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)
My phone buzzes.
Pickle: It’s done. Hold on to your butts.
Despite the unsettled state of my nerves, I instantly feel lighter, bubbly even. August Luck: the original champagne high. Settling in more comfortably, I tap out a reply.
Pen: Jurassic Park remains superior in the franchise
Pickle: IDK, I kind of liked Jurassic World too
Pen: Eh. I kept wanting that velociraptor to bite off Chris Pratt’s hand
Pickle: blood thirsty Pen. I like it.
( . . . )
Pickle: You got that I meant I told everyone about us?
About us. Like we were a thing. In some ways we are. Partners in crime.
Pen: Yes. I’m in avoidance mode. That was the first time I’d heard my name on national TV
Pickle: You watched it?
Pen: Of course. It’s not every day a guy says I’m his true love and that I kicked his heart in, causing him to do the chicken dance. I had to soak it in, you know?
Pickle: And there’s salty Pen. Can we not talk about the dance anymore. Like ever?
Pen: So that shot I got blown up and framed of you gyrating while wearing a purple fur is a no-go for over my bed?
The phone vibrates with a silent ring. Uh-oh. I’m in trouble. Fighting a grin, I answer. “Penelope Morrow, first-time fiancée, longtime man-killer, speaking.”
August’s warmly amused voice tickles my ear. “Keep teasing, see what happens.”
“Now I’m intrigued. What dance can I expect next? The Macarena, perhaps?”
“Ha ha. I’ll have you know I took ballroom dancing with all the Luck kids for two miserable summers. I can waltz you so good you’ll think you’re on air.”
“Stop. ‘You had me at hello.’” I giggle—a sexy giggle, damn it. “‘You had me at hello.’”
“It’s a good thing you’re marrying me, then,” he drawls.
Yep. Still makes my insides sway. I grip my phone with a hand that’s gone clammy.
“In all seriousness,” I say. “You did good.”
“Thank you.” There’s a beeping like he’s opened a car door, then the rumble of an engine turning over. “Got PR training in freshman year. And another round when I was drafted. It’s annoying but part of the job.”
“And your PR is okay with this? Truly?”
“It was their idea to say I was acting out over a broken heart.”
I’m still not sure how I feel about that. But I adopt a light tone. “Smart of them.”
A dubious grunt is his response.
“You okay with this?” he asks. “I know it hits different once it’s out there.”
“Pickle, I’m fine.”
“Penelope . . .” He trails off to heavy silence.
“Yes?”
There’s a pause before he speaks. “Thank you for this. Now that it’s real, I can’t help but think it’s fucking heroic of you.”
My heart skips and stumbles in my tight chest. “Hardly that.”
“You put yourself out there in a public light that can be cruel. For me. I didn’t expect—” He exhales audibly. “Whatever happens, I will always be there for you, Pen. You understand that, right?”
A lump swells within my throat, and I swallow past it. “I do. And me too. We’re partners now.”
When August answers, his voice is deeper. “Partners.”
Fourteen
August
One of the benefits of playing for my team is that they charter private planes. Not every team does. Some have their own, some simply go with a commercial carrier, but it’s nice not to have to go through TSA or cram myself into a regular airline seat—often only the top players get first class, and definitely not college players.
A hired car takes me from the hotel straight to the tarmac. I grab my bag and head up the boarding stairs. None of the other guys are around, which feels off, and I’m starting to worry I got the times wrong. Jan has been on me to hire an assistant, and I’ve dragged my feet about it. I had one in college, but he was doing it for credit, and it felt weird as hell at the time. Sure, I needed the help, but part of me always felt two steps removed from other students as it was; having an assistant made it more so. But this is my job now. I already have Gracie, my nutritionist, Hakeem, my trainer, and a fleet of team staff on hand. Might as well take the next step.
Such thoughts distract me enough that I don’t initially notice the plane is full when I walk into the cabin. Someone snickers. I stop short.
“What the fuck?”
Laughter erupts, giddy and gleeful as a plane full of big-ass man-children double over in their hilarity. The fuckos have veils on. Glittery tiaras that barely fit their big heads.
“The groom has arrived!” Jelly calls out.
Everyone cheers, or catcalls—it’s dead even. In the center of their chaos, Rhodes clutches a human-sized stuffed chicken dressed up like a bride. He wiggles enticingly as he does a little gyration of his hips.
“You’re all nuts,” I tell them, trying not to laugh.