Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 91501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
“You think I’m crafty enough to mastermind something like this? The paps showing up and taking photographs of us together? Fans taking videos of us eating? I’m flattered.”
I stared at him like he was an idiot. “Yes, Tripp, I do think you’re crafty enough to have staged this entire evening.” My arms went up, defeated, and I let the subject drop with narrowed eyes. “You can’t stand the fact that a woman is stronger than you.”
My independence and empowerment had nothing to do with that evening and everything to do with his reputation as a player.
But why?
The tortilla chip I popped on my tongue a moment ago tastes like chalk in my mouth, stale and dry, unwilling to go down.
My jaw clenches, fingers itching to text him and chew his ass out, but then the crowd outside goes wild and I remember where I am, who I’m with, and that he won’t be available for hours.
Cocky bastard.
Liar.
I sit, stewing.
“It’s such a relief knowing you grew up in the industry and aren’t a stranger to making tough business decisions and keeping the personal out of it.”
“Business decisions,” I repeat blankly, wanting to say, This is personal—for me. Everything about it is personal. How can you sit there and pretend it’s only about business? And now my feelings are hurt, confidence deflating, anger brewing.
Why is his mother telling me all this? Sure, she’s drunkish, but she must know Tripp and I wouldn’t have had an actual discussion about this. She has to know that if I mention this to him (which I will), it’s going to end in a huge fight.
He must have told her about that night if she knew about it beforehand—from the way it sounds, it was her idea.
She feels guilty, Chandler. Getting this confession off her chest will make her feel better even if it’s making you feel like shit.
Then my mind wonders: is she gossiping because my family is in sports, too, and she’s trying to relate to me? Or is she trying to warn me about how cutthroat it can be?
I know she likes me; how can she sit there and tell me this so casually? My face feels bright red, so it’s probably no secret that I’m stewing.
I barely hear another word she says, going through the motions of watching the game. Standing to cheer when the room and crowd go wild. Booing when they boo. Taking whatever beverages are handed to me and slowly sipping from whatever cup I’m given.
I hug everyone and make my goodbyes with forty-five minutes left in the game, explaining that I’ve developed a headache and want to beat traffic so I can rush home and get to bed.
The ride home is a blur, my brain clogged with arguments and rationalizations and words and horrible, self-destructive thoughts.
I have to stop seeing him—he’s a liar!
Calm down. He only did what he thought he had to do—he likes you.
Does he? Or is he just bored?
Does Tripp Wallace seem like the kind of guy who does anything because he’s bored?
Bored? Seriously, Chandler, the man is a professional athlete. He is so busy he can’t be bothered to walk his own dog, and he doesn’t have the balls to kick the teenager out of his house.
But it started with a lie.
He changed the subject when I brought it up, which means he was hiding it—which means he knew it was wrong. Does that make him selfish? Does that make him too weak to stand up to his mother? Is the media and public perception more important than his personal relationships?
You are way overthinking this, Chandler.
Get home, get inside, take a hot shower, forget about it.
Two hours later, I can’t get it out of my head.
Tripp must be home by now, the game having ended shortly after I walked in the door of my townhouse—factoring in time for him to shower, change, listen to the coaching staff tell them what they did wrong. What they did right. Giving instructions on what they’re going to work on in practice.
Shooting the shit with his teammates.
Whatever it is professional athletes do in the locker room after a game.
Standing at my bathroom sink, I splash cold water on my face, occasionally looking up to stare at my own reflection—eyes tired, mouth downturned. I have a lot on my mind, and it shows.
First I’m mad, then I’m disappointed.
Then…
The tears come.
I cry, washing my tears down the drain along with my makeup, face splotchy, debating my options.
Let it go and pretend nothing happened. Pretend I had an amazing time with his parents watching the game—as I had been, until his mother dropped a truth bomb on the entire evening.
Call Hollis and ask her what she would do, although I have a feeling she’ll try to talk me out of being mad, considering she wants to be cousins AND sisters-in-law.