Total pages in book: 169
Estimated words: 162138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 811(@200wpm)___ 649(@250wpm)___ 540(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 162138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 811(@200wpm)___ 649(@250wpm)___ 540(@300wpm)
Our bags are loaded into the trunk of a black SUV with heavily tinted windows, where another terrifyingly large man is waiting to open the doors. What even is this service? When Dad played pro, we were picked up and driven around in any city we went to, but the men didn’t look like this. Not that I’m complaining. Maybe Lachlan is as paranoid as I am, after all. Once we’re sitting in the back seat, I look at what he’s wearing — charcoal dress pants, a brown belt, matching dress shoes, and a white button-down with the sleeves rolled up. He dresses so formally these days. It’s weird. Hot, but weird. I’m wearing jeans, an oversized white dress shirt with rolled sleeves, and plain white sneakers. I open my backpack, take out my black cable-knit sweater and tie it over my shoulders.
I don’t know where we’re going, but I know I’d fit right in at a country club or a Ralph Lauren ad. I keep my eyes outside and get lost in the view. It’s such a beautiful city. I don’t remember much of it — The Bean and some face sculptures that spit water from their mouths. I never even got to go to a ballgame at Wrigley, because Mom didn’t feel good and we had to stay at the hotel while Dad played. Unfortunately, it’s not in the cards this time either, with spring training going on.
“What’s the plan?” I ask.
“We have a few places to go to.” He looks at his watch. “Breakfast with some of my former teammates who are in town for a charity event. After that, we have a rooftop gathering, and tonight, we’ll go to a cocktail/engagement party my parents are hosting for us.”
“Fantastic,” I say, deadpan. “When I visit cool cities, mingling with rich assholes is always on my itinerary.”
Lachlan laughs. It’s a real laugh, a carefree one. I feel my lips twitch, dying to break out in a smile, but I smother it and keep looking outside.
“Will we get married in a courthouse here?” I ask after a moment.
“We. . .” He clears his throat. “We were supposed to get married at the courthouse in Fairview.”
My head whips to face him. “I’m sorry, what?”
“It’s where we met,” he says, studying my face.
Oh. My. God. This motherfucker. A heat wave rolls through me and suddenly, I feel like one of those cartoons with smoke coming out of their ears. I won’t react, though. I won’t react. This man, who claims he wants my forgiveness, is trying to fake marry me at the place he knows I loathe, and he’s trying to make it sound romantic. I should slap some sense into him. I don’t. I don’t react at all. It’s the best thing I can do right now. It’s hard as hell to do with him, but I’m so livid that I manage.
“I said were, Lyla. Past tense,” he says quickly before I can get a word in.
“The fact that you’d even think of doing that.” I look outside.
The worst part is that I feel more betrayed than I do angry. A part of me wanted this to somehow work out. I thought I’d do this and somehow, we’d find our way to how we used to be together, but that seems impossible. My Lachlan, if he’s even in there, is buried too deep. The only reason I’m even entertaining that being a possibility is that he was somehow able to reach me when I thought it was impossible. Still, I never would have purposely hurt him. I may have been a bitch now and then, but I would never purposely humiliate him. I would never take him somewhere I knew he hated and forced him to marry me there. I cross my arms and keep my eyes outside until the car stops in front of a hotel across from The Bean. At least, I was able to see that.
He gets out of the car and waits for me to get my small purse out of my backpack and put some things in it, including my phone. When I slide over to his side, since it’s against the sidewalk, he holds his hand out for me. My treacherous heart skips, the moment my fingers meet his. I take my hand back quickly and rub my palm against the side of my jeans, as if it’ll erase the feel of him on it. I glance up to look down the street and notice his jaw clenching, as if wiping him off my hand somehow pissed him off. After speaking to the man up front, we take his advice and follow the signs that will lead us to the banquet room.
“What’s the charity?” I ask.
“Breast cancer,” he says. “One of the players’ wives was diagnosed last year. This was what she wanted to do for her birthday.”