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)
I want out of Seattle, and now I’m doing team visits to decide who’s a good fit. And whoever that team is will have to pay out the ass to get me.
Yeah, yeah, I get it—how much more money does a dude need? I’ve heard the lecture from my mother at least a dozen times. Andy Burke, don’t be greedy. There are children in this world who are starving.
Still, that’s not the point. These days, teams are shelling out mucho dinero without blinking an eye, and I’m not going to push millions of dollars out of bed even though I’ll never manage to spend it in my lifetime.
Not my problem.
Anyway, back to the hotel staffer at my door.
“Mum’s the word,” I reiterate, handing him the sealed envelope with a neat one-hundred-dollar bill lying on top. “Room 905.”
He blinks at the cash, doing his best to remain professional and nonplussed. “Yes, sir.”
“Thanks.” I pause. “Don’t open the envelope.”
He shakes his head enthusiastically. “I wouldn’t!”
Shit, should I have said that? I don’t want him to think I don’t trust him, but also, I don’t trust anyone.
“All right. Room 905.”
She said 905, yeah? I wasn’t imagining it? And why have I told him the room number a half dozen times? Jesus, Andy, chill. It’s written on the envelope.
Shutting the door behind him, I sigh.
I walk to the bedroom located off the main room and, exhausted, flop face first onto the bed.
Chapter 5
Harlow
I can’t believe I’m meeting a stranger in a hotel lobby.
It’s so Pretty Woman of me.
This is what I get for running my big mouth, anticipation and uncertainty making me want to run up the emergency stairwell and back to my room.
This is crazy, right? Tell me I’m crazy, I texted in the group chat earlier, after I’d let them all know that room service had arrived and dropped off a letter from an Andy last night.
Me:
His name is Andy.
Except he doesn’t look like an Andy to me.
At all.
Ava:
You’re not crazy. But I’d be lying if I said I’m not Shocked he actually messaged you.
Portia:
Yeah, I thought for sure he was full-on going to start avoiding you. Like, hide behind the ficus tree they always have in hotel lobbies.
Me: You guys are assholes.
None of them had shared these doubts last night, half convincing me that he was going to show up at my door in the middle of the night like a creep for a booty call.
Portia:
What are you worried about exactly, he said you were going sightseeing? He must not visit often.
Ava:
Total tourist.
Me:
Do I have to remind you that I myself am also staying in a hotel and could be considered a tourist?
Danny:
You’re right. One meeting does not a local make.
Me:
So what should I do about this???
Portia:
What should you Do? Girl, you get your ass down to the lobby at 10! Then you abort if he’s a creep, send an SOS if you need an emergency interception.
Ava:
She means intervention.
Portia:
Whatever, you get what I mean.
Portia:
Are you dressed yet? Cuz it’s 9:40.
Me:
No? Yes? I Don’t Know!!!! I’m spinning in circles.
Ava:
What are you wearing? It’s, like, bumming around town, right? So, like, cute sneakers and black jeans?
Me:
I don’t have black jeans!
Portia:
Ugh, you’ve been on this earth long enough to know black jeans are a staple.
I can practically hear her rolling her eyes and sighing.
Me:
I don’t have time to argue the semantics, okay? Stay on topic. Things I brought that are not work clothes: mom jeans, white shorts, a white T-shirt, and a vintage Van Halen T-shirt.
Ava:
Throw on the white shorts, concert tee, sneakers. And Go.
Me:
Hair up or down?
Portia:
Down! Let him see it blowing in the wind. Men love that shit.
So that’s what I’m wearing when I venture down into the lobby twenty minutes later, half expecting to bump into him when I climb into the elevator, pleased to be the first one of us to arrive when I step into the lobby.
Or maybe he isn’t going to show up?
Crap.
I look at my watch.
10:02.
He’s late, but not by much. Still, this was his idea—shouldn’t he have arrived first?
Then.
I lock eyes on the elevator when the center doors slowly open, and he steps out, eyes trained on the entrance of the restaurant and then my face.
Andy.
Andy, Andy, Andy.
The name still does not match the visual—at least not in my head—but regardless, he’s a sight for these tired eyes.
I didn’t sleep much, tossing and turning, nerves keeping me awake most of the night—nerves, plus the sirens below on the street certainly weren’t lulling me either.
Andy is in his navy ball cap again, and as he gets closer, I search beneath the brim of it for hair, my friends’ words about his potential baldness rearing their ugly head.
Bald men do not scare me!
His sunglasses are hooked to the collar of his tee, the shirt he’s sporting today dark blue—highlighting his tan skin—layered under a light denim long-sleeve shirt.