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)
Andy has a shit-eating grin on his face now. “Why not?”
My father shrugs. “Harlow isn’t seeing anyone, and if she was, it wouldn’t be . . . wouldn’t be . . .” He waves his hand around, flailing for words.
“Me?”
“Yes. It wouldn’t be you.”
“Gee, thanks.” I take immediate offense to that, gesturing from behind Andy’s large frame. “I’m insulted, actually, that you don’t think I’d manage to bring someone home that’s cool.”
I hop down off the counter, straightening the rest of my clothes.
Andy is amused, laughing loudly, not at all embarrassed.
“Would you knock it off?” I smack him on the biceps. “You are not helping.”
“Harlow, sweetie,” Dad offers tentatively. “No offense, but do you not know who this is?”
“Of course I know who this is!” As soon as I get the chance, I am calling his doctor and taking him in for an exam. He has lost some of his senses.
Clearly.
It looks as if my dad can’t decide if he should step closer to Andy to get a better look, or bolt, choosing instead to stand rooted to the floor, in that space between the kitchen and the living room.
“Harlow, I love you, but this time you have really outdone yourself.”
Now he’s speaking in riddles I do not know the punch line to, and I swear, steam rises from my ears.
My nostrils flare as I get ready to pounce again.
I feel a hand on my arm and look down to see Andy’s large palm on my wrist.
“Babe. It’s all right.”
The fuck!
“Why is my dad acting strange?” I turn to Andy, throwing my hands in the air. “Who are you?”
I snatch the spatula and hold it up, ready to use it as a weapon. He’s shirtless, which makes him more vulnerable, yeah? I could take him in a fight.
“Are you a criminal? Don’t lie—I will stab you through. Has he seen you on the damn news?”
Oh my God, this would explain how he showed up at my house. For real! Who just shows up on a woman’s doorstep like this! Why the hell did I let him inside?
We’re doomed!
Andy, for his part, casually cocks an eyebrow, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the counter. “You’re adorable.”
“Stop it. No, I’m not.” I’m giving him my best glower, convinced he’s wanted by the law. He must be notorious. How else would my father know who he was? “Who the hell are you? Dad, get in the living room.”
I want him to be safe, just in case.
“Don’t get your panties in a twist. There’s a good explanation for this.” He raises his hand toward my dad. “Steve, could you do us a huge favor?”
Dad finds his voice, puffing up his chest like a peacock because Andy knows his name. “Call me Big Steve.”
Oh jeez.
Does he have to start with that bullshit at a time when tension is high?
I shake my head. “Do not call him Big Steve. Do not pass go.” I huff. “You haven’t explained yourself—not even a little. If you think you can stand there being all good looking with your amazing chest and hot body, you’re wrong!”
His mouth moves into a lopsided grin. “You’re mad, and you still think I have a hot body.”
“That was Not a Compliment!” I’m shrieking and I’m not proud.
“Wasn’t it?” He is smirking! He is enjoying this!
“Oh my God, Andy, stop changing the subject. I’m about to call the police.” My eyes scan the kitchen for something I can spray in his eyes on the off chance he tries anything nefarious, but the closest thing I can find is butter spray.
“Harlow!” Dad shouts. “Don’t you dare talk to the best fucking player in the league that way! I did not raise you like this!”
He is talking gibberish.
Meanwhile, Andy plucks the spatula from my fingers and sets it behind us as my mouth gapes open.
“Give me back my weapon,” I demand. “Uh. Spatula.”
“Babe. You don’t need a weapon. I’m harmless.” He holds his hands up. “See? Just football-throwing hands.”
Football-throwing hands?
He displays his palms. “See?”
I don’t see.
I don’t get it.
I squint at him, keeping us on task. “Just tell me the truth. Are you wanted by the police?”
“No. Just by the football commission.” He laughs, tee-hee.
I’m not amused.
“I still can’t believe you’re in my house.” Dad is giddy, still rooted to the spot. I glance back and forth between my father and Andy. “Her house. Our house. This house.”
Dad is word vomiting all over the floor, barely able to conceal his excitement, nor can he form a cohesive sentence.
“I don’t know what it means that you’re wanted by the football commission.” I give the confession in a small voice. “You have to do better at explaining.”
I feel stupid because I have no idea what is going on.
They look all chummy, and I’m over here defending my household with a spatula and a prayer.