Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 95107 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95107 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
If a proposal makes Dean feel more secure on our relationship ladder, and if I already know I’m going to marry that man one day, then what the hell is wrong with me?
A lightbulb goes off above my head, flashing the words: I’m such a fucking idiot.
“I need to text Dean.” I sigh, reaching for my phone again. This time, none of my friends threaten to drown the phone in the champagne bucket. Sera’s faint smile tells me she knows I’ve seen the error of my ways.
ME: Where are you?
Then, realizing he might ignore the text, I add two words I’m certain he won’t ignore.
ME: I’m worried.
DEAN: All good here.
I know him well. No matter how pissed he might be at me, Dean would never allow me to worry.
ME: Where’s here?
HIM: Newark.
ME: ?
There’s a short delay, as if he’s debating whether I deserve his precious explanation. I’m not annoyed, though. The guilt in my stomach churns harder the more I picture my amazing, sexy Dean alone on his wobbly ladder.
HIM: G & Logan played the NJ Devils tonight. We’re in Logan’s room raiding the minibar now.
ME: Oh nice. What hotel?
HIM: Azure Tower near the Prudential Center.
ME: Any idea when you’ll be home?
HIM: Not late. They have an early flight in the morning.
HIM: We done with 20 questions?
Ouch. But I deserve it.
Since I don’t want to start any important conversations via text, I guess I have to wait until I see him at home later. He’s with his friends, anyway, and—
I gasp.
“Elijah!” I half-shout.
The smarmy, drowning-in-cologne guy beside me looks thrilled to be acknowledged. “What is it, gorgeous?”
“You said your family owns the Azure Group? Does that include Azure Tower in Newark?”
“Damn straight it does.”
Oh my God. It’s serendipity.
He waggles his eyebrows. “Why? You want a private tour?”
Gag. “No, but…” Excitement tickles my spine. “I need to ask a huge favor.”
21
Dean
“I don’t think he’s coming back.” Grinning, I nod toward the closed door that leads to the adjoining room. We’d started out an hour ago in Logan’s room, but ended up in Garrett’s after clearing out the minibar. Or rather, after I cleared out the minibar. Though in my defense, there were only two beers in there and two mini bottles of whiskey. Pathetic. Is that how they’re treating professional hockey players at the Azure Tower these days?
Then we realized they’d simply forgotten to replenish Logan’s bar, because when we went next door, Garrett’s was jam-packed with little bottles of booze. I’m fixing myself a rum and Coke as we wait for Logan. He said he was quickly hopping in the shower before he joined us for a final nightcap, but it’s been like twenty minutes.
“I bet he’s having phone sex with Grace,” Garrett guesses. “Or sending dick pics. You know every time we fly, he sneaks into the jet bathroom and takes pictures of his junk to send her?”
I snort. “Ha, like you don’t do the same for Wellsy.”
“Well, obviously. I’m not going to deprive my lady of all this…” He gestures up and down his body, then strikes a pose in his Bruins T-shirt and plaid pajama pants.
My favorite thing about my social circle? None of us lack confidence.
“Why do you have adjoining rooms anyway?” I glance at Logan’s door. “The whole world already knows you guys suck each other’s dicks. Just man up and share a room.”
“Hilarious.”
“Thanks.”
“Logan needs my protection,” G explains. “He’s afraid a puck bunny will sneak into his bed again.”
“I’m sorry—what?”
“Happened to him a while back in San Jose.” Garrett chuckles. “Grumpy jackass dragged himself all the way down the hall to my room and woke me up. Now he’s demanding I’m always next door, so he won’t have to go far if he needs to bunk with me.”
“Wow. Diva much?”
“Right?”
As I lean against the desk, sipping my drink, Garrett’s expression grows serious. “So, what are you going to do? Like, for real. Because you keep dancing around it.”
When I got to the hotel, I wasted no time telling my friends what happened with Allie the other night. The whole sordid tale of brutal rejection dished out by the girlfriend who supposedly loves me. But that’s about as far as we got.
Garrett swishes the ice cubes in his whiskey glass before bringing it to his lips. “So just to recap, she told you multiple times she wasn’t ready for an engagement.”
“Yeah,” I say warily.
“And you absorbed that information and were like, huh, I guess I should propose, then.”
I glower at him. “Oh, fuck off. It wasn’t like that.”
“I’m trying to understand how it wasn’t, because it seems like she told you she wasn’t ready, and in response you bought a ring and set up a fancy dinner and ambushed her.”
“I can’t believe you’re Team Allie on this one.”
“I’m not. I’m Team Logic. Guess what, dude? We lucked out, man. We could’ve ended up with chicks who say one thing and mean another. The ones who let out those big sighs and then when you ask what’s wrong, they’re, like, nottttthing—” He mimics a high-pitched voice. “But we didn’t. I’ve discovered that usually when our girlfriends say something, they’re not playing games.”