Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 136559 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136559 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
“Michael,” I repeat flatly, needing a moment to process. Michael, as in my father’s former agent. Michael, the man she had an affair with while she was married to my dad. Michael, whose “romance” with her only lasted about a year after the divorce.
Michael—the reason my family shattered when I was just fourteen.
“Yes! Isn’t it wonderful? We ran into each other again, and sparks flew. It was magical. I knew he was the one who got away.” She clutches her chest dramatically, like she’s describing a scene from a Hallmark movie.
“I’m…so happy for you,” I manage to say, forcing my lips to curve into a polite smile.
“And, of course, you’ll take the photos for my wedding,” she says breezily, as if it’s already a done deal. “I won’t take no for an answer.”
Her tone is chipper, but we both know it’s not a joke. She expects my yes to be handed over on a silver platter.
“When is it?” I ask in my most professional tone possible.
She rattles off a date in two weeks, and my stomach sinks. I already know I have a conflict. “I have the final calendar shoot with the team that day.”
Her smile vanishes into smoke. “Can’t you just change it this time?”
Change it? Like I’m the one inconveniencing her by having a life?
I exhale, trying to steady myself. “I’ll see what I can do.”
The words taste bitter as they leave my mouth, and I want to walk them back. To say no. To tell her it’s inappropriate to show up at my place of work to demand I take her pictures. But guilt is already clawing at me, forcing its way into every corner of my mind.
“Baby, I just love that you’re such a family gal. Working with your dad, working with your mom. You’re so loyal.” She waves, adding, “I should go find Eleanor—we always make time for each other. I bet she’ll love hearing all about the wedding!”
Of course she has friends in high places. It’s her style. Always making herself at home.
What’s my style though? Sneaking around?
Ugh. But in a couple more days, it won’t be. I can simply be the storytelling photographer I want to be—creative, reliable, with an excellent eye.
Yes, that’s who I’ll be.
But as I walk away, I start to wonder. What am I waiting for?
Maybe I don’t need to wait for Saturday. Maybe it doesn’t need to be perfect—it just needs to happen.
If I keep looking for the perfect time, I’ll keep losing the one thing we can’t get back—time.
I check my phone. The guys arrive in fifteen minutes for the “suit walk.”
Why wait? It’s not going to be any easier no matter how perfectly I plan it.
As my mom disappears in a cloud of Dior J’adore and entitlement, I go the other way.
Straight to my dad’s office.
My heart thuds louder with every step. Telling him now—a few hours before a game—feels terrifying.
But the thought of waiting another day feels worse.
46
LIPS READ
Miles
Holy shit.
I’m in the locker room staring at the text message Leighton sent me a couple of minutes ago.
She’s supposed to be outside, snapping photos of the guys arriving, but I’m guessing that’s the last thing on her mind right now. Because she’s marching into the lion’s den—right fucking now.
I want to tell her she’s got this.
That I’ll be there if she needs me.
That I can walk upstairs and explain to her father just how serious I am about his daughter.
But my woman’s decided she needs to do this on her own, and this message is the best thing I’ve heard in a long time.
Leighton: I can’t wait. Going to talk to him now. Wish me luck.
As I’m typing a hell yes reply, my brother’s voice carries across the locker room. “What’s that look on your face for?”
Tyler’s here early, tugging at his tie. He’s clearly not a fan of the suit walk dress code.
“Leave the tie on,” I instruct. “Leighton wants a pic of both of us. She might be a few minutes late.”
He shoots me a look that says he’s had enough. “Dude. You need to deal with—”
I hold up a hand, cutting him off. “It’s happening. Right now. The dealing with it.”
His brow shoots up. “Yeah?”
“Yep.”
He offers me a fist for knocking. “Good on you.”
“Thanks,” I say, but it feels strange to sit here doing nothing while she’s upstairs having what’s probably the most intense conversation of her life. I want to be there. To do something. To say something.
Tyler moves closer, sits next to me, lowering his voice. “You’re good with whatever happens?”
I scrub a hand over my jaw. “The way I see it, I face off against brutes like you every day on the ice. I can handle this.”
“Handle what?”
Fuck.
That’s Coach. He’s already here.
Tyler’s eyes widen like saucers, and with his back to Coach, he mouths to me, It was nice knowing you.