Total pages in book: 167
Estimated words: 164557 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 823(@200wpm)___ 658(@250wpm)___ 549(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 164557 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 823(@200wpm)___ 658(@250wpm)___ 549(@300wpm)
You stupid bastard, Al. Decent? Just lie and tell the lady she looks radiant.
Dad’s about to keel over from the effort of restraining his laughter.
My mum, bless her, tries to step in. “Helen, would you like some more coffee?”
“Don’t change the subject, dear.” Helen’s on a mission now. “Radiant! Who even uses that word? I’ve spent two decades wondering what exactly you meant by it.”
I tremble with silent laughter.
Mum, still trying to steer the conversation back to safer waters, chuckles nervously. “I’m sure Albert didn’t mean anything by it. Right, love?”
She’s looking at me.
Why am I being dragged into this shit show?
“Uh, yeah. Maybe he just meant she looked good in her dress? You know, some people just have that radiant glow.”
Helen shoots me a look that could curdle milk. “I bet you’re one of those boys who tells every girl she’s special just to see how far you can get, aren’t you?”
So much for her crush.
Albert sighs, clearly defeated. “Sweetheart, if I could go back and change it, I would. But it was just a word. It didn’t mean anything.”
His wife sits back, arms crossed, looking triumphant. “Well, I’m glad we cleared that up. But let this be a lesson to you, Albert. Think before you speak.”
We all sit in awkward silence after that, and when my phone lights up and I see Will trying to FaceTime me, I practically jump out of my chair.
“One of my teammates—I gotta take this.” I hold up the phone and point to it like this is the most important call ever received. The White House is on the line. Everyone has died, and I am the designated survivor. I am the new president of the United States. Even though I can’t be because I wasn’t born here. But still.
Making my escape, I take the stairs two at a time and stumble into my old bedroom. “Jesus fuck,” I groan when the call connects. “Thank you.”
Will’s face grins back at me. “That bad, huh?”
“You have no idea what you just rescued me from, mate.”
“And here I thought the Dunne family was always sunshine and rainbows.”
“Not tonight, we ain’t.” I quickly fill him in on Dad’s new job and how Mum doesn’t want him to take it.
“If it makes you feel better,” Will says, “things aren’t any better over here.”
He turns his phone to show me the scene behind him: a very formal Thanksgiving gathering. The Larsens must eat their dinner later than we do because the long dining room table is still perfectly set. In fact, the entire room is impeccably arranged, like something out of a magazine. Yet it feels colder than a Canadian winter.
Will passes an arched doorway that looks like it has about thirty people beyond it. Loud chatter echoes through the video for a moment. He enters a different room and closes the door, and the noise dies.
“That’s a lot of people,” I remark.
“Dad needs the photo op. We’ve got all the cousins here. And there was a journalist here this morning from some architecture magazine. This is brutal. I can’t wait to get back tomorrow.”
The hockey season doesn’t typically stop for the holidays. It just happened to work out that Thanksgiving Day got us a two-day break. But we have a game tomorrow against UConn.
“Me too,” I admit, rubbing my temples. “My folks never argue. It’s stressful watching them do it. And then we get back to Briar just in time for finals and the playoffs hunt. Christ, mate. I need to get preemptively laid to get ahead of the stress.”
“Dude. Same.”
And I know we’re both thinking about Charlie now. How good she tasted. How warm and soft she felt in my arms. My dick swells, pressing against my zipper.
“Have you spoken to her?” I ask.
His expression clouds over. “No. You?”
“Nothing since I saw her at Malone’s.”
AKA the night she made me feel like absolute dirt for making her feel like dirt.
My hard-on deflates at the memory.
That ravaged, mortified look in her big brown eyes.
She has nothing to be ashamed of. But I get it. There’s a life script. There are rules. There are things you do and things you don’t do. People like Will and Charlotte freak out when they go off script. It took Larsen a long time to be able to accept that sometimes it’s okay to ad-lib. Charlie’s not there yet. Our girl’s not ready to improvise. She might never be.
“You have her number, right?”
“Yes.” He gives me a warning look. “But I’m not abusing the privilege. I promised her I’d only use it for class.”
“I know. I just… Fuck, man. What she said at Malone’s that night—I can’t get it out of my head. I want to send her a message telling her she’s got nothing to be ashamed of. She can ignore it if she wants, but…one message, Larsen. Please?”