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)
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but I didn’t think I’d ever have to tell anyone. It’s embarrassing.”
“I understand why you didn’t. At first I was hurt—”
“Because I kept it from you.”
“Because I thought you didn’t trust me enough to tell me. Everyone has secrets they keep from others, even from themselves. I know this is hard for you and that you’re very used to being let down by the people who are supposed to lift you up, but I want you to know that I’m not going anywhere, Queenie. I want all your dark secrets to be mine to keep. I want all your pieces, all the things that make you who you are. I don’t care if you think you’re bent or broken; let me love all of you.”
She gives me a soft smile, and her warm palm settles on my cheek. “I’ll try my very best.”
CHAPTER 25
THE POWER OF ESTROGEN
Queenie
I think I’ve eaten twenty bags of sour cream and onion chips over the last three days. My skin feels tight from the salt. I almost wish I craved sweets, because I think it would be a lot better than the salt swelling that’s currently going on.
It’s good that King is on an away series, since my breath smells like a field of chewed-up green onions. And that’s about the only reason his being away is good. After our talk I felt better. Like things are going to be okay.
And then he got on the plane, and I stayed behind so I could clean up the mess that is my life and make some much-needed changes. I’ve started doing both of those things, beginning with finding my dad a replacement assistant who is technologically savvy. So far I’ve found six promising prospects, whose references I plan to check thoroughly.
The downside of the guys being away is that aside from some light paperwork, I don’t have a lot to occupy my time or my mind. So I went online. And fell down the horrible, disturbing rabbit hole that has become the biggest embarrassment of my life.
Also, Sissy is an absolute loon. But the way I’ve been smeared all over the worst of the worst tabloids and the horrible rumors all over the hockey sites and bunny forums are . . . mortifying.
And I’m supposed to meet King’s family next week. I’m not sure it’s a good idea anymore. I’m convinced they’re going to decide I’m not good enough for him.
And I sort of believe I’m not, which isn’t helpful.
Maybe Corey is right. Maybe I am a nightmare of a girlfriend. Maybe Kingston is only staying with me because he feels sorry for me and he doesn’t want to hurt my feelings. Half of me can’t wait for him to be home so I can shake the uneasy feeling that being away from him incites. The other half doesn’t want him to come home, because that will mean his parents and momster and brother are coming to visit, and I will have to meet them and impress them. After I’ve been painted as a home-wrecking, money-hungry puck bunny.
I feel like my current insecurities are fairly warranted.
The game doesn’t start for several hours. I should tackle some of the laundry that’s piled up over the past few weeks. But I don’t feel like it. I honestly don’t feel like doing much, other than eating chips and surfing the net, looking for the newest horrifying article about me.
I prop my feet up on the coffee table, and empty chip bags crunch under my heels and a couple fall to the floor, crumbs scattering on the carpet. I survey my bungalow and consider how the disarray very much matches me on the inside. I make sure I have my box of tissues before I flip open my laptop.
I’m about to start searching hashtags when there’s a knock at my door. I’m not expecting company, so my first thought is to ignore it. But whoever it is knocks again.
“I can see you sitting on the couch! Open the door, Queenie!” Stevie yells, and she knocks on the window behind my head. “Ow, shit!” She must have bumped into the rosebush, since she’s standing in a flower bed. The roses are long dead, but the thorns are still there because the bush hasn’t been pruned.
I open the sheer curtains and crack a window. “What’re you doing?”
“Staging an intervention,” Violet says from behind her. “Now open the door and let us in. It’s raining.”
“This is Seattle; it’s always raining,” I mutter, but I get my ass up off the couch and weave my way through the crap strewn all over the floor so I can get to the door.
I throw it open to find Stevie and Violet standing on my front porch with a grocery bin full of stuff.