Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 125257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 418(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 418(@300wpm)
Right. You wish she’d catalogued every detail of you.
She leans closer, studying the linework. It’s a simple drawing, more stylized than realistic. “It’s so minimalist and pretty.”
I’m about to ask if she wants to touch it, but I don’t have to. Because there she goes, reaching for it, her hand coming closer, so close my skin is tingling with anticipation. But she stops when she’s an inch away, pulling back her hand and taking a drink. “It’s a great tattoo,” she says when she finishes.
“Thanks. I like it a lot too.”
She glances down at it once more, and I swear her breath catches. And I file that reaction away, too, as I take a drink, hiding a sly grin.
But the grin vanishes when she wags a finger at me. “We have a lot to discuss. Starting with your acting.”
I groan, slumping back in my chair. Not sure why but I don’t really want to dive into the alleged sunshine side of me. Or the acting, since it was hardly acting. Tattoos are more fun to talk about. “What about it?” I ask, all gruff again.
“You were so upbeat. It was…a contrast.”
“You saying you think I’m, what? A grump?”
She gives me a gentle look. “You’re kind of…broody.”
“Understatement,” I say under my breath.
Even though I really want to say And do you like that? But I’m not going to fish for compliments. I drink some coffee, and she takes a swallow of her latte, then adds, “I was kind of surprised.”
Yeah, I was too. I wasn’t expecting to have to go full simp today.
When I set down the mug, I scrub a hand across my beard, then answer her with honesty. “I figured you didn’t want a grumpy-ass hockey player who despises people-ing as your fake boyfriend.”
She laughs, snorting out some of her chai, and holy shit, it’s the most adorable thing I’ve seen.
More so when her pretty brown eyes sweep down her shirt, checking for spots. Grabbing a napkin, she shakes her head and says, “Pretend you didn’t see that.”
“Nope, can’t unsee it,” I say. “You totally snorted it right out of your nose. That was…impressive to say the least.”
“It’s your fault. You made me laugh,” she says, pointing a finger.
“By speaking the truth?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not wrong though. About any of it.”
“I don’t know,” she says, her tone doubtful. “You were pretty social there at the picnic. You talked to everyone.”
“I talked to the people you wanted me to talk to. I did it for you,” I say plainly, then grab a piece of the orange pylon and slide it into place.
She stops with the drink halfway to her mouth. “You did?” She sounds shocked, but delighted too. It’s a good sound.
“Of course I did,” I say.
She’s quiet for a beat before she says, in a softer voice, “I don’t even know what to say.”
Say how much you liked the kisses. Say you want another one. “I was just doing what you asked me to do,” I say, nonchalant. “Being your plus-one.”
“Lake,” she says, gently correcting me. “That was above and beyond. You were so much more. You had my parents eating out of the palm of your hand. You handled it all so well. The photographer too. I used to think I was good at handling surprises, but you? You meant it when you said you love surprises.”
“I’m an athlete. I’d better be able to handle them.”
“You handled my ex too,” she adds, and her smile spreads so fast it’s like a comet. But then it vanishes into the night sky. “But something seems off about him, don’t you think?”
“Oh, you mean because he’s a complete and utter fucknozzle?”
“Well, there’s that, but why is he so intent on being friends with me? It was almost like too much. What was all that ‘Let’s go on a double date’ about? It felt a little like he was—”
I whip out my phone. “Up to something.”
“Yes!”
“Let’s check his socials. See if we can figure it out.”
Her eyes flash with excitement. “I haven’t checked his socials once since we split up.”
That makes me outrageously happy, but I smother all semblance of a smile. “Good, let’s keep it that way,” I grumble, then type in his name, wishing I didn’t know it but glad I do because I need to know what his deal is. I roll my eyes as soon as I get to his feed. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
“What is it?” she asks, her tone wary, and nervous too.
I shake my head at the schmoozebag in the pic. “He brought one of his own beers to the picnic. Look at this.”
I spin my phone around and show her the screen. It’s a selfie of Jameson at the outskirts of the botanic garden lifting one of his bottles with the label facing the camera and the caption reads: So great to be celebrating with Caroline Hatmaker and her fiancé with the most refreshing drink there is. Excited for the wedding!