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)
Meanwhile, Andy is still topless because my dumb dog ran off with his sweatshirt, and now my dad is standing here gawking as if Andy were the second coming of Christ. Stars in his eyes, drool all but dripping from his chops.
“Steve. Can you give Harlow and me some privacy, please?”
“Big Steve,” Dad corrects him, hand to his heart. “Please, I insist.”
Andy’s mouth is grim. “Right.”
Finally! He’s taking this seriously!
Dad begins backing out of the kitchen at a glacial pace. “Um. If you need anything, I’ll just be on the other side of the wall.”
Other side of the wall? Over my dead body am I going to allow him to eavesdrop. “No, Dad. Can you take the dog for a walk? Give us ten minutes. Call 911 if we’re not here in this same spot when you return.”
He hesitates, clearly not wanting to budge. He wants to know every little morsel, every tidbit, every word we are about to say, no doubt so he can go repeat it to his buddies in the wine club.
“Dad,” I grind out. “Please. Ten minutes.”
Reluctantly and with a pout, he grabs Kevin’s leash from a hook in the doorway and clips him up, slowly moving to the front door, giving us a few backward glances like a kid on Christmas morning who’s been sent to his room and is not ready to walk away from the tree and presents.
Chapter 23
Andy
“Who are you?”
The vision of Harlow with her spatula, wielding it like a weapon, has me chuckling all over again despite the fear that was in her eyes. Does she actually believe I could be a criminal there to do them harm?
I’ve never seen a grown man more reluctant to leave a room in my life; worse still when I asked him to give us some privacy before this situation got out of hand and Harlow got more pissed off.
She’s two hot seconds away from kicking me to the curb if I don’t give her some answers right quick.
The truth.
Not the truth I’ve been giving her since we’ve been talking.
We wait, both of us anxious while Steve takes his sweet time hooking Kevin to his leash and slowly—so slowly—shuffling through the front door. His backward glance almost has me cracking up; never have I ever seen a man more wistful and sad to go.
“So.” Her arms are crossed in a defensive pose. “Who are you? What is the deal?”
I laugh, which makes her frown. “The deal is that my name is Andy—but professionally I go by Landon.”
“So you’re not wanted by the FBI or the police?” She nods slowly. “Just to clarify once and for all.”
“No.”
“If you’re not a murderer—as I already suspected you were—then what are you?”
“Any guesses?” The minor football comments I gave were a small clue, but they seem to have gone over her head.
“Why does it seem like my dad recognizes you? That makes no sense. None at all.” She gives her head a shake, and I wish she would let me put my arms around her.
This is not going the way I expected it to.
“What are you here interviewing for?” She raises one brow. “A reporting job for the team?”
A reporting job? Uh—that is the longest stretch of a guess I have ever heard.
“Nope. Keep guessing.”
I like this game.
It’s fun—for me, at least.
“Ugh.” Her hands go up, frustrated. “I don’t know! I’m not good at this.” She groans. “Are you, like, one of those guys who competes in Ironman competitions? Or CrossFit or whatever it’s called? Is that why you’re so buff?”
I rub my chin. “That’s actually a really good guess. But no.”
“Just freaking tell me,” she grumbles. “Before my dad gets home and the moment is gone for us to have privacy. I have a feeling he’s going to be on your ass like bees on honey.”
Ya think?
“I’m a professional athlete.” There. I said it.
Phew!
What a relief.
She cocks her head. Laughs. “Shut up, no you’re not.”
“I’m not?”
“Pfft, no!” She laughs some more. “Oh my God, I can’t even imagine. That would be hilarious.”
“Uh . . .” Now it’s my turn to be insulted. “Why do you think I couldn’t be a professional athlete?”
“’Cause. You’re too tall and you’re too . . .” Her hands flail around as she searches for the word. “Nice.”
“You think I’m too nice?” Is that a thing?
“Obviously I think you’re nice, or I wouldn’t be hanging out with you. Athletes are giant assholes.”
She’s making this harder than it has to be.
“They are?”
Harlow smirks at me. “Are you going to respond to everything I say with a question?”
“Probably. Until you say something that makes sense.”
Her jaw drops open. “Hey! That was a rude thing to say!”
“Not as rude as you telling me I’m too tall and too nice to be a professional athlete!”
This conversation is ridiculous.
I wish I’d had the forethought to record it; listening to it would be hours of cheap entertainment. Dex would piss himself laughing if he heard us bickering about this.