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)
Unfortunately, he’s also the only one who makes my stomach flip every time I look at him. It’s not just his Hollywood face, either. Or those long eyelashes. And don’t even get me started on that jaw.
I’ve met pretty men before. But Tremaine just has that X factor. It’s like someone took Michelangelo’s David, put him in a suit that costs more than my monthly rent, giving him the ability to make my knees weak just by saying good morning. I’ve seen him break up locker room arguments with nothing but a raised eyebrow—an eyebrow that probably has more authority than my entire résumé.
The worst part? He’s genuinely nice. Like, rescues-kittens nice. I’ve seen him slam guys into the boards during games and then politely apologize afterward. Who does that?
Honestly, before I met Eric, I would’ve told you that I’m not even into nice guys. But he’s changed me. I’d die of embarrassment if he knew how often I think about him. Or, fine, dream about him.
And now he knows that I sleep with my mouth open like a pit bull in a sun patch, tongue lolling.
Still bleary, I practically lurch through the hotel lobby, past the bank of windows with their expansive view of the marshes at twilight. The light is soft and blurry. Or maybe that’s just my exhaustion talking.
In many ways, my job resembles the night sky—it’s so glamorous from afar. But if you peer through a telescope and look closer, you realize even the brightest stars are burning themselves out. And the playoffs aren’t over yet. We’ve made it to round three, and game seven is tomorrow night. If my boys win, then we’re on to the finals.
Giving my head a shake, I trudge toward the Palmetto Room to check on the team meal. The travel department made all the arrangements remotely, but my boss is a control freak who insists that I verify everything personally. And when anything goes wrong, he yells.
Inside the banquet room, I see a dozen tables already set for the dinner service. That’s a good sign. But I’ve learned to take nothing for granted. So I push open the kitchen door, finding a beehive of activity.
I inhale the scent of grilled chicken and garlic. Another good sign. “Hello, Chef González? Are we on track for six thirty?”
She strides into view, a cleaver in her hand, her face in a bitchy frown. “Of course we are.” She grabs a clipboard off a nail on the wall and thrusts it at me. “It’s everything you asked for. Twice as much protein as forty people really need, and my special empanadas.”
“They’re professional athletes, they eat a lot,” I remind her, scanning the menu.
“Don’t remind me. If they win tomorrow night, that makes me a traitor.” She turns toward the busy soldiers in chefs’ whites. “GO FLORIDA!”
“Go Florida, Chef!” the kitchen staff shouts back in unison.
I’d almost be impressed except I realize something is missing from the menu. “I asked for a single bottle of a 2015 Bordeaux for the head table.” It’s my boss’s standard request everywhere we go.
The chef shrugs. “Y’all didn’t arrange for bar service. That’s a separate bill. I got nothing to offer unless you want cooking sherry. That’s the policy.”
“A single bottle,” I press. “For the boss who green-lit this expensive meal in your hotel.”
Another shrug. “I just don’t have it to give. And—hands to Jesus—I’d be happier if y’all ate elsewhere. GO FLORIDA!”
“Go Florida, Chef!”
Sigh. I know a lost cause when I see it. Chef González is part of the same pecking order that I am. She’s expected to keep her head down, follow the rules, and make her own boss happy. “Fine. I’ll handle it. See you in a half hour for the meal.”
“Yes, Miss Kendrick. All will be ready.”
I leave the kitchen and head out to the lobby bar, where a couple of younger players are sipping iced tea and playing cards. Damn it, Eric Tremaine is there, too, shoving a straw into a smoothie.
“Hey, Darcy,” he says. “Want a soda? Or a smoothie?”
“No, thank you,” I say, avoiding his pretty gray eyes. “I’m on the clock.”
I waltz right past him and approach the bar. “Excuse me,” I say to the two young bartenders, who are standing together, whispering. They’re almost certainly gossiping about the professional athletes in their midst.
One of them finally bothers to approach. “What can I get you?”
“What do you have in a 2015 Bordeaux?”
He reaches for the wine list. “Prolly something in here…”
I grab it out of his hands and flip to the back. “Here we go. Chateau d’Issan. I’ll take the bottle, uncorked.”
He frowns. “They do bottles upstairs in the restaurant. Down here at the bar, we only sell it by the glass. That’s our policy.”
I’m trapped in a doom loop of stupidity. “Okay. Fine. I’d like five glasses, please.” I push my boss’s credit card across the bar.