Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 136559 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136559 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
But even as we talk, I can feel the weight of the lies sitting between us.
I don’t think he can. And I don’t know if that makes me feel better…or worse.
Good thing I have a meeting with Chanda next. It’ll give me something else to focus on as I swing into a conference room in the marketing department to review the plan for the calendar. She already approved the first series of photos—on a Zamboni—and I’ll be shooting those today.
As she’s discussing the next round—a locker room melee scene with the pups, followed by a playful shot where the guys will sit in the stands with senior pups sharing seats next to them as if they’re all watching a hockey game—some of my tension begins to dissipate.
“Your concepts are great,” she says. “Really impressed with your creativity and your work. Glad Mako recommended you, and I’ve already been telling colleagues about you. You’ll be a hot commodity when he returns.”
“Wow. Thank you,” I say, both thrilled and grateful. But guilt prickles at the edges of my excitement, a little like whiplash—the emotions pulling me in opposite directions.
It should feel good. Really, it should.
But as I leave the meeting, the uncomfortable feeling creeps back—the sense that I don’t deserve that praise. A feeling, maybe, that I’m taking advantage of my situation. If everyone knew I was sleeping with Miles, would I still have this work? What do I do about this feeling though?
I glance at the time, mentally shifting gears to prep for the Zamboni shoot. Maybe I need to see Everly, talk to her about this, and figure out how to handle it. Just as I’m about to tap out a text to her, a familiar figure catches my eye at the end of the hallway.
Miles.
He turns the corner, and when his gaze finds mine, a wave of calm washes over me. A burst of happiness too. He’s the one I want to share my days with. A quick nod to the stairwell door from him, and I follow without hesitation.
“How did it go with your dad?” he asks, leaning casually against the railing.
I make a see-saw motion with my hand. “Okay-ish?”
“Sorry,” he says sympathetically.
“Not your fault.”
“But it kind of is.”
Is it though? Or is it mine? I can’t spiral into those questions now, and I shake my head firmly. “It’ll be fine,” I say, trying to sound more confident than I feel. I don’t want to bother him with these feelings when he has a lot to lose too. “Don’t worry about me.”
“But I do,” he says.
“Let’s do the shoot.” If we stay here, I’ll give into the urge to melt into him.
“You sure?”
“I am.” As much as I want to talk to him, I want to look out for him too. It’s the least I can do for him.
“You go first,” he says with a hint of caution.
I push the door open and step out into the hallway, where my heart seizes. Rounding the corner ahead of me is the power trio: Clementine, Eleanor, and Zaire. AKA the GM, the owner, and the VP of marketing.
Panic flashes like lightning, but I lecture my primitive brain sternly. You’re fine. You’re not doing anything wrong. Put one foot in front of the other.
They’re not even walking toward me, but headed in the opposite direction.
I straighten my posture, keeping my steps even and casual, while my pulse sprints ahead. What would they think if they knew the truth? Would they care? Would Chanda be less inclined to refer me to others?
This romance with Miles isn’t against the rules of the team or the organization, but it feels like it is. Deep down, I know all this sneaking around is bound to catch up with us.
39
THE ZAMBONI OUTLAW
Miles
If I wasn’t a hockey player, I’d be a Zamboni driver. Actually, scratch that. I want to be a Zamboni driver whose dog comes to work with him every day, sitting right next to me like this cool dude Frank here. He’s a Pit Bull-Boxer-Cattle-Dog mix with a brindle coat that looks like it was ordered from the Cool Dog catalogue, and the senior mutt is sporting an excellent frosty face. Fitting for an old guy, since his chill factor is off the charts. He’s just sitting here, hanging with me as I take the Zamboni for a spin around the rink before our game tonight, while the world’s sexiest, most captivating woman takes pictures for the calendar.
My life right now is basically perfect.
“Why did I wait so long to drive a Zamboni again?” I call out to Tyler, who’s lingering near the edge of the ice, holding onto a leash attached to a three-legged German Shepherd. The dog has a wild energy, faster than most four-legged ones I’ve seen.
“Because you’re an idiot,” Tyler shouts back.