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)
I scratch the dog’s soft chin. “I hope he finds a second chance,” I say.
Just like I did. And since I can’t take them all home, or any dog for that matter, I write a big check before we leave.
Later, after practice, I’m still making calls, trying to find a reliable dog-sitter in the area at the last minute. Surely my mom’s mutts aren’t the only ones who need specialized care.
But I’m not making much progress. The call I’m on with a dog hotel asking for recommendations seems to be going nowhere as I pace down the corridor outside the weight room. “Thanks anyway for checking. I’ll look at the pet-sitting apps,” I say, even though I’ve been on them all morning to no avail. I hang up, frustrated and annoyingly helpless.
I heave a sigh as Coach turns around the corner, then stops when he sees me. “How’s it going? Everything okay?” he asks with real concern.
So it’s that obvious? I’d better get it together since I don’t need him to see me struggling. But then again, he can already see that I’m frustrated. Maybe part of being a leader is admitting when you need help. It’s not easy, but here goes.
I scratch my jaw. “I’m in a bind with my mom’s feisty little dogs. I need a dog-sitter I trust who can stay at my place when I’m on the road during their cruise,” I say, then add the dates.
I don’t usually share stuff like this with him. Is he going to brush it off with a half-hearted “good luck,” or is he actually going to give me some solid advice?
Because I could seriously use it right now.
Coach’s lips twitch. A glint flickers in his eyes. “I’ve got someone for you.”
29
A THANK YOU GIFT
Leighton
I should turn down this opportunity to stay at Miles’s house when he’s on the road, but I can’t find a single compelling reason to. Especially since we won’t be there at the same time—no temptations, no complications. We’ll be ships passing in the night. Exactly what I need and what he needs too.
“You get a break from your roommates and make some extra money watching the dogs,” my father says, resting a hand on my shoulder here in the corridor by the locker room. “And Miles gets the help he needs, plus someone to take excellent pictures for his mom. In fact, he’s willing to pay a bonus for photos.”
Funny thing—the bonus happens to cover exactly half the rent my dad’s been trying to get me to agree to if we split a place for a month. He’s too clever for his own good.
I can’t poke holes in his logic, no matter how hard I try. But does Miles really want this? I’m weighing how to pull him aside and ask if he’s truly okay with me staying there when Dad cuts through my overthinking with a simple, “You’d be helping so much.”
It’s said earnestly, with a hint of pleading in his voice I’ve never heard before. So I say yes.
Two days later, I’m bouncing in my seat as the bus trundles along Marina Green, the bay sparkling under the bright October sun. My pink duffel bag rests beside me along with my trusty camera bag. A buzz zips through me. The idea of wrangling four small, wild dogs has me grinning—far more fun than managing the relationship antics of Indigo and Ezra.
When the bus groans to a stop three blocks from Miles’s place in the Marina, I leap up, grabbing my bags like I’m stepping off a bus in some old Hollywood movie, ready to take on the world. I hit the sidewalk and collide—literally—with a wall of man.
A familiar wall of man.
Broad chest, unruly dark hair, and a tattooed forearm topped off with that vegan leather bracelet I didn’t let him trade in more than a year ago at the lockbox. The best part, though? Miles is standing in front of me wearing a black T-shirt and jeans. Not only do I get to stare at his ropey arms, but I also get to admire the denim. No one in the world looks as good in jeans as Miles Falcon. They hug his thighs, snuggle against his firm ass, and love his legs like they were tailor-made for him. Which, knowing how hockey does unholy things to men’s asses, they probably were.
Before I can say anything, he grabs my bags. “Let me get those,” he says, already slinging the duffel over his shoulder.
I don’t even bother protesting. “I told you I’d be here at eleven,” I say, tilting my head at him. “How’d you know exactly when the bus would arrive?”
He shoots me a crooked grin. “I checked the schedule and waited. I wanted to carry your things for you.”
My chest flutters. It’s such a small gesture, but it feels so...him. Thoughtful. Quietly intentional. Like showing up when I needed to move a few weeks ago, or finding me after work to offer a ride home.