Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 113072 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113072 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
He sighs. “The jokes I could make right now.”
“Oh, Hotshot. Don’t ever change.” Her eyes are stinging as she says it.
“Zoe… This just isn’t right. We weren’t hurting anyone.”
“I know. But I got the usual lecture anyway. Champions make sacrifices. Blah-blah-blah.”
“But did she say, ‘Boys only want one thing’?”
Zoe snorts. “Probably. I tuned her out.” A silence descends upon them, and it’s just sad. They always know what to say to each other. Always. “You know what we need?” she blurts. “A mini getaway.”
“Can I get an amen?”
“No, really.” Her heart thumps with newfound daring. “We could go away for a night. Just sneak out after curfew. Who’s really going to know?”
“That sounds risky,” he says, but his voice is intrigued.
“We wouldn’t go tomorrow, because she’ll check on me for sure. But maybe this weekend? Are you ever not on call?”
It takes him a second to answer. “Well, no. I’m the only male counselor. But nobody ever needs me. And I’d bring my phone. Are you serious about this plan?”
“Dead serious. But don’t say yes if you don’t want to.”
His laugh is low and husky. “Oh, I want to. You have no idea.”
“Then you’d better find us somewhere to stay,” she says sweetly. “Do you think you could do that?”
“For you? Anything,” he says. “Anything at all.”
Chapter 24
Present Day
In the morning, I put the creepy note out of my mind and spend another few hours scouting with ButterScorch, followed by several hours in my hotel room writing up my reports.
On the plus side, I’m editing these reports while dining on a fifty-dollar room-service lunch. I’m stirring my Ritz coffee with a literal silver spoon.
My job is a little weird and a little wonderful. I only hope I can hang on to it.
Things get even better a few hours later when I slip into a plush pedicure chair at the nail salon that Darcy has found for us. The faint scent of lavender wafts around me as warm water bubbles around my lucky feet.
I can’t really afford this splurge, but it sure is nice.
Across from me sits Kim, a young nail technician with sleek black hair swept into a bun. She’s arranging her tools on a tray with the precision of an artist. “Is there any particular shape you prefer for your nails?” she asks.
I’m a jock who rarely makes time for a pedicure, so I just shrug. “Do whatever you think is best.”
She frowns. “Did you choose a nail color?”
Oops.
“How about I choose for both of us? For luck.” Darcy holds up a bottle. “See?”
The nail polish is in Legends blue. “Good idea. Why be normal when we can be superstitious?”
“Right? And if we win tonight,” Darcy says, “we’ll have to get new pedicures in the same color every two weeks for the rest of the season.”
“Maybe we can even expense it.”
We both laugh, and the nail technician squints at us, but she doesn’t say anything. She goes to work on my right foot, while the left rests in a warm bath.
Darcy sighs happily beside me. “This is the highest use of my dinner break.”
“Yeah,” I agree, sinking a little deeper into the chair as Kim’s skilled hands massage my arches. “I’m grateful you’re wasting it on me.”
“Totally worth it,” Darcy agrees. “I’ll spend my per diem money on food at the stadium.”
Ten minutes later, Darcy and I are having a very important discussion about whether or not skinny jeans are back when the salon door swings open to admit my nemesis.
Steve Sailor.
“Oh shit,” Darcy whispers, raising her magazine to hide her face. “He tracked us here.”
“How?” I demand. Unfortunately I don’t have a magazine to hide behind.
“My phone belongs to the Legends, and when we’re traveling, anyone in management can see my location.”
“Well, that’s a terrible deal,” I mutter.
Sailor glances at the customers seated at manicure tables and frowns. But then he gets a clue and raises his gaze to the row of pedicure chairs in back.
“Busted.” Darcy sighs.
The manager at the reception desk gives him a glare, but Sailor swaggers in our direction anyway. “Evening, ladies!” Without asking permission, he jumps onto the dais and plops down in the empty pedicure chair beside mine.
“Can I help you?” the manager asks, her voice chilly.
“Just here for a quick chat.”
“Steve,” Darcy says primly. “You can’t take the seat of a paying customer. If you want to sit and talk with us, you’ll need to get a pedicure.”
I mentally high-five Darcy as Sailor frowns. But then? He leans over and pulls one of his shoelaces. “Fine,” he says curtly. “I’d like a pedicure, please. At least my boyfriend will appreciate it.”
“Well played, sir,” Darcy says.
“You really thought you’d get rid of me that easily?” he asks, removing his shoes and socks as another technician hurries over to take charge. “I’m a tough competitor.”