Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 98324 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98324 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
“Yeah, hang on. I’ll ask her.” Eric puts his phone to his ear. “Hey, Mom,” he says a moment later.
“Eric!” The connection is so loud that both of us wince. “Are you on your way home soon? We’ll do lunch at the graveyard. You haven’t visited your brother in ages.”
His gaze flips up to mine, checking to see if I heard that. And the look of surprise on my face probably confirms that I did.
Lunch at the graveyard?
“You can stay the week…” his mother chirps.
“I can’t,” he says quickly. “I mean, I’m coming for the shower. But I’m not going to linger.”
“Eric…”
“Mom, I’m busy. I’m supposed to…” He hesitates, and I see frustration flicker over his features. What could he possibly be busy doing during a week when he’d been expecting to play in the finals?
Am I a terrible person for enjoying this awkwardness? “Shaving your playoff beard?” I suggest. “Fumigating your hockey bag?”
He glances at me again, and then his eyes light up. “… I’m busy practicing my dance-off number.”
There’s a peal of joyous laughter from his phone. “You can do that here.”
“No, I can’t.” His voice rises in panic. “Because it’s a duet. I’m practicing with my date, and then I’m taking her to the beach. She’s had a tough month, too.”
We lock eyes, and this pronouncement sort of hangs in the steamy Florida air for a split second.
I won’t lie, the sound of Eric Tremaine referring to me as his date makes my belly flutter. Even if he did it for nefarious purposes.
Then his mother takes a sharp breath. “Your DATE! Oh, Eric! I can’t wait to meet her! Tell me everything!”
We’re still staring at each other, but Eric’s eyes widen in an oh shit kind of way. “Uh, Mom? Gotta go. The bus is here. I’ll call you back. Love you!” He ends the call and then takes a deep breath. “Okay. Well. That escalated quickly.” He tips his head back and gazes up at the vaulted hotel ceiling. “God. What have I done?”
“In the first place,” I point out. “You failed to ask about the wedding registry.”
He groans.
“And now your mother thinks I’m…” I can’t actually say it aloud.
“My date for the shower,” he says quietly. “God, Darcy, I’m sorry. That was really…”
“Ridiculous?” I let out a nervous laugh. As if Eric didn’t turn up in my dreams. Regularly.
“I was going to say presumptuous.” He rocks back on his heels. “Oh God, I shouldn’t call her when I’m hungover. You don’t have to be my date. I can call her back after my headache lifts.”
Ouch. “Did you take something for that?”
He shakes his head.
I dig into my bag, producing the kind of Mary Poppins arsenal that keeps the Legends running—Band-Aids for the rookies’ blisters, Advil for the veterans’ aches, throat lozenges for my boss’s constant shouting, melatonin for jet lag, earplugs for when DeLuca snores on the plane, and—at the very bottom—an ancient protein bar that’s probably toured more cities than Beyoncé.
I fish out the Advil and hand it to Eric.
“You are a queen. And you don’t have to be my date. I…
panicked.”
“It’s fine,” I hear myself say. “Besides, this is probably my fault. I put the idea in your head.”
He looks confused. And then I see his eyes widen.
And yep, I’m an idiot. Because Eric had forgotten that I’d propositioned him. And I’m the dope who reminded him.
“Hey, that’s right,” he says slowly. “You did say you needed a date for this wedding.”
An awkward laugh escapes me. Because I’m surprised he remembered that part after the crass bits that came after.
“Wait,” he says slowly. “Maybe we could help each other out.”
My mind floods with some very inappropriate ideas. Then I blush to the roots of my hair, but Eric doesn’t notice because he’s opening the Advil, washing it back with his coffee, and talking faster.
“I think I’m onto something,” he says. “You wanted a date. Maybe to be a buffer against your family?”
I manage to nod.
“Then we have the same problem. My family is more than I can handle. If I’m dateless for the wedding, they’re going to expect me to spend all my time with them. This wedding is, like, a lengthy affair?”
Slowly, I nod again. The shower is only the beginning. “They’re calling it the Wedding Experience.”
He quirks an eyebrow. “Is that a thing people say?”
“Not to my knowledge, but I’m afraid to ask.” I retrieve the pill bottle and toss it into my bag.
“Fair enough. But I don’t want to experience it with my parents breathing down my neck. The wedding is going to be a trial for all of us. But if my ‘date’ was around, I could spend more time at the wedding hotel…”
“Which is supposed to be nice,” I agree, even if I’m privately seething at spending money—or points, I guess—for two separate trips. For a wedding I’m not sure I want to attend.