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)
Acrobats soar through the air and the fire-breather commands the attention of the audience. A man in black leather throws knives at a woman dressed in a tight, sleek catsuit. As the show reaches the end, the juggler returns, this time swallowing swords.
Which makes me cringe. My throat hurts from looking at him. “How the fuck does he do that?” I whisper. No low, seductive words this time. Just shock.
“No gag reflex,” Everly says, deadpan.
Great. Just great. My mind is off and running. “For real?”
She’s quiet for a beat, those pretty lips curving in the slightest smile as she murmurs, “I hear it helps with…swallowing.”
My chest burns, flames licking my blood. She went there. She fucking went there, and now I’m a volcano as I picture Everly Rosewood’s beautiful mouth doing unholy things to my dick.
I stare at her lush lips longer than I should till her eyes widen, and she pats her own chin subtly, a sign of something.
“What?” I ask, my voice rough.
In a whisper, she says, “Your mouth. It’s hanging open.”
Busted. But I’m not even sure I mind.
When the circus ends, we make our way down the bleachers and across the sawdust on the ground. As we exit the tent, Everly nods in the opposite direction of the street where the Lyft dropped us off. “I arranged for you to meet the ringmaster.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “You did?”
“Of course. This was a PR thing. It’s for your social,” she says.
Right. Of course. I’d let the moment get away from me. I’d let my thoughts wander too far. She guides me through the fairground to a tiny trailer where the ringmaster waits for us, his mustache curling with a bit of sweat. Hard work, running a show.
“Hello, Mr. Valenti. I’m Everly Rosewood,” she says, sticking out a hand. “We emailed.”
“Of course,” Victor says, shaking hands, as jovial as he was onstage. He turns to me. “You must be Max Lambert. The hockey guy, right?”
“That’s me,” I say.
“Everly says you’re pretty good on the ice. I’m more of a theater man myself but if you ever do tricks on skates, let me know.”
And there’s a first time for everything. I was just invited to join the circus. “Thanks. I will. Great show,” I say, working on being nicer, more approachable, more outgoing, so I add, “Do you all, um, train and study in the circus arts?”
Is that even what it’s called? I have no idea, but it sounds plausible.
“We do. I come from a long line of circus artists. Seventh generation myself,” he says, puffing out his chest with well-earned pride, and as we chat more about his family, Everly snaps some pics of us. I guess she was prepared after all.
“And what about you, Max? Does your family do hockey?” he asks.
“Actually, my parents are teachers,” I say.
That seems to catch his interest. “What do they teach?”
“Dad is a drama teacher and Mom teaches dance. That’s how they met—they had to share space at a little theater in Seattle where he was directing a play, and she was putting on a recital. Been together ever since. And they teach together, too, at a performing arts school in the Bay Area.”
“It's lovely that they work together.”
“Yeah, it really is. More than thirty years married and still going strong. Honestly, I’m just glad they don’t mind watching me play hockey now and then,” I say, then shrug, almost apologetically, “even though it’s not a play or musical.”
“I’m sure they don’t mind it one bit,” he says, like a proud dad too. “I always like seeing what my kids love. Fortunately, I get to see them juggle every day.”
“They’re the jugglers?” I ask, a little amazed in spite of myself.
“They are,” he says, proudly.
“No shit. That’s awesome,” I say.
“I think so too,” he says.
We wrap up a few minutes later and once we’re in the Lyft, Everly lifts her chin and says, “I was right.”
“About what?”
“Circuses are your favorite thing.”
I scoff. “They’re not. I’m not a circus guy.”
The smirk doesn’t disappear from her face. “But you’re wrong.”
“I think I know what my favorite things are, sunshine.”
She turns to face me with that trump-card smile. “Do you?”
“I sure do, and they’re not circuses.”
“But you like your family. And you liked talking to Mr. Valenti about his family. So, really, it was no hardship going to the circus. In fact, you enjoyed chatting with him about your parents. So that’s another real favorite thing.”
Holy. Fuck.
Forget evil genius. She is next level. I can’t even be annoyed. I’m too impressed with how she plays the game.
“Has anyone told you that you’re Machiavellian?” I ask as the car heads toward the team hotel. I’ll need to get ready soon for the game. I skipped my game-day nap. I like them, but I slept on the early flight this morning so I’ll be fine.