Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 98846 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 494(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98846 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 494(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
And then I brought her home.
I throw off the covers and sit up. I’m naked. Again, this is atypical. I usually sleep in a T-shirt and boxer briefs. I find a discarded pair on the floor and pull them on so I can go in search of Queenie.
I get as far as the hallway when a yellow Post-it stuck to the doorjamb catches my eye.
Thanks for taking my mind off of my mommy issues last night. And this morning. ;)
Xo
Queenie
I peel it off, hoping she’s left a phone number on the back, but it’s blank. Which is when I notice the scrap of fabric hanging from the knob. I untangle it and realize that it’s a pair of women’s underwear.
A thong, to be exact. A ruined thong.
And this, right here, is the reason I don’t drink. Or bring random women home. Because now I get to feel equal parts guilty and mortified that last night’s sexual-therapy session has only warranted a Post-it goodbye note.
CHAPTER 1
FIRST DAY
Queenie
Six weeks later
“Honey, you ready? We needed to be out of here five minutes ago.”
“Coming!” I slip my feet into my heels, check my reflection one last time, make sure I have my laptop bag and purse, and rush down the hall. The last thing I want is to make my boss late for work my first day on the job. As his assistant.
He’s standing in the kitchen, dark hair styled neatly, athletic frame wrapped in a navy suit with a gray tie that matches his eyes and the hints of gray at his temples—that I’d never mention exist. He looks far more put together than I feel. He glances up from the phone in his hand, and his smile fades. “What are you wearing?”
“It’s called a dress.” Like his suit, it’s navy, with cap sleeves, belted at the waist. Classic, simple, and stylish, or at least that’s what the salesgirl said when I tried it on last week. And then charged it to my boss’s credit card. The perks of living with the guy who runs the show.
“Maybe you should change into pants.”
I prop a fist on my hip. “Weren’t you just yelling at me to hurry up, and now you want me to change? What the hell?”
He waves a hand in my direction. “This isn’t work-appropriate attire.”
It’s my turn to frown. “How is this not work appropriate? It has sleeves and a high neckline, and the hem falls below my knees. I look perfectly professional.”
“You’re going to be in a roomful of male athletes, primarily in their twenties and thirties.”
“And a few in their forties.” I motion to him. “Your point being?”
He tips his head to the side, regarding me with something like frustration. “Don’t pretend you don’t know what the issue is.”
I know exactly what the issue is. My dress is tailored; it hugs my curves. It’s professional and also maybe a bit sexy. But all of me is covered, apart from my arms, and my legs from knee to ankle. “This isn’t the sixteenth century. I shouldn’t have to hide in a burlap sack. Are you telling me these guys are so barbaric they’re unable to control themselves in the presence of women? I should be allowed to wear whatever I damn well please, and what I’m wearing is tasteful and completely appropriate. Besides, the second they find out I’m your daughter, they’ll avoid me like the plague, especially if you’re wearing that scowl.” I poke him in the cheek. “Now stop being archaic and overprotective. We’re going to be late.” I grab our travel mugs, which are filled with the coffee I made this morning, and head for the door.
My dad sighs, aware this isn’t a battle he’s going to win. I’m twenty-four. I’m athletic, curvy, and female. I refuse to hide my shape because men might happen to appreciate it. Although I do understand why my dad does not love the prospect.
He locks up behind me, and his Tesla beeps once as he presses the key fob.
My dad is the general manager of the Seattle NHL team. When he was a teenager, he showed real promise as a player. He even played in the minors and almost got called up, but then he got my mother pregnant and became a father at the ripe old age of twenty, which changed everything. Especially when my mom decided being a parent was too much for her and took off, leaving him to raise me on his own.
He still could’ve played for the NHL. My grandparents would have helped take care of me during away games. But he didn’t want me to be without both parents for a good part of the year, and my mom had proven to be completely unreliable. By the time I was two, he had full custody. So he set aside his NHL-playing aspirations and took a lower-level administrative job instead.