Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 55599 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 278(@200wpm)___ 222(@250wpm)___ 185(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55599 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 278(@200wpm)___ 222(@250wpm)___ 185(@300wpm)
“He’s with me,” I say.
Scoffing, Dane glares at his coach. “I hate cats.”
“My heart bleeds for you,” Arnold says flatly.
“The cat’s not coming,” Dane says. “She can follow me around, but she’s not moving a cat into my house.”
Tim gives me an apologetic look. “Is there anywhere else you can leave the cat?”
The only person I’d trust to care for Mr. Darcy is my best friend, Lina, and she’s allergic to cats.
“No. But he’s not much trouble.”
“He can’t come on road trips,” Tim says.
“I understand.”
Dane sighs dramatically. I don’t like him. I can’t wait to get under his skin by asking how it felt to wake up naked and handcuffed to a park bench. If he’s not going to make this easy for me, I won’t make it easy for him, either.
“I think we’re done here,” Arnold says, pushing away from the wall.
“Wait,” Dane says. “How long will she be following me around?”
“For the next three months or until you screw up next,” Arnold says, narrowing his eyes at Dane. “Guess which one my money’s on?”
Dane starts to say something but stops himself.
“Well, look at that,” Arnold says. “He does have some restraint. It’s just buried deep down in there. Probably hangs out with his conscience.”
Dane scratches his head, and I think I’m the only one who notices he’s doing it with his middle finger. Cheeky.
Arnold gives me a paternal look and puts a hand on my shoulder. “Josie, if you have any problems or need any expenses covered, you call me. Or Tim, if you’re on the road.”
“Th--” I start to speak, but my voice is strangled, so I clear my throat. “Thank you.”
I sound timid, but I’m not. At the moment, though, I want to crawl under Tim’s massive wood desk and never come out. But I remind myself I’m a professional, here to do a job.
Three months. If I can do this, I’ll get the promotion. I’ll be able to afford something other than spaghetti and pancakes for dinner.
Takeout. How I miss takeout. Just the thought of those heavenly-smelling little white boxes from Hot Wok sends a pang to my stomach.
I’ll be able to save money again. Buy new shoes. I need this to work.
Dane stands up, and I follow suit. He looks at me like I’m a muddy stray dog he just found. I force my chin to remain level.
I won’t let him know how intimidated I am.
“Let’s go, I guess,” he says with absolutely no enthusiasm.
I move to pick up my fully stuffed backpack, and he grabs it by the handle at the same time.
“You don’t have to carry it,” I say, even though it weighs at least thirty pounds and my back still hurts from carrying it here.
“I’ve got it,” he says gruffly, not even looking at me. “Where’s your other stuff?”
“This is all I could carry, so it’s all I brought.”
“Which lot are you parked in?”
“I don’t have a car.”
His eyes flash with annoyance. “Awesome. Guess you’re riding with me.”
“Apologies for the imposition,” I say sarcastically. “I know how massively difficult it is to have someone sitting in your passenger seat.”
He ignores me and hikes the backpack over his shoulder.
“What’d you put in this thing, bricks?” he grumbles.
“Nope.” I give him a big smile. “It’s the body of the last guy who pissed me off.”
He shakes his head. “So you’re a comedian, too.”
“When you work in publicity, you have to have a sense of humor.”
He leads the way down a concrete-floored hallway in the basement level of the arena. Now that he can’t see me looking, I let my gaze wander. The definition in his shoulder and arm muscles shows through the lightweight long-sleeved gray shirt he’s wearing.
This guy is a walking cliché. All he needs is a blond trophy wife with an aesthetically pleasing IG account of couple’s photos hashtagged #myperson and #myworld.
It’s only three months. Fewer if they don’t make the playoffs. I can put up with anything as long as it has an end date.
I follow him onto an elevator, where he scans a badge and presses a button. When we step out, we’re in a small, nearly empty underground parking deck.
“This is me,” he says, pushing a button on a key fob to unlock a black Range Rover. “Don’t let the cat run loose in my car, I don’t want hair all over it.”
So charming. I force myself to stay quiet because, technically, he is a JG client. Whether I like him or not, I have a job to do.
As soon as we’re both in the car with our seat belts buckled, he checks the rearview mirror, backs out of his parking place and gives me a pointed look.
“If that thing pisses on my furniture, it’s going to the shelter.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Touch my cat and I’ll stab you in your sleep, asshole.”