Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 99675 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 498(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99675 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 498(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
He holds up said claw and stares at it with a pout, which turns into a grimace. The pain etched onto his refined features bothers me. I turn back to the stove and grab the pan.
“Word of caution, I haven’t cooked in a really long time so…you know…” I say, shrugging. I push the scrabbled eggs off the pan and onto a plate with two slices of that millet bread he likes that tastes like dirt. “Just sayin’.” I place the plate in front of him. “Also, you should know that my cooking repertoire is extremely limited. We’ll have to get take out when you get back. And I know what a health food freak you are so tell me where to pick up the grub you like.”
His eyes meet mine. There’s something fathomless in them. Whatever it is, it pulls me in and won’t let go. The Monday Night Football song comes on and he blinks out of the moment. Saved by the proverbial bell. Even though I’m going to break out in hives if I hear that ringtone one more time.
He takes a tentative bite of his eggs. “Not bad. Needs a bit more seasoning, but otherwise really good.” Smiling, he digs in.
That earns him an obvious eye roll. “I was on tenterhooks. So glad you approve, Fancy Pants.”
“What else can you make?”
“What else? Mmmm, let’s see––” Truth: I can’t cook to save my life. My food is always one of these horrible things: too salty, too bland, or too overcooked. “I make a mean margarita.”
He smiles and I get happy, happy that I’ve done something to pull him out of this strange funk he’s been in since the hospital.
“I wouldn’t call that nutrition.”
“You’d be surprised at how many people would disagree with you.” While he finishes his eggs, I turn to wash the pan.
“I had a lot of allergies when I was a kid.”
The inflection in his voice gets my attention, the admission tentative, as if he threw it out as bait to see if I would bite. In all honesty, I want to bite. As much as I try to stop myself, I do find him interesting, drawn to him in ways I don’t want to contemplate. Turning, I wait for him to continue.
“I was kind of sick for a while.” He glances up to measure my reaction. Whatever he finds persuades him to continue. “Ever hear of Celiac disease?”
“I’ve heard of it, but I’m not familiar with what it is.”
“It’s an intolerance to wheat proteins, and if left untreated can trigger a host of other problems––including cancer. I have to eat well to feel good and I’ve been doing it for so long it’s second nature to me.”
“That’s why you don’t drink beer.”
“Yeah. No barley or rye, either.”
The doorbell rings.
“If this is one your stalkers, I will––”
“It’s Andi,” he says, interrupting the beginnings of my mini tirade. His lips press together in a stiff line. “She’s coming with me.”
“I don’t understand. You tell people you’re gay?”
Plush mouth pursed, Andi wiggles it side to side while considering her answer. In the meantime, I hand her a glass of soda and she takes a sip.
“I don’t tell people I’m gay. I told a new client that was getting excessively pushy about hitting on me that I’m not a fan of men and somehow he translated it as me admitting I was gay. News spread faster than athlete’s foot in a locker room.”
As soon as she walked in the front door, Andi began gushing personal information from the spigot that is her mouth as if the valve were broken. Which has now turned into one of the most entertaining and simultaneously bizarre conversations I’ve had in a long time.
“Doesn’t it bother you––having to lie?”
“Ethan works exclusively with football players. I’m not saying they don’t know how to behave themselves, but it shuts that conversation down before it even begins, and frankly, makes my job a lot easier.”
“Does Fancy know? I mean Ethan.”
“Fancy?” She chuckles. “Cute––it suits him. And yes, he’s fine with it. Anyway, if I play my cards right, with Ethan’s help, I can become a full manager and bring in my own clients. Maybe even some female athletes. So when he sells the business, I’ll have some leverage with whomever buys it.”
My ears perk up, the topic suddenly interesting. “Ethan is selling his business?”
“If he gets the job as head counsel for the Titans, he has to.”
“Did Ethan say he would help you?”
She nods and sips her soda. “Yeah. He’s so generous. I’ve learned more from him in one year than I did working with Titans Player Personnel in three.”
“Speaking of the patient,” I say. Treading lightly, we both head out of the kitchen and into the living room. Sprawled out on the very uncomfortable modern couch, Fancy is snoring. We watch him for a minute, then look at each other and smile. She motions to the door and I follow.