Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 128069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
After I finish my bite, I say, “And that means I’ll be less likely to come up short in a race to the puck.”
He beams. “Exactly, Wesley.”
I knew that was what he wanted to hear.
His smile lasts, a rare one on his otherwise stoic face.
I’ve been told I look like him. Strong jawline, straight nose, same brown eyes. His hair is shorter though and speckled with gray. He’s got the whole George Clooney vibe working for him. I guess that’s why he’s done so well with the ladies since he and my mom split when I was younger.
He chats more about the post-game workout plan, and I nod and listen as I finish my lunch. “I can send that all to you over email,” he says. “You should read it too.”
I grind my teeth, but then say, “I’ll listen to it, Dad.”
He knows that’s what I do. He hired tutors for me when I was younger. He helped me get a handle on my issue. “Good plan.”
When we leave, he says, “Listen, Frieda mentioned this woman.”
I groan. Seriously. I do not want to discuss Josie with Dad. Well, I would if he wanted to discuss it like a normal dad. “Yeah?”
“Are you seeing her?”
“Nope.”
He nods, pleased. “Just making sure you’re not distracted.”
I snort-laugh. He’s got me scheduled every second the Sea Dogs don’t. “How could I be?”
He tilts his head in question.
“I don’t have time to get distracted,” I say lightly, trying, always trying to lighten the mood.
It fails though, since he says, “That’s the right mindset.”
When he says goodbye and I walk home, I’m entirely too distracted by thoughts of what my roomie’s up to.
Figuring I should be civil to her, like she’s been to me, I send her a text.
Wesley: Do you like Bridgerton?
15
JUST THE TIP
Josie
Maeve flips through the shelf of memoirs at An Open Book as I finish telling my friends my tale of woe. Fable is here too. She’s the lead designer for the San Francisco Renegades and a friend of ours as well.
“And you didn’t recognize him at all the night you met him?” Fable asks, but it doesn’t come out as an accusation—more a legit question.
“I’m not into sports. I mean, they’re fine. I don’t hate them. But I don’t know rosters. If any pro athlete but my brother was walking through this store I wouldn’t recognize them,” I say. “Would you recognize all the football players?”
“Yes, but I love the game,” Fable says, as she tucks a strand of her red hair behind her ear and sets down the book she’s been checking out. Freckles dot her fair skin.
“I’d recognize Asher Callahan,” Maeve puts in.
I roll my eyes. “That doesn’t count. He’s your brother’s friend!”
“I’m just saying. I would,” Maeve adds.
I toss my hands up. “You two are not helpful. You’re supposed to be on my side. Hockey players are not that recognizable.”
Fable gives me that point. “Fine, that’s true.” Then she snickers. “Still, it’s funny that Wesley Bryant is kind of known around town for being this hot tamale and you banged him without having a clue who he is.”
“And now you’re living with him,” Maeve adds with a snort, her wild golden hair falling in her face as she doubles over.
“You two!” I say, exasperated. “I called this meeting today for you to help me deal with living with him. To give me tips.”
Fable’s lips go ruler straight as she says, “Like can you have…wait for it…just the tip?”
Maeve points at her, nodding. “That’s totally acceptable. That won’t violate any rules.”
“You should definitely play ‘just the tip’ with him,” Fable adds, with a so helpful smile.
My face flames hot. Why am I cursed with being easily embarrassed and also overly sexed? As if I haven’t been thinking about Wesley like that already. “Shh,” I say as an elderly woman walks past, a small child tugging her hand along.
“The other tip is this—just sit on a bucket of ice for the next three months,” Maeve offers. “Freeze out your vagina.”
“Or buy stock in toys,” Fable adds with her signature confidence, and I can’t get a word in edgewise with these two.
“Speaking of, have you figured out that issue?” Fable asks with mock concern.
Maeve parks an elbow on the shelves, her face going serious as she echoes, “Yeah, have you?”
“How I’m going to masturbate with him around?” I whisper, incredulous that they’re really asking that.
“Yes. That’s a real problem. Will you? Won’t you?” Maeve asks with a straight face.
I am a beet. But I hold my chin up high and answer them: “When he’s out of town for games I will. So there.”
After they buy their books, and I make note of ones I’ll borrow from the library, we leave. On the way down the block, my phone pings with a message from my roomie, asking me if I like Bridgerton.