I laugh briefly at the fond memory. “You always picked eggs because they were good for me.”
“But sometimes I picked both,” Gage points out.
“Those were good days,” I say.
“I have good instincts,” Gage says, with a happy sigh. “But I’m not going to pick for you. You have unfinished business with the guy. You don’t like unfinished business. This isn’t a choice between breakfast foods.”
Ah, hell. He’s right. And I’m not the kind of man who avoids hard conversations or uncomfortable moments. I sit up, trying to untangle the questions tripping through my head.
What do I want to finish? Getting over Maddox? Proving to myself I can handle seeing him? Maybe seeing how I feel just being near him?
All of the above?
I don’t entirely know, but I’ve never backed down from a challenge, and I won’t now.
I pop off the couch. “Stop being so right about everything,” I grumble, then head to the bathroom. I clean up, then change into something sharp and stylish, picking trim brown slacks and a dark green shirt that’s all kinds of snug in the arms. I roll up the cuffs, showing off my daiquiri tattoo. No matter what happens, I want to look good.
For him.
But mostly for me. This is who I am. A guy who shows up. A guy who doesn’t hide. A man who strides up to the plate for every single at-bat and puts his heart and soul into every goddamn swing.
As I look in the mirror and consider my clothes, I know what my unfinished business is.
I’m going to tell Maddox exactly why New York hurt me, and then I’ll let it go so I can move the hell on.
I head to the bed and softly kiss the sleeping sweetie’s forehead. “Night, slugger,” I whisper to Eliza.
Then, I ruffle Gage’s hair. “Oh, and feel free to enjoy the sweet potatoes.”
“Unlikely.”
“Then order some burgers and fries. And put it on my tab,” I call out as I head to the door.
“Dude, I’m in your room. Of course it’s on your tab,” he says, then smiles. “And good luck.”
I’ll need it. This won’t be easy. But it’s necessary. “Thanks.” I take a beat. “For making me pick.”
He waves me out, and I go.
28
RSVPS
Maddox
The party ends in forty-five minutes, and I’m strung as tight as a violin. Zane RSVP’d, but two hours in and well past dinner, the big-hearted, swagger-filled man is noticeably absent.
Is he ever going to show up?
As I circulate on the patio of the trendy Mexican restaurant in the heart of Venice, I’m constantly checking the door. Each time a strapping, burly guy strides in, my heart jackhammers then plummets when it’s not him.
Every time I talk to a client, a plus one, or a co-worker, I force myself to stay present, but my muscles are knotted from all this…waiting.
If Zane doesn’t appear, I’ll drive to his hotel the second this party ends, march to his room, and pound on the door. Don’t know his room number but I’ll figure it out somehow.
I check my watch. Twenty more minutes. Things are winding down. Clients start to take off. I do another lap, chatting with Crosby and his wife, Nadia, who owns the Hawks—the first, I rep; the second, I strike deals with. “Good to see you two,” I say to the pair.
She huffs at me. “I’m still mad at you, Maddox. You drove a hard bargain with Nate Chandler.” Her eyes narrow as she mentions one of her star players, a guy I brought to CTM.
I blow on my nails. “That’s my job.”
“He’s a tough one, baby cakes,” Crosby says, then drops a kiss to her cheek. “And I love it when he’s getting me sexy new deals.”
Ordinarily, I’d delight in this conversation, but it’s hard to stay present. Fortunately, after another minute, Nadia nods to the door. I jerk my gaze, stealing the chance to check for Zane. But no dice. Then, Nadia says, “We should take off.”
Crosby offers me a fist for knocking. “See you at the game tomorrow.”
I take that as my reminder.
The clock is ticking. I need to find Zane tonight. He’ll be busy all day tomorrow—batting practice, press events, the game.
As they leave, I stare at the door. Where the hell is he?
I reach for my phone. Screw waiting. I’ll text him. Ask to see him at his hotel. Ask for his room number.
But wingtips click on the patio, and a too-familiar smile comes my way.
Seriously? I’m about to text Zane and Vance comes by? Respect the boss and all that, but lately I feel like I’m living under a microscope.
“Great party. Thanks for picking this spot,” Vance says, surveying the scene, clearly eager to preside over the event with me.
But I don’t want to live my life magnified right now. “Glad you like it, but I need a second.”