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)
I tell myself that this reaction is nothing special; almost everyone who encounters August takes pause. He’s always been beautiful. Glossy hair so dark it’s nearly black, straight yet strong nose, firm lips, an almost aggressively stern square jawline: all of it lies in perfect symmetry.
Before the draft last spring, videos of August running drills at the NFL scouting combine went viral. Slow-motion shots of him sprinting were everywhere, prompting sports commentators to laughingly refer to August as a Roman god or runway model.
However, his eyes are the real kicker. I often wondered if anyone looked August Luck in the eye without feeling a little hitch of wonder. Deep set, under sweeping dark brows and framed by long black lashes, his blue-gray eyes are so pale and luminous, they appear sliver.
Lucky Eyes was what the Lucks were called in school. Neil Luck, their father, has grass-green eyes; Margo, their mother, sky blue. Combined, all their children have some shade of vivid green-through-icy-gray eyes that contrast so well with their dark hair.
With those quicksilver eyes alone, August can stop traffic. The whole package? He’s too beautiful for words. It has intimidated me my whole childhood. Whenever August Luck walked into a room, I’d soon leave it. Either that or suffer the humiliation of gawking at him, tongue-tied and red-faced.
Great green grapes, woman. Control yourself this time. Back the truck up and be cool.
“August?” I say again. For no reason whatsoever. And distinctly not cool. I have, unfortunately, lost the ability to formulate proper thoughts or actions. And it’s all his fault.
My interactions with him might have been bearable if August treated me with the same effortless charm he oozes on others, but he never has. When it’s between us, he’s stoic and distant, and I feel reduced to nothing more than a commercial interrupting his favorite game.
Only something strange is happening. He’s gawking too. As if I’m an alien that’s just landed and he’s not quite sure if he should wave a white flag or run for weapons.
Even more odd? His reaction makes something snap deep inside of me. Suddenly, I don’t feel tongue-tied anymore.
“Something wrong?” I ask.
August swallows hard, the line of his brows drawing together. “No. Uh . . . No.”
“Okay, then.” I gesture toward the entrance hall. “May I come in?”
He starts as though pinched. “What? Yeah. Sure. Sorry.”
Maybe I turned my car in the wrong direction a ways back and somehow unknowingly entered a parallel universe. That’s the only reason I can account for Mr. Rizz himself stumbling over his words and jerking back like he’s lost coordination. Hell, did he have a bad hit and get a concussion?
Craning my neck so I can study his eyes for dilated pupils, I ask him, “Are you all right?”
At that, August scowls, looking a bit more like himself. “Of course.” Then, as if it occurs to him that he’s acting strange, he sighs expansively and shakes his head. “Rough week. Sorry, Penelope.”
The image of him gyrating on a wobbly table fills my head. I bite my lip and glance away. Not before I see him flush again. He takes a bigger step back, and, when I ease past him, closes the door with a little more force than necessary.
“So . . . Penelope.” That’s all he says.
I nod gravely. “August.”
“Penelope.”
We’re back to that again?
As though reading my mind, he huffs, the corner of his mouth starts to curl.
“Augie? Did I hear the door . . .” Margo walks into the hall by way of the kitchen. She sees me and breaks into a beaming smile. “Penny!”
Before I can say a word, I’m enveloped in a wall of cool silk, warm bosom, and strong arms. Margo squeezes me tight and rocks a bit. It’s like being a kid again, but I don’t mind.
“It’s been so long,” she says, still hugging me.
I saw Margo at Mom’s place a few months ago, but I smile against her breasts—it’s a miracle I can breathe—and manage a muffled, “Missed you too. Happy birthday, Auntie Margo.” Her birthday was yesterday, but I didn’t want to intrude on the family then. Mom, however, ordered me to “get my butt over there” and wish her well, “pronto!”
Apparently, Mom’s insistence was valid because Margo squeezes me tighter and utters a weepy sounding, “Thank you!”
Aunt Margo isn’t really my aunt. She’s Mom’s best friend and college roommate. But we kids gave our mom’s friend the honorific of aunt. She’s also half a foot taller than me and loves hugs that last forever.
“You’re gonna make her tinkle,” says a deep voice.
I pull back, and Margo and I glare at August’s brother, March, as he saunters into the hallway. A year younger than August, he might as well be his twin. Except, where August is sternly handsome, March has a sunnier expression. Which is kind of odd, given that August, until this bizarre hall incident, has always been just as charismatic.