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 cross my arms, mimicking her pose. “How do you know athletes are giant assholes? When was the last time you met one?”
She tilts her chin up defiantly. “Uh—I live in Green Bay, we have tons of athletes here. It’s a small town.”
“Okay, but when was the last time you met one?”
“I was at the gym once, and Calvin Brewer came in.”
Calvin Brewer actually is a giant asshole, but I keep that bit to myself because she is graspingggggg. “What did he say to you that was rude?”
She scoffs. “He didn’t have to say anything—I could tell by the way he walked.”
I laugh, tipping my head back. “You could tell by the way he walked? Oh brother. That’s a new one.”
“Yes. He walked like he had a stick up his ass.” She lets out a humph to punctuate her sentence.
What a little shit she is being!
“So that’s your extensive research? One dude walking with a stick up his backside? That would never stand in the scientific community.”
Harlow smiles, giving me the satisfaction that I amused her. “Okay. To your point, let’s say you actually were an athlete. What were you doing wandering around New York all willy-nilly. Anyone could have recognized you.”
She sounds pleased with herself.
Like she cracked the code!
“Wandering around New York all willy-nilly?” I repeat, mouth literally hanging open. “First of all, a guy at the Statue of Liberty recognized me, but for the most part, in New York, no one gives a shit. Hence the reason I like it there. ’Cause no one gives a shit.” She’s obviously not familiar with the reasons celebrities and millionaires flock there.
Anonymity.
“These are my football hands.” I hold them up so she can see. “I am Andy—but professionally, I go by Landon Burke.”
“Interesting,” she squints at me. “All right, Mr. Football Hands. Prove your identity.”
I grin, pleased with myself for backing her into a corner and ready to prove my point.
“Oh, I’ll prove my identity to you all right.” I have a bone to pick with her—it’s grating on my nerves that she won’t accept my explanation, and not only that, she seems to be mocking me.
Plus, I love winning. I can’t wait to see the look on her face when she finds out she’s wrong and I’m right.
Ha!
I pull the phone from my back pocket and notice a missed call from Trent and a text from the driver, letting me know that he’s nearby at a hotel should I need anything.
I poke open the web browser and type in my own name, Landon Burke.
Hit Search.
Instantly my face, name, and bio appear on the screen, along with a history of teams I’ve played for. Photos.
Lots and lots of photos.
“He is me. I am him,” I say by way of explanation, holding my phone to her so she can take it, and when she does, her face falls.
Harlow’s skin pales as her eyes skim my cell, getting visibly . . .
I don’t know what that look on her face means, and I’m not sure I like it.
She stares.
Blinks.
Stares some more before giving me back my phone with shaking hands.
“What does this mean?” Harlow steps back to lean against the counter, cradling her face in her palms. “Oh my God, you must think I am such an idiot.”
“You’re not an idiot—this is my fault.”
“Why didn’t you say anything? You had, like, a million opportunities!”
I mean—yes, I had many opportunities. The hotel room, the conversation about jobs, the second I arrived on her doorstep. But the words are not easy, especially knowing that, in a way, I duped her.
Honestly, most people recognize me. And if they don’t, they pick up on clues from the people around them. Our circumstances were different—I love the privacy we’ve had when we’re together, being low key and inconspicuous. The fact that Harlow did not know who I was?
Loved that even more.
“I didn’t say anything to you about who I am because I didn’t want to burst your fun bubble by making it weird. I also didn’t want to tell you that I was visiting New York because New York wants me to play football for them. And”—I shrug—“I don’t know. I wanted our time together to be carefree and fun, which it was. And I wanted to keep it that way and not let this get in the way.”
“This”—she uses air quotes around the word—“being, oh gee, I don’t know, that apparently you’re the hottest thing since sliced bread.”
“Harlow. Babe.” I lay my hand on her arm and tell her as gently as I can: “No one says sliced bread anymore.”
“Shut up, you asshole!” She bursts out laughing. “This isn’t the time to joke around, this is serious.” She nibbles her bottom lip. “Do you actually live in Seattle?”
“Yeah—I play for the Mountaineers.”
“The Mountaineers.” She tests the word out, blowing a puff of air before admitting, “I have no idea what to say to that right now.”