Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 135539 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135539 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
And then this. This fucking joke. Marry him? Har. Just hardy-har-har. So funny, August. Really.
“You’re fuming.” He sounds concerned. Worried. He should be. I have drawing pens in my bag and I’m not afraid to stick them in painful places.
“I’m not.” I don’t know how I manage to get the words out so calmly. But I’m proud of my aplomb.
“You so are. You sound like a constipated robot.”
Well, then.
“And you sound like a . . . a . . . big penis spew!”
A woman walking past does a double take.
August chokes on a laugh, his stride tripping. “A what?”
He laughs again, all amused insouciance, but I see the tightness around his icy eyes.
“You heard me. Whatever. I’m trying not to curse in public.”
“And penis spew is acceptable?”
Oh, he’s loving this. I want to stomp on his big size thirteens.
“Shut up.” There’s no heat to my demand; I’m too embarrassed to form words with any force.
He bites his lower lip. “Look, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have sprung it on you like that.”
“You shouldn’t have said it at all. That was mean.”
“Mean?” He stops mid-stride, taking me by the elbow so I have to halt too. Foot traffic breaks and flows around us like we’re rocks in a stream. “No, Penelope. It was an honest proposal.”
What? What?
“What!” Apparently, I’m stuck on the word.
His handsome face twists in a grimace. “Shit. I am so fucking this up.”
“You think?”
He runs a hand through his hair, making the ends stick up wildly. “Look, I’m parked in the lot. Can we talk while I drive you home?”
His expression earnest, and my curiosity is running wild. I wilt.
“Okay, but if you pull any more wack shit, if you haul off and ask me to have your baby, or say you have twenty-four hours to live and need a kidney, I’m going to be very put out.”
“I kind of like angry Penelope.”
“Shut. Up.”
“On it.” He does the zipped-lip gesture, but it doesn’t hide the twinkle in his eyes.
“It’s lucky for you that you’re so cute.”
August’s brows lift high. “Cute, huh?”
“I didn’t mean to say that out loud.” I turn and continue walking, ignoring the wide, delighted grin on his jerk face.
We maintain a strained silence as August leads us to his parked car. When we exit the terminal, he takes a ratty Bass Pro Shops cap the color of hot dog mustard from his bag and pulls it on low. A pair of mirrored aviator glasses follow. His entire demeanor changes, from his confident stride to a soft shuffling. It takes me a moment to realize he is adopting a disguise.
I had forgotten: August Luck is famous.
Famous enough that his hat, glasses, and unassuming walk doesn’t stop a schluby-looking guy hanging out by the arrivals gate from turning his massive camera our way and taking a couple of shots.
“Ignore him,” August says. Now that he’s been caught, he straightens his shoulders and walks in his usual loose-hipped stride. “Or try to. I know it’s hard—hell.”
His lips pinch as he glances at me. “I forgot to warn you. There might be pictures of us on the plane.”
“On the plane,” I parrot.
“Yeah. People take sneak shots. There was one of me sleeping on the flight to Boston.”
“They do that?” I know I sound naive when, in actuality, I’m pissed.
But he seems to get that. His smile is wry. “I’m in public, thus I am public domain in their eyes.”
“I bet it’s a lot easier to say that when pointing the camera rather than being pinned under its lens.”
“True. But you’ll never get people to admit it.” He holds the door to the parking garage stairs for me. “I’m sorry, though. I should have warned you so you had the choice to back out of flying with me.”
I stop short. “I’d never do that, August. Not for that reason.”
He stares at me for a beat, then we keep walking. Looking at him from under my lashes, I remember how long he’s been famous. The Luck Boys, as the press calls them, have been in the public eye since they were just kids. But it got really intense when they started college. How could a needy press ignore model handsome, incredibly talented siblings who were already part of a football dynasty? Impossible.
The garage smells of garbage, jet fumes wafting and the slow, hot baking of asphalt. But the light is dim, and my head filled with possible ways to comfort August, so I don’t initially see where he’s leading me. When he pulls out his keys, my fog clears, and I snap to attention.
“Is that . . .” I stare at the ancient SUV hulking in the parking space.
August glances over and a pleased expression spreads over his face. “The Grouch? Yeah.”
Blood whooshes to my feet, and I become a little lightheaded. The Grouch is a duck green, 1989 Jeep Wagoneer, complete with wood-paneled sides. Its formal name is Oscar the Grouch. Legend has it, my dad called it that as a kid because the big truck was always growling.