Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 135831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 679(@200wpm)___ 543(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 679(@200wpm)___ 543(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
“Fantastic,” Clementine says, then clicks on her computer, and hits the mouse. “There you go. All the details on The Ice Men episode should be in your email. I assume you’re in.”
It looks like I just became a makeup artist and manners coach in one afternoon.
And because I can fake it when I have to, I say brightly, “I’m in.”
A few miserable hours later, I’m packing up to leave, bracing myself to text Max to schedule our first…is it a session? A lesson? A debrief? I don’t even know. When I hit pause on the text, my gaze drifts down to the earlier message from Lucas. He worked with me when I was rehabbing after the car accident, then we reconnected over the summer and went on a date. But he was called out of town shortly after to work in a clinic in Los Angeles for a few months. We never hung out again.
Looks like he wants to now.
Hey, Everly! I’m back in town and would love to take you out again. Let me know if there’s a statute of limitations on a second date. I hope not.
We did have a nice time. He’s kind and caring, like you’d hope someone in his profession would be. I wouldn’t mind seeing him again. But my head’s too full right now to respond. It’s pinging with this new assignment and what it’ll require, and thoughts of Max and what a pain in the ass he is. I’m a little frazzled, so rather than write to either guy, I compose a message to my friends instead, texting Josie, Maeve, and Fable. It took me a few years to even want to have friends again, but I love this group of women and need them now more than ever.
I ask if they can get together with me tonight. Then I grab my things and leave, working on a text to Max as I head down the corridor to my car.
But I stop short at the weight room. He’s alone in there, on the leg-press machine, pushing an ungodly amount of weights with his thick thighs, bulging with muscles. The scowl of all scowls is etched on his too-handsome face. His blue eyes are ice. His cheekbones could cut glass.
Welcome to a new hell, Everly.
My stomach twists. I rap on the doorjamb, but I’m not sure he’ll hear me, since he’s wearing earbuds. But he’s a goalie, so his peripheral vision is better than a hawk’s. He must notice me out of the corner of his eye, and he looks mad as hell. He presses hard down on the weights one more time, then lets go of them. The loud clang they make rattles my heart.
Pushing up to sit, he pops out his earbuds. “Well, well, well, if it isn’t my brand-new babysitter.”
Fun fact: this is going to suck.
7
GOOD GUY BOOT CAMP
Everly
The thing about jerks is this—you can’t kowtow to them. When they’re sarcastic, it’s best to disarm them. You do it by being honest, kind, and direct. I’ve read employee handbooks and guidelines about how to handle difficult people, be they reporters, colleagues, or fans. Defuse is the watchword.
Right now, I really should respond to the if it isn’t my brand-new babysitter with something like “I don’t plan to be your babysitter, but I do look forward to working more closely. Let’s set a time to review strategies.”
And yet the words that fly out of my mouth are dripping with pure sass and served with a syrupy smile as I fight fire with sarcastic fire. “Actually, I prefer professional babysitter, Lambert.”
Grabbing a towel and wiping his hands then the back of his neck, he says dryly, “I prefer none of this.”
“And I see we’re in the no stage,” I say like a preschool teacher. Wow, does he bring out my worst behavior too? I think he does. But since I’m on a roll, I stroll into the weight room and add, “Alternatively, you could call me your makeup artist,” I say then dust my fingertips against my cheekbones like a fabulous YouTube makeup influencer. I even add a pout for effect. “Would that be more amenable?”
After he sets down the towel on the weight bench, he grumbles, “I don’t wear makeup.”
And I don’t back down. I step closer. “Then think of me as your brand-new…attitude coach,” I say with the most over-the-top smile. Two can play this game after all.
Slowly, he rises from the weight bench, stretches his neck from side to side, then takes his sweet time staring me down. His height is intimidating. That steely gaze is penetrating, unwavering. My pulse stutters from the way he stares, and I hold my breath. No wonder other teams are afraid of him. He arches a dubious brow as he eyes me up and down, then says with a smirk, “Coach? More like drill instructor.”