Total pages in book: 145
Estimated words: 141425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 707(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 707(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
Still, I should do better. I can’t be napping at the nanny’s.
Sabrina rises, closing her book with a quick snap. “I’ll leave you to it,” she says. “I really should prepare for my lessons next week anyway.” Once again, she helped out on her own, going the extra mile, like she did with the stars and moon.
“Thanks again,” I say as she makes her way out of the living room.
Before she leaves though, she turns around. “I use it on my calves. The Theragun. They get sore.”
And you know what? That’s still fucking hot. And I still want to be the one to use it on her.
“Let me know if you ever need help,” I say, my voice a little gravelly with remnants of sleep.
“I will,” she says, her gaze…is it hopeful?
I head to the staircase to check on the kids.
Before I reach it, she says, her voice tinged with nerves but also excitement, “Tomorrow’s your home opener. I can bring the kids. We should really all go, don’t you think? To cheer you on.”
I can’t think of a thing I’d rather have right now than all of them in the stands. “Yes.”
15
BEDAZZLING
Sabrina
I might have returned the hoodie Tyler gave me on my wedding night, but it seems to have boomeranged back to me. When I wake up on Sunday morning, I find a peach-colored gift bag outside my door with a sweatshirt inside. The same one I returned months ago, I think.
I tug it out, and a note flutters onto the floor.
I don’t know if you have any Sea Dogs gear, but I know this—you need it tonight. Don’t break my heart by wearing anything but team gear, Snow.
P.S. If you like jerseys better, I left one of those too. The kids will wear theirs. Remember—matchy-matchy is cool. At least I just decided it is.
—T
A smile tugs at my lips as I slip my hand back into the bag, pulling out a jersey in royal blue with his number—forty-four—and his name emblazoned across the back.
My mind immediately whirs with plans for it. I can’t help but imagine ways to make it my own. But first, I pick up the note and head back into my apartment. Inside, I cross the small living room, already mentally filing the jersey gift under perfectly unexpected things Tyler does.
I set the note carefully into a journal I keep on my nightstand, the one I use to jot down a good thing that’s happened to me each day. The journal is pink and white with illustrations of sassy women in flouncy skirts and teetering heels crossing cobblestoned streets.
Isla picked it up for me for my birthday since she’s a notebook devotee too—though she’s hooked on planners. Well, that’s understandable. Planners look fun.
Sometimes I feel a little silly keeping one. Do adults keep journals? But it’s a reclaiming of all the tracking I did when I was a teenager. Rather than record the minutes I worked out—and really, in retrospect, would an extra fifteen minutes a day of squats have changed my fate at the Olympics?—I now write down one good thing.
Flipping it open, I tuck the new note beside the one from the sheets and the first one he left—the one from the hotel room that morning after. But I stop and reread it, the kind words hitting me right in the solar plexus all over again, especially this line—You deserve someone who lets you shine.
Then I flip forward a few pages and read last night’s good thing—we’ll be shopping for disco balls soon!
Closing the journal, I cross to my dresser and grab a pair of leggings, then throw them on as I mentally prepare for the day. I have some fun plans for activities with the kids. Leighton is an avid geocacher since her guy, Miles, is too, and they do it together. But since Miles and Tyler have game prep, Leighton will take the kids and me on some of her favorite beginner routes.
When I head upstairs, the fading smell of pancakes drifts down the hall. Tyler must have made them before he left for morning skate. I find the kids already in the kitchen. Luna is perched on a stool, swinging her legs, making a playlist—from the looks of it, for her next skating routine—while Parker builds a wing on a Lego spaceship.
“Hey there!” I call, stepping into the kitchen and clocking in for nanny duty.
Luna points to a plate of pancakes. “Hi! Dad said to tell you he left some pancakes for you. They’re made with banana, hemp hearts, and whole-wheat flour, and the syrup is all natural.”
Tyler knows me well already. “Sounds delish,” I say, grabbing a fork, then greeting Parker. Before I dig in, I brandish the jersey. “Hey, Luna. I think this could use some sparkle.”
Her eyes widen as she gasps. “Can we add glitter too?”