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 big brother, famous for his dogged determination, waits patiently.
On the cold counter, my hand curls into a fist. May’s wailing lament returns inside my head.
I wanted it to be true!
Pen
“You’re dragging your feet.”
At August’s proclamation, I scowl at the phone. “I am not.”
Apparently, our united front in the face of his sisters’ wrath cleared away most of the awkward tension our denied practice kiss created. I still get flashes of want and don’t know how to make that go away. Baby steps.
“You could have cleared that room of yours out in a couple of hours,” he says dispassionately. “Yet you’re over there once again, picking through your stuff.”
“It’s been three days since she kicked me out. Stop rushing me.”
“Penelope, we both know you’re stalling.”
“I am not stalling.” I might be stalling. Just a teeny bit. With a huff, I pack up another bag. “Need I remind you that I have to transport things via my bike?”
“No, you need not remind me, Ms. Granny.”
Granny. Ha!
“My sisters are visiting you,” he goes on, “with a rental car. Why aren’t they helping?”
“They suckered Jan into taking them to Disney Land for the day.”
“Why didn’t you go with them?”
Because my first game day is tomorrow, and I’m suddenly nervous as hell. “Because I have to pack up my things. See? Not dragging my feet.”
“Then why didn’t you let me help you move everything when I offered yesterday?”
“I don’t know why this bothers you so much.” I toss an old playbill in the “Maybe” pile. “Unless this has to do with your ranidaphobia?”
He makes a sound of baffled amusement. “Rani-da-what?”
“Fear of frogs.”
He scoffs with dry humor. “Edward and I are cool. And maybe we should talk about your phobia of accepting this very good change in your life. Got a clinical name for that?”
It’s a well-known fact among the Lucks that I keep an ongoing list of phobia names. Not for any reason other than I like learning them.
“Metathesiophobia,” I mutter. “And I don’t suffer from that!”
“Thank God,” he intones. “Because it was a mouthful.”
Despite myself, a soft laugh escapes. “Okay, fine. I’m dragging my feet.”
“I’m marking this day down in my calendar. Penelope admits that I am right.”
“About this one thing!”
“Details.”
Our accord lasts about as long as a smile. August proceeds to tell me—make that order me—to have everything packed up by noon because he’s coming to move my things. I maintain that I can do it myself and he doesn’t have to help; I know how busy he is. August finds this insulting, stating that he most certainly has time for me.
We bicker it out for a bit, but the same stubborn drive that made him the top draft pick rears its head, and I concede, fearing that I just might have a bit of a phobia over big changes. He gives me points for accepting defeat with such grace. His sarcasm is not amusing. Sadly, he can’t see me sticking my tongue out through the phone. But I have a feeling he knows anyway.
At twelve on the dot, he knocks and I answer. A wall of man flesh stands in the threshold.
“Pen,” Augusts says by way of greeting. “Meet your movers, Trent Gellis, aka Jelly, tight end. And Roderick Rhodes, wide receiver. He goes by Rhodes.” He cants his head toward me with a smile. “Gentlemen, my dear sweet Penelope.”
God. If I’m not beet red it’s a miracle.
“Miss Pen.” The tight end Jelly tips an imaginary hat as he gives me a friendly smile. About two inches taller than August, he appears to have naturally pale skin that’s gone ruddy and freckled in the sun. The ends of his spiky light brown hair are bleached almost white, as are his lashes, which makes his brown eyes seem stark. But they hold good humor and warmth.
Feeling awkward, I give him what I hope is a good smile—not too much teeth, damn that August. “Hey.”
Rhodes steps in with him. Rhodes’s copper-brown skin glows with good health. He’s shortest of the three at around six feet, but incredibly built. Muscles on top of muscles, but moving with such graceful swagger, I just know he’s more limber than I’ll ever be. With curled lashes framing shining brown eyes and a deep dimple in his right cheek, he has a sweetness that belies his size. “Good to meet you, Penelope.”
Yes, I’m most definitely blushing. I shake his offered hand and return the greeting.
August fights a smile as he guides his friends farther into the living room, like he knows how disarmed I am and thinks it’s cute. “You ready, Sweets?”
“Yes, but it’s not that much.” I look at his friends. “You didn’t have to take time out of your day for this.”
“Of course we did,” Jelly insists. He glances around in interest, then his gaze returns to me. “I was looking forward to meeting you.”