Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 117201 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 586(@200wpm)___ 469(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117201 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 586(@200wpm)___ 469(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
“Wow, you’re already causing quite a stir.”
“Great,” he said, flatly.
“Isn’t it?” she agreed with a high-pitched laugh.
“What exactly am I supposed to do here, Tallulah?”
“Just get used to mingling with women again, you know? You might not be interested in anyone here and that’s okay. Totally okay. But at the very least, you’ll get some practice.”
He grunted. “I don’t want any fucking lemonade.”
“Do you hate all the good drinks?”
“There’s no need for anything but water.”
“When you’re making small talk, don’t open with that.”
He stopped walking suddenly, eyebrows slashing together. “Hold on. What are you going to do while I’m practice mingling?” His voice dropped. “You’re not mingling, too.”
“Nope. I’m just here to be your wing woman.”
Burgess eyeballed the group over the top of her head, a tick beginning in his cheek. “What if one of them wants to mingle with you?”
“I’ll give clipped responses and a tight-lipped smile to deter them.”
“That can’t be foolproof.”
“It is.” She gave him a tight-lipped smile.
He shivered. “Jesus. You’re right. That’s cold.”
“Pray you’re never on the receiving end.” She hooked their elbows together and dragged him forward. “Now, stop stalling. It’s going to be educational. We can identify what you need to work on.”
“If you talk to any of these guys, we’re leaving.”
The pulse in her neck went utterly bananas. “That’s not helpful.”
“I don’t care.”
Every single person at the mixer was facing them now, watching as they approached, half of them frozen in shock, the other half verging closer to fascination. “Hi, everyone! Sorry we’re late.” She extended a hand toward the person wearing an Organizer badge, smiling as they shook. “I’m Tallulah. This is my friend, Burgess.”
“I knew that was him,” someone whispered.
“Sir Savage,” growled one of the men, pounding a fist to his pink pinstriped chest.
Burgess beat his own chest once without missing a beat. “How’s it going?”
Pink Pinstripes stepped forward, apparently taking the role as group spokesman. “Are you really here for this singles mixer?”
“It’s a Young Professionals Meetup,” droned the Organizer.
“Sure, dude.” Pinstripes sent the group a smirk. “My question is, what is Sir Savage doing here?”
“I’m asking myself the same question,” Burgess said.
“You’re an NHL legend. Can’t you just date whoever you want?”
Burgess frowned at Tallulah. “Apparently not.”
“As you were, everyone,” Tallulah said quickly, praying her cheeks weren’t as red as they felt. “Just pretend he’s a regular Joe, okay?”
“Do you want a lemonade?” asked the Organizer.
“No,” Burgess shouted.
“He hates joy in all forms,” Tallulah explained in a whisper.
A young woman in a blue wrap dress slipped in front of Burgess with her hand out and Tallulah watched in slow motion, stomach gurgling, as Burgess raised his paw and grasped the offered hand, spreading a smile across the lady’s face. “Hi, I’m Jeanine.”
“Nice to meet you, Jeanine.”
Tallulah realized her arm was still linked with Burgess’s and tried to slip free, but he trapped her without so much as a blink. Jeanine watched the action with a bemused smile . . . that was mirrored by the other two women—Samara and Annie—who joined their small offshoot group. Burgess shook all their hands with the enthusiasm of a man meeting the Grim Reaper.
“So how do you two know each other?” Annie asked, gesturing with her lemonade.
Tallulah nudged Burgess to answer, in the interest of him taking the conversational center stage. Her throat wasn’t shrinking to the size of a swizzle stick at all.
“She’s my daughter’s au pair,” Burgess said, finally.
“Wow.” Annie drew out the word, exchanging knowing glances with Samara and Jeanine. “Interesting.”
Burgess made a gruff sound. “You could say that.”
“It’s a little unusual for a man to be such good friends with his au pair, isn’t it?” Samara asked, her mouth on the rim of her lemonade cup. “Accompanying you on something of a romantic outing . . . ?”
The Organizer cleared his throat. “The object is to make professional connections—”
“Bro.” This, from Pinstripes. “Stop trying to make fetch happen.”
Burgess tilted his head at Tallulah, obviously waiting for her response to Samara’s question. Did he look a bit too interested in her answer? And why was everyone standing so close to Burgess? A few more inches and all three women were going to attach like barnacles to the underside of a boat. “He’s a single father and a professional hockey player, as you know. And, well . . . when one has no time for dating, they might be tempted to give up altogether, but he’s only thirty-seven and has so much to offer—”
“Like that wicked body check,” roared Pinstripes, fist to the sky. “You saw what he did to that fucker from the Pittsburgh Huskies—splintered his schnoz. Do not cross Sir Savage. Do not even—”
“That fucker from the Huskies is fine,” Burgess interrupted roughly, squeezing Tallulah’s arm tighter to his rib cage. “We’re fine. I sent him two six packs.”
Tallulah glanced up at him sharply. “Two?”