Total pages in book: 160
Estimated words: 155798 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 779(@200wpm)___ 623(@250wpm)___ 519(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 155798 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 779(@200wpm)___ 623(@250wpm)___ 519(@300wpm)
The guy looked me over, and when he caught my eyes, his narrowed. A different look came over his face. A wall came down, but his eyes held a gentle concern. He’d been talking to another man, both in some serious business suits. Each of them filled out those suits to where I was realizing how the right suit could be a weapon. Funny how I hadn’t known before.
The first guy stepped toward me. He ran his hand over his face, flicking through his dark beard, and he angled his head down.
Jesus. He was probably a foot taller than me.
I was five foot six, average height. Average weight, though I dropped to a size four during stressful times. And there wasn’t anything remarkable about me, a fact I’d loved growing up. I could always blend in. Pale skin. Shoulder-length strawberry blond hair and dark eyes.
My face was normal, and a few people had said I was attractive growing up.
I hadn’t cared. I’d never been a makeup girl, and Vicky, my foster mom, had once told me I had natural beauty so I could get away with it. I could do lipstick, but mostly kept to lip gloss. I did indulge in pedicures. Keeping my toes painted light pink with sparkles made me happy. Sometimes I did a manicure too, but working on a computer every day chipped my nails, and since I never saw anyone outside of my foster family, what was the point?
Yet somehow, as this massive giant studied me, I wished I’d done my face up.
Then I remembered, I had. The show. But wait, I was a mess. I was on my way back to the makeup chair because I was such a mess.
“Are you okay?” The giant spoke, a deep baritone rumbling out of his chest. Smooth.
The sound of it washed over me, calming me. I closed my eyes, savoring the feeling. His voice settled me, cementing something inside me, just as it had woken at the sight of him.
What is going on with me?
“Miss Harm?” The makeup guy was back. “We need to fix you up. Can you follow me?”
I needed to go. I needed to fix my face.
The giant was still staring at me. The guy with him was now also staring at me.
Man, oh man. Those business suits…
Oh God.
Now the makeup guy was staring.
My face and neck got hot, probably breeding more of those red splotches. I ducked my head. “Yes. Sorry.”
There was another beat of silence. “Follow me, please.”
We continued down the hallway. I kept my head down, becoming mute—another habit I’d learned growing up. It helped with the attention. When you didn’t respond, people just talked about you instead of to you. Eventually they forgot you were in the room.
I got back into the chair, and he started fussing.
A new shirt was brought in.
All the while, I sat there, my eyes anywhere except making eye contact, and I waited for the usual numbness to settle over me. It was like a blanket. My system would return to being empty but peaceful.
I liked the emptiness. I could function if I felt empty.
It wasn’t happening.
Whoever that guy was, he’d stirred something in me that wasn’t settling.
Slight panic laced through me. What do I do with this?
“You met our newest Kings football player,” the makeup guy said. “Defensive end, I believe. He’s delicious, ain’t he?”
My mouth went dry. “He plays football?”
“Mmm-hmmm.” He kept working on my face. Another person was smoothing my hair because I had messed that up as well. “He’s one of those big, burly guys who tackle the quarterback.”
The hair guy laughed. “You think every football player tackles the quarterback.”
“They don’t?”
Both laughed.
“Or maybe that’s just what I would like to do,” Makeup Guy clarified. “Colby Doubard. Hmmmm mmmm mmmm. Either way, this one is the newest sports celebrity in town. Brett Broudou is here to promote a charity.”
Brett Broudou.
I couldn’t believe I hadn’t recognized him.
I started to nod with them, dazed.
He made a disapproving sound. “Don’t move, sweetie. They switched your segment so the football hottie is going on first, in your place, but we don’t have a lot of extra time.”
“Right. Sorry.” I was horrified, but still… Football. It’s one of the few things I knew. I enjoyed watching all the trades, seeing how the teams worked together with new players on the roster. The trash talking. The egos. The politics. The continuously evolving door of all the coaches going from one team to the other. The personal relationships too.
And the Kings had won the Super Bowl last year.
I’d been on a high for two weeks after the game. I’d even indulged by ordering pizza and Chinese food the next day because I was still celebrating. I almost immediately regretted it, but it’d been worth it. It’d been my own little personal party that lasted two days, or more if the diarrhea counted.