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’m sorry.”
“Sorry for what, having a job?”
“No. I’m sorry I kept the truth from you.”
“I mean, as far as lies go, there are probably worse lies a man can tell. In fact, I should be doing cartwheels and jumping up and down, shouldn’t I?”
I can’t stop from smiling. “That would be the preference at this juncture, yes.”
“So wait.” The pieces are clicking together in her brain. “What are you doing in Green Bay? Did you come to see the team, or are you here to see me?”
I nod. “Yes.”
Harlow giggles, thank God. “What does yes mean? Stop doing that.”
She’s so fun to tease.
“It means . . . once I told my agent I was coming to Green Bay to see you, he immediately called the team. It makes sense to set up a meeting with them.” I stuff my hands in my pockets to prevent myself from reaching for her. “The meeting is tomorrow morning—they’re pretty gassed up to see me.”
When I say gassed up, I mean they’re fucking excited to have gotten the call.
My camp’s call to them came out of the blue; obviously they weren’t on my radar. But, hey—I invited myself to their table. Why not hear what they have to say?
“But. Green Bay hasn’t been to the Super Bowl in forever.” Her face is scrunched up. “That much I know.”
One of my shoulders rises and falls. “Eh, that’s not true. Ten years isn’t that long in football years. All they need is one or two key players to make it happen—they don’t have the right combination at the moment, and it only takes one player to change the dynamic.”
She nods slowly up and down, processing my words. Letting them sink in baby bits at a time, and I’m still afraid to touch her.
“When were you going to tell me your real name?”
“I’m telling you now.” I pause. “Andy is my real name.”
“Please.” She scoffs. “You were forced to tell me because my father busted us making out in the kitchen.”
“We were about to fuck; no one was making out.” Give me some credit.
She gives me an eye roll instead. “You know what I mean. Would you have told me before you left?”
I nod enthusiastically. “Totally. Yes. That was the plan.” Ninety-nine percent yes. “I have no idea what my plan would have been, but I would have said something—I don’t want us to stay inside every time we’re together because I have to hide. I want to go places with you.”
That seems to make her happy. She beams, hiding her smile in the collar of her sweatshirt like she doesn’t want me to see it.
“I don’t know how I feel about dating someone famous,” Harlow mumbles.
I get that.
“I suppose I’m more well known than some of my teammates, but there’s nothing wrong with that. Aren’t you relieved that I didn’t turn out to be a freeloader? Or a crook. Or the Tinder Swindler?” For real. Some people would give their left nut to find out the person they were dating was famous. Or better yet, royalty. “At least I don’t have to ask you for burrito money.”
She cracks a smile. “I don’t know how I feel about this. It’s a lot to take in.”
“What’s the hesitation?”
Harlow’s mouth pulls down at one corner. “No hesitation. It’s just that I’ve seen some of the football wives around town when their husbands are playing, and they’re not always nice people.”
“Not nice people? It’s not nice to stereotype.” She wouldn’t know unless she met them face to face or spoke to them. You cannot judge a person by what you see on the internet or how someone strides when they walk past you at the gym.
She looks disconcerted.
“You’re right, it’s not nice to stereotype. And you’re right—I haven’t actually met any of them. I haven’t met Calvin Brewer.” She laughs. “I’m just making assumptions based on how they look.” Harlow lets out the loudest sigh. “Now I feel like a giant asshole, ugh! I think I’m just projecting because I am not like those women.”
“You might have a lot in common with them. Obviously I know most of my friends’ wives and girlfriends, and some of them are pretty fucking awesome, the same way you’re fucking awesome.”
They are going to love her.
“Stop.” She demurs. “Now you’re just trying to butter me up.”
“I have to butter you up?”
“No.” She grins. “I guess not.”
Good girl.
Daddy like.
“Okay. Deep breath before this entire conversation gets totally off the rails—let’s not focus on other people. Let’s focus on us.”
I remove my hands from my pockets and get closer, pulling her in. Put my hands on her shoulders and squeeze, rubbing them gently, my large palms then running down her arms.
Back up again, massaging.
Harlow moves her head from side to side as if she’s stretching her neck out or angling for a proper massage.