Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 68697 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68697 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
“You’re telling me. They’re flying me to Richmond tomorrow on a private jet so I don’t miss Mom’s birthday.” I blow on my fingers, too hot to handle.
“Can I join you?”
I laugh. “I thought you were taking off today?”
“I will take the train to New York tomorrow if I can hop on the private jet with you.”
“I can ask, if you want.”
His grin lights up. “Pretty please. Also, you’re not doing anything to dissuade me from my ambition to be an underwear model.”
“Nope. You’re going to stay in school and study engineering.”
“I could be an engineer who happens to model underwear,” he deadpans.
Smartass. Can’t think where he picked that up.
“Anyway,” he says, “enjoy the suite, Gun.” But instead of hanging up, he stares at me thoughtfully, tilting his head. “You doing okay? You still bummed about the playoffs?”
I sit up and try to shed my general malaise. I didn’t realize it was so obvious. “No. I’m over it. I’m already focused on next season. Working out already.”
“I’m glad to hear it’s not getting you down. You just seem a little . . . pensive.”
No shit.
But I don’t want to burden my brother with what’s on my mind. He needs to focus on school, not on his big brother’s man trouble.
“I’m all good. But I better put on my charm for the party,” I say. “I can’t wait to see you tomorrow, and then for our big trip.”
I’m ridiculously excited to take my family on a vacation. We leave in a little over a week. I rented a bungalow on the beach, treating them to the kind of family vacation we never had growing up. I’ll have to work while I’m there—just a photo shoot—but then I can spend time kicking back and relaxing with those I love.
Thanks to Boyfriend Material and Rafe Rodman for making it all possible.
We hang up, and I check out my reflection in the mirror. Black slacks, a deep, wine-red shirt, black wingtips. I look sharp, but Charlie’s right—I’m too damn pensive.
I wish I could stop thinking about Rafe, and our texts, and the way he’d checked in during the playoffs.
Most of all, I wish I could stop wondering if those texts from London meant anything.
I sigh, annoyed that I’m wondering again.
He won’t even show up tonight.
I’ve been down this tantalizing path before at the photo shoot. Fool me once and all.
I’ll focus on what I have, not what I lost. I’ve got a family to take care of, friends I cherish, and a good gig with a great ball club. For a few weeks, I had a sexy, sinful, indulgent affair with a brilliant, caring, intense, dominating, passionate man. I got what I wanted out of it. I explored who I am after dark.
The game is over. This is my life now without him.
The event is at the nearby Invitation Hotel in Gramercy Park. From the street, I crane my neck to drink in the sleek, understated elegance of the black and white skyscraper. Inside, I snap mental pics of the lobby with its plush, jewel-colored divans and Piet Mondrian-style artwork on the walls. Mom would love this place.
I head for the elevator and push the call button. As the doors open and I step in, someone comes behind me to catch the same lift. I turn to see Finn Michaels, the sports journalist, dressed to the nines in black slacks and a crisp, dark blue shirt, a tailored jacket, and no tie.
“Gunnar Ford,” he says in a cool, smooth voice. “Good to see you.”
I squint. I didn’t realize Finn knew me. We’ve never talked. But he’s the kind of guy who knows everyone. I’m also not sure where he’s from – is that a hint of an English accent or is he just Park Avenue posh? “Hi, Finn,” I say, a little wary.
He must sense it, because when the elevator doors close, he quips, “Don’t worry. This elevator ride will be off the record.”
I laugh, but I’m not sure what to say to someone who breaks the biggest, most important stories in the biz. “Are you going to the Rafe Rodman kickoff event?” I ask.
“I am. I find it’s good to be where the key players are,” he says.
“Does that mean you’re crashing it?” I ask in the same light tone.
“Me? Never. I’m always invited,” he says, then winks. “Sometime soon, we’ll need to chat about the business.”
I doubt that’ll happen, but I say sure, and when the doors slide open on the eighth floor, I let him exit first. He’s fast, walking ahead of me at a determined pace down a long, carpeted hallway.
I turn into the event ballroom, and . . .
Whoa.
I’m everywhere, projected onto the walls, and damn, I look good in Rafe’s designs. But I’m just one model. Images cover the room.