Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 90736 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90736 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Seriously, this whole discussion is too much. “Can we please change the topic? I’m not drunk enough for this conversation right now.”
“Fine, we’ll change the subject, but only because I want to hear about Danny’s potential new roommate,” Ava allows. “But if Central Park sends a message to your room, you better freaking tell us. Immediately, do you understand?”
Sure, sure. “We’re calling him Central Park now?”
“Only if he’s cute,” Danny says. “Otherwise we’re calling him Central Bark, and you’re never staying at that hotel again.”
Chapter 4
Andy
I’ve written this note at least four times, each one worse than the one before it, my literary skills complete shit.
Better stick to my day job, ha ha.
Girl in room 905.
Central Park Police.
It’s me, the guy from the park and the elevator . . .
Hey. I don’t normally do this, but I thought I would at least let you know I’m alive . . . mostly . . .
A small collection of wadded-up paper has amassed in and around the garbage can in my hotel-room office, every draft dumber than the last.
I’m alive, mostly?
Yeah, no.
“Fuck it. Like it matters,” I tell myself as I grab another sheet of hotel stationery, fancy logo at the top, and start again. “This is the last one. I don’t have all damn night to sit around writing letters.”
Actually, I do.
Because it’s nine in the evening, and I’m not ambitious enough to venture outside, especially not when I’ve been ill most of the afternoon, copious boxes of saltine crackers consumed. I have to admit, what this hotel lacks in warmth and comfort, they make up for in service—a brand-new box of crackers delivered with steamy-hot soup, a simple broth so as not to further upset my stomach.
And tea.
Lots of hot tea . . .
Central Park Girl,
IOU.
I know you said dinner, but I won’t be in town long—and I suspect you won’t be either since you’re also staying at a hotel. Unless you’re one of those society brats who lives in the penthouse LOL.
I have a meeting tomorrow afternoon, but what do you say: meet me in the lobby at 10 a.m. and explore the city?
I’ve been cooped up all night and need the fresh air.
No meat, just carbs.
I’ll be hanging near the entrance of Salt at 10.
Be there or be square. Or not, if you can’t make it, I totally understand.
Andy
Be there or be square? Who even says that anymore?
“Hi, the year 1950 called, they want their stupid slang back,” I complain out loud, to myself, no one around to hear just how ridiculous I sound, thank God.
Terrible letter.
Horrible.
Embarrassing, actually, but if I have to write one more draft, I’ll gouge my eye out with this fancy hotel pen.
And I hope she realizes Salt is the restaurant near the lobby’s entrance where I’ve been eating breakfast, but I can hunt her down if need be. She won’t be hard to spot; it’s not a bustling metropolis downstairs—one of the reasons I’m staying here.
I fold the letter, locate an envelope, and write her room number on it with my heavy scrawl.
“It is what it is.”
I’m a football player, not a poet.
I go to the phone, removing it from its cradle. “Hey. Hi, this is Andy in the penthouse. Can you send someone up? I have a note I need brought down to one of your other guests.” Listen to me, sounding so professional.
“Absolutely, Mr. Buzzard, we’ll send someone right up.”
Mr. Buzzard.
The name makes my butt cheeks clench; Trent thinks he’s a goddamn comedian when he books me these rooms using aliases, my favorite being Ned Tasso. Then there was Penward Dullen, rhymes with Edward Cullen, the famous literary vampire, which Trent assumed would go over my head.
Wrong.
He makes me look like an idiot, but at least I don’t have to go through the trouble of inventing names myself because I can’t check in to a hotel using my own name.
I’m too recognizable.
Which is weird, but whatever.
Within minutes there’s a knock on my door, and I rise from the desk chair, head to the foyer, pulling cash from my wallet.
“Hey,” I say before the man standing in a hotel uniform can greet me. “Thanks so much for doing this.”
The young man gawks at me.
“Yeah, it’s me.” I cut to the chase since he obviously recognizes me, pleased that at least one person today knows who the hell I am, despite the fact I donned a disguise. If you call a baseball hat and sunnies a disguise.
“Can you take this down to room 905?”
He nods dumbly.
“Great.” I pause. “Are you available to do it now?”
He nods again, speechless.
Starstruck.
Must be a football fan . . .
I hold an index finger to my lips. “Don’t tell anyone I’m in town, it’s a secret.”
The last thing I need is a hotel employee spilling the beans that I’m in the city. Although I’m allowed to travel and have a personal life, things got a bit complicated a few weeks ago when word got out that I’m a free agent and Trent has been shopping me to other teams in the league.