Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 58992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 295(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 295(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
What a bland comment.
But I can barely think. My forehead is still pulsing with a mind-numbing headache. I grit my teeth.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine,” I bite out, then I draw in air and smile wider. The pain starts to ebb.
“You sure?”
“Of course,” I say, “Congratulations on joining the team. Everyone is thrilled to have you.”
He smirks again. “You said that already.”
My face flushes. Great. Now he’s pointing out my mistakes. Real fun.
I can’t be around him right now. I need a moment to regroup. “Excuse me, Drew,” I say, and I jet off, leaving the ballroom and rushing to the ladies’ room, my brain freeze melting off along the way.
Once inside, I grab my phone and dial Rachel’s number. She owns a jewelry boutique on the main drag in Venice and the store probably just closed.
Thankfully, my friend answers right away, and I dive into my emergency. “He’s here, like I suspected he’d be, and I’m doing such a bang-up job at being a badass that I ran into the ladies’ room to hide.” I spin around, hunting for an escape hatch. “Can I just pull down the air vent like they do in the movies and crawl out?”
“That’s an option. Maybe not a wise one, but it’s one nonetheless.”
I gaze upward at the vent, doing some quick calculations. “It’s seven feet high. Maybe I can step on the sink and sort of swing my legs up.”
“Sure. That doesn’t sound likely to break your neck at all.”
I assess the distance. “I think I can make it.”
“Or just a wild idea. You could face him. And be merciless, like I said.”
Closing my eyes, I slump against the sink. “The worst part is he’s all…cheery.”
“Bastard,” she mutters. “That pisses me off.” Then she seems to brighten, or perhaps turn devilishly clever since she says, “Oh, wait. If he’s acting like he didn’t ditch you, you should do the same to him.”
I perk up. Lift my face. “I should?”
“Yes, pretend you never texted him. Act like you’re cool with everything. Don’t let on you were checking your phone like it was going to give birth.”
That’s genius, birthing analogy aside. “You’re brilliant and I love you,” I say, then hang up.
When I turn around, I take a deep breath, smooth my hands down my skirt, then leave, ready to resume normal human operations again.
But when I exit the restroom, I stifle a shriek.
The tall, broad, and too-handsome quarterback waits here in the hall, away from the event and the crowds. His hazel eyes brim with concern. “Hey,” he says gently. “Are you okay?”
Pretend, Brooke.
I lift my chin defiantly. My queen move. Then I smile for the camera. “I’m fabulous. Just had to powder my nose,” I say, waving my clutch toward the restroom.
He arches an eyebrow. Even that simple gesture is impossibly sexy on him. But then, he has an unfair advantage because he’s decked out in tailored pants, a dress shirt, and a vest that fits him like a glove. If he wasn’t already stunning, the damn vest alone would send him to the top of the hot list.
I’ve seen him in shorts, and now I’ve seen him in a suit. The man makes the clothes every time.
The universe is a joker.
“I had no idea you were going to be here,” he says, in a thoughtful tone—that tone makes zero sense. “But the job sounds good?”
Why is he being so nice? “Yes. Like I said, I just found out today. They added football to my purview. So I guess we’re working together,” I say with the biggest grin I can muster.
No way am I letting on how hurt I was by his silent treatment. I don’t want to get wounded again. I still have scars from Sailor’s trickery.
I angle my body toward the ballroom, hoping Drew gets the message that it’s time to return to the event.
“I was shocked too,” Drew adds, still chatting in spite of my best efforts to grow wings. “I was going to tell you about the trade when we texted earlier,” he says as I take a step down the hall.
What did he just say?
I stop and turn back to him, lifting a brow. “Excuse me?”
He smiles, flirty and just a touch embarrassed—but sexy embarrassed—as he glances around and lowers his voice. “You know. About the tacos, and the chocolate sauce, and the yada yada yada.”
I know nothing about this yada.
I frown. “What texts, Drew?”
He steps closer, leans into me, his mouth dangerously near to my ear. I shiver. Stupid body. “You know—when you let on you’re into food play,” Drew whispers, his voice low and husky and turning me on even though I’m not into food play.
I am, however, into solving problems.
I step back, meet his eyes. “We didn’t text, so I’m not sure what you mean. I haven’t heard from you since you left my house.” And I will prove it, stat. Reaching into my clutch, I grab my phone, unlock it, and click to my texts. “See?” I say, eager to show him the evidence.