Total pages in book: 55
Estimated words: 50840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 254(@200wpm)___ 203(@250wpm)___ 169(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 50840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 254(@200wpm)___ 203(@250wpm)___ 169(@300wpm)
"Charles Montaque was just in the fucking parking lot, trying to set up a meeting with me to talk about my sister."
Alice goes completely silent.
"How the fuck did he find out about her, Alice?" I growl, my temples throbbing.
"I don't know," she says quietly. "It's not like people don't know she exists, Logan. They just usually don't go prying into her life. What did you tell him?"
"Nothing. I didn't say a word about her."
"Good. That's good. Be in my office first thing on Monday," she orders me. "We'll figure it out. In the meantime, just try to focus on the game tomorrow, Logan. We'll handle this."
I jerk my chin in a nod and then remember that she can't see me. "Fine. First thing Monday." I pause. "Send Peyton's address to me."
"Logan…"
"Please, Alice," I growl, stretched to the breaking point. I need to see her. Not on Monday. Not in a damn conference room. But now. Tonight.
"Fine," she sighs quietly. "Don't make me regret this. If you do something stupid and get me fired, I will murder you. And then I'll get myself sent to hell just so I can spend eternity torturing you."
I smile despite myself. Maybe all team publicists are terrorists in training.
Chapter Five
Peyton
"We should go out tonight."
I look up at Serena through bleary eyes to find her standing over me with her hands on her hips, smiling like she just solved all my problems. She's still dressed for work in black slacks and a cute pink blouse with her hair pulled up into a bun. I look exactly like I haven't left the bed since I crawled into it yesterday morning.
"No, thanks," I mutter.
"Peyton!"
"You go." I fling myself backward, dragging the pillow up over my eyes. "I'm staying right here."
She huffs before sitting beside me. A second later, my pillow disappears, snatched away by a tyrant masquerading as my best friend. "You can't mope forever."
"I haven't been moping forever. It's been one day."
Her lips curve into a triumphant smile. "At least you finally admit that you're moping."
"Do not. I'm plotting revenge. It takes a lot of brain power, so I'm doing it from bed like a normal person would."
"Oh, yeah? What have you come up with so far?"
"Thumbtacks on the ice. Poison ivy in his jockstrap. Setting his stupid truck on fire." I scowl. "Preferably with him inside it."
"Savage." She nods. "I like it."
"Telling his wife," I whisper, squeezing my eyes closed.
She gives me that big-eyed, startled look.
"I know!" I cry, dragging another pillow over my head…which she immediately steals. Trying to hide from your problems when you have a tenacious roommate is hard work. I roll my head in her direction. "It's probably a bad idea. They have a kid. I could blow up their entire life. I just…"
"You feel guilty."
"Yeah," I whisper. "But I'd want to know if it were me. Besides, isn't that what we're supposed to do as women when a man cheats? We're supposed to have their backs, and out the cheater. No one should have to go through life cluelessly being cheated on."
"Maybe she already knows what he's doing."
I eye her sideways.
"A lot of women who marry men like him are fully aware of their…activities. They just choose to ignore them because they like the lifestyle." Serena shrugs. "It happens a lot."
"That's depressing."
"I know. But it's also true. I'm not saying it's right or fair or that I understand it. I'm just saying that it happens."
"And somehow, none of this make me feel any better," I groan.
"Have you talked to him?"
"Why? So he can lie to me? No, thanks. I'm never talking to him again."
"You might not have a choice," she points out. "Your interview is on Monday. And this is probably the worst time to bring it up, but have you considered the possibility that he's the one you'll be int–"
"Do not finish that sentence," I warn her.
She snaps her mouth closed, holding up her hands. "I'm just saying. It's a possibility."
She isn't wrong. Isn't that part of the problem? Somewhere between running out of his place without my shoes and arriving at mine—also without my shoes—the truth dawned on me. The sick sense of dread battling around in my stomach since I got home is mostly because I slept with a married man…and a tiny bit about the fact that I'm pretty sure said married man is my maybe future boss. I'm not sure why I'm so confident of that fact—perhaps because the universe currently hates me—but I am confident.
Micah Rushing isn't the player in need of an assistant. It's Logan. And he freaking knew it when he decided to take me home with him and chose not to tell me that he was the player I was worried about. I'm mad as hell about that. Was it all just a big joke to him? Was I supposed to walk into that interview on Monday and be humiliated when I saw him sitting there?