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)
She picks up a framed photo. “Is this your sister with the Give Plants a Chance bumper sticker on the beer tap?”
I can’t see the pic from here, but I’m sure which one it is. “Yes. That’s Charlie. She owns a punk rock vegan bar in Darling Springs.”
“And I love her already,” Leighton says, then sets it down.
“So, I’m heading out of town tomorrow,” I say, hoping to steer things that way as I bring her the glass.
She takes it with a thank you then picks up a photo of my mom and Harvey with their four Chihuahuas. And that could be a good entry. “They’re cute.”
“My mom and stepdad. They have four rescue Chihuahuas. They like to travel, and sometimes I dog-sit when I’m in town,” I say, then return to the kitchen, pulling out ingredients from the fridge. “I travel a lot for my job.”
After she takes a sip, she tilts her head thoughtfully. “Huh. That’s not typical for your line of work, is it?”
So, she doesn’t know what I do—or maybe she knows something and just doesn’t care. Kind of refreshing, really.
“Actually, it’s pretty normal,” I say, grabbing a jar of marinated artichokes and a pepper. She’s studying another photo now, the one of my brother and me at a Supernova game. Tyler’s in his game gear; I wasn’t playing that night, so I’m just in a Sea Dogs hoodie in the picture.
Her eyes flick to me, widening with recognition as she holds up a photo. “Is this you and…a Supernova?”
I smile, setting down the knife. This is the perfect moment to explain things since she seems to be a hockey fan. “Yeah, my brother’s on the Los Angeles team. I, uh…play hockey too.” I try to read her expression as she processes this.
Her face goes pale, and her gaze shifts down to the food I’m chopping on the cutting board. “You’re…not a chef?”
I frown. So there was something to her chef comment earlier. I pick up the jar of artichokes, loosening the top. “No. You called me a chef earlier. Why did you think that?”
She stares at me, her voice almost a whisper. “Birdie told me you were one—a chef.” Her voice is heavy, full of dread. “You’re not just a Sea Dogs fan,” she says, absently waving her hand to where the hoodies hang. “You play for Noah McBride?”
I blink. I didn’t expect her to jump straight to the coach. “Yes. Are you a big fan of his?”
Only that hardly adds up. He played more than a decade ago.
“You could say that,” she says, her voice tight. “He’s my dad.”
The jar of artichokes slips from my hand, hitting the floor with a clatter. For the first time all day, I have no words.
9
HOW TO CUT A DATE SHORT
Leighton
“But…but Birdie said you’re a chef!” I point out, my voice shooting toward the sky, as if somehow repeating Birdie’s words could erase the absolute horror of what Miles has just admitted.
And horror is on his face too. “I wish I were a chef! No, I’m not. What the fuck would make her say that?”
I point wildly in the direction of Fillmore Street, as if pointing to his grandmother. “She told me you were. She said not to bring up your job—that’s why I didn’t say anything. I was trying to be respectful.”
His eyes flash with frustration, but I catch a flicker of realization in them, too, as he stares at the ceiling for a beat, like he can’t believe this is actually happening. He looks back at me, finally. “And she told me not to discuss my job with you. She said nobody wants to hear about that on a first date. She said to talk about other things. Holy fuck—I should have told you what I did sooner.”
He drags a hand across his brow, looking like he’s received the worst news of his life. And honestly, it kind of is.
“You’re…Miles Falcon,” I say, since I need to voice it out loud, and as I do, the truth hits me with full force. I didn’t put Miles the chef together with Miles Falcon the Sea Dog, because why would I? I legit thought he was a chef; I don’t study the pictures of the players on my dad’s team. I haven’t been to a game in a while, since I studied abroad the year I think he joined, and, well, I’ve been pretty busy in the last year too. “You don’t look like a hockey player. You look like…” I flap my hands at him, still adding up how the hell this misunderstanding has happened. “Well, you look like a chef. With the boots and the black and the glasses.”
He sighs heavily. “Yeah, well, I only cook for fun. I play hockey for work. And I thought you knew.”