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)
I just laugh and drink my tea. “Keep dreaming,” I tease.
“Speaking of dreams, how’s the search going for your own place? I can help with rent if you want.” Steam wafts from his coffee mug as he speaks.
“Dad,” I warn, though I wonder if I’m being stubborn by refusing his help.
“Leighton,” he says, giving it right back to me in a firm voice too. I bet it’s the voice he uses with his players.
“Noah,” I say, sterner this time, matching him.
He parks his elbows on his desk, fixing me with a serious look. “What’s the point of me working this hard and making good money if I can’t spend it on my daughters?”
I don’t really have anything to say to that—except, well, this: “I need to learn how to make it on my own.”
He growls but relents. “Fine. Then I’ll just save more for you.”
Like I figured he was doing anyway. “Sure, threaten me with your money market accounts, Dad.”
“I will,” he says, lifting his coffee for a long sip. It’s probably scalding, but he doesn’t seem to notice. That’s so him. He’s impervious to heat, to cold, to spice. He’s both iron and ice.
The other thing that’s so him? He’s ridiculously happy we’re working together, and, honestly, so am I—or I will be if it all works out. “Thanks again for being cool about the job. I won’t come in every day asking questions, and I definitely won’t step on your toes.”
He laughs. “I wasn’t worried.”
“I know, but I want you to know I respect your role,” I say, then briefly wonder if I’m overselling my above-the-boardness.
My father tilts his head, studying me, like he’s trying to figure out why my words don’t quite add up. Shit. I am overselling myself.
I gulp as he says, “I’m not worried about you, Leighton.” His tone transforms from lighthearted to serious. “Just watch out for the guys.”
Tension slams into my body. I shift in the chair. “The guys are fine,” I say as casually as I can while I pick at unseen lint on my shirt. “I’m used to them.”
“I know you are, but they’re elite, ultra-competitive athletes with a lot of…let’s call it…energy.”
Testosterone, he means. But I don’t want to say that either, because I understand him completely. “I get it.”
“And you’ll be working closely with them. They can be,” he says, sighing thoughtfully, “charming.”
It was inevitable, I suppose, with this job possibility. The don’t date a hockey player warning. He’s given it to Riley and me before, packaged as part of his occasional dad dating advice. Athletes tend to be obsessed with the sport. They’re married to the game. Most aren’t ready to settle down. I know these guys. I was one of these guys.
We don’t talk about the last part much, but there’s no real need to. His age tells the story. I was born when he was only twenty and in college. My mom was young too, and she stayed home with me while my father chased his ice dreams with her support. He’d already been drafted, but he stayed in school and finished classes. He played in the Frozen Four and went to the minors all as a young dad while Mom did most of the parenting, setting aside her handbag dreams. But I wonder if that led to her resenting Riley, him and me. To her cheating on him with an athlete-turned-agent. To her leaving us for that guy and the handbag dream she’d wanted to fulfill.
Since she’s not with Michael anymore, I don’t think Riley and I got in the way of romance for her. But maybe we did get in the way of her dreams?
I’m already twenty-four and out of school, so our situations are different. Still, I understand where my dad is coming from.
“I understand,” I say, finally responding even though the last thing he said is they can be charming.
Yes, they absolutely can. One in particular.
“I’m glad. Like I said, most of them aren’t ready to settle down,” he says, giving me a resigned smile. “I don’t want to see you hurt. Ever.”
My throat tightens from the protectiveness in his voice, the care in his eyes. The heartfelt emotion behind his words.
“Same for you, Dad,” I say softly.
But his warning is heard and noted.
A week later, I’m tidying the studio at Hush Hush, returning silk robes to the wardrobe rack after a boudoir shoot, when Chanda calls and makes an official offer for me to take over for Mako for the next three months, covering training camp through Christmas.
“When he said you’d be the perfect choice, all I could think was yes, she’s the one.”
I beam at the praise. “And I would love the project.”
We work out the timing and hours as I organize the black pumps on the shoe rack. “Everly is coordinating with the social media and marketing team,” Chanda says. “She’ll send you details soon about the photos they want.”