Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 119852 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 599(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 400(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119852 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 599(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 400(@300wpm)
Sighing heavily, he turns to me with a dark, bitter look. Shit, I haven’t seen him this far gone in ages, like the venomous voice in his head is winning.
Even so, his argument is sound as he tells me (again), “You heard her say the same things I did, but did you actually listen? She didn’t just say no. She told us loud and clear that whatever this is… or was… isn’t something she can do. Not that she didn’t want to, not that she didn’t enjoy the hell out of it, or that she won’t, but that she can’t. You’ve gotta respect that she has this whole life where she’s this big, powerful, important person, and neither of us is the type of guy she’s gonna walk into some fancy-schmancy gala with. And she’s certainly not gonna do that with both of us.”
Okay, he has a point there. Of the two of us, I’m more likely to do the tuxedo thing for a charity ball, but even so, I’ve never actually worn a tuxedo in my life. Even when I got drafted by the Devils, I wore the black suit I’d previously worn to my grandpa’s funeral and a pink tie because Mom had just had a breast cancer scare. But seeing Kayla’s life online, I think she probably attends formal functions on the regular. But if having her in our lives comes down to my getting comfortable in a suit, I’ll figure out how to tie a bowtie myself and strap one on every day. She’d be worth it.
“Maybe we came on too hard?” I suggest. “She did say that we should’ve called her.” I’m reaching and I know it, but I’m not a giver-upper. It’s not in my nature.
Riggs thinks I brush everything off easily, but that’s not true. Sure, something minor like traffic, no big deal, or missing a shot, it sucks but it happens. But big things not going my way wears on me. Of course it does. I’d have to be inhuman for it not to. I just don’t dwell on shit like he does, which is to say outwardly, where everyone knows you’re in a mood. I push that shit down, underneath smiles and jokes, and carry on, dealing with it later. Or never. Still, I can’t let Kayla go that easily. This thing with her feels more like hockey, like something I need to keep banging away at until it happens. Until I make it happen.
“Called as opposed to showing up unannounced at her office,” Riggs clarifies. “That doesn’t mean she wants us to call her.” He can see that while I’m listening, I’m not hearing him, and goes for a blunt reminder. “You don’t even know her number, so you can’t call her anyway. Let it go, man. Let her go.”
I wish I could.
No, that’s not true. I wouldn’t wish away the sense of rightness I felt with her and Riggs that night. And it’s not like he’s doing any better at letting Kayla go. This has been tearing him up all weekend, so he’s talking to himself as much as he is to me.
“I did take Kayla’s business card from Angeline, so I have her office number, which is as good as it probably gets,” I tell him. “It’s not like you can get a direct line to a woman like Kayla Harrington.”
He rolls his eyes, turning to the beeping microwave. “Remember the part where she thought we were stalking her? You’re dangerously close to standing ten toes down in felony territory.”
“Not stalking, pursuing,” I drawl out. He glances over his shoulder, his eyes warning me that I’m going too far. Reluctantly, I admit, “Okay, yeah, I heard it that time. How about courting instead? In a romantic, Hallmark movie sort of way.” I make it sound sweet and cute, despite my thoughts about Kayla being anything but.
Arms spread and palms flat on the counter, he stares at his steaming food. He’s going to cave, I can feel it. He can’t let her go any more than I can. “I’m not saying yes,” he says firmly, “but what exactly do you have in mind?”
“Flowers,” I say with complete surety. Then, I hold up a finger to stop Riggs before he can argue with me. “Not roses.” He clacks his mouth shut, his fight deflating. “Obviously. That’d be boring and expected, and I think we can agree that a woman like Kayla Harrington warrants more creativity than that. No, I’m thinking a huge, dramatic, mixed bouquet. Pink? But not pale pink. More like a mix from blush to fuchsia. Girly and pretty, but vibrant and strong. Like Kayla.” I’m making it up as I go along, but in my mind, I can picture an arrangement worthy of a wedding, and hopefully not our funeral.