Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 90736 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90736 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
“I didn’t miss you.” Paisley has condemnation in her voice. “I’m just letting you know what you’re missing out on.”
Spoken like a true narcissist who was only using me for clout.
Mama Burke was right.
I burst out laughing while Harlow glares daggers down at the phone—she probably wants to smack the damn thing off the coffee table.
“Why are you so mad?” my ex-girlfriend asks. “It was just words; I wasn’t hurting anyone.”
“How do you know you weren’t hurting anyone? Now I have to call my parents and explain it to them. My agent is pissed, Harlow is pissed. So yeah—your words hurt people. They hurt me.”
I’m not sure if any of those words are going to matter to her, but she seems to take them in and quietly consider them.
Then.
“I’m sorry, okay? Jeez.”
Harlow’s brows rise, mouth agape.
“Calm down,” Paisley adds, as if that were the right thing to utter in an irritated tone of voice. “You’ll both get over it. Everyone will get over it.”
“She is so rude!” Harlow whispers.
I loll my head and roll my eyes. “Yeah, I know.”
To Paisley I say, “Can we agree that it’s not necessary to ever contact each other again?”
“Fine.” I can hear the stubbornness in her voice.
“No more statements to the press?”
“Fine.”
“No planting stories?”
Paisley must be tempted to argue but probably doesn’t want to sound needy; she loves attention.
“God, Landon,” she says at last. “What sort of asshole do you think I am?”
The kind of asshole who releases a statement to the press because you’re jealous and catty and only did it for attention!
“I’m blocking you, and I would appreciate if you deleted my contact from your phone.”
She sucks in a breath. “That’s harsh, but whatever.”
“Cool. Good talk.”
I’m glad we got what we wanted out of this call—Paisley admitting there is nothing between us, and her apology that she went to the press. Probably got paid too.
I end the call before she has a chance to say goodbye, and leave the phone in the center of the table.
Several things are on the tip of my tongue; I’m not sure which to choose that won’t get me in more trouble:
Can we be happy again and go back to having fun?
Wow. She’s worse than I remember.
I love that you didn’t walk out on me.
“Thank you for doing that,” Harlow says quietly. “For us.”
“Listen, babe.” I take her hands in mine. “None of this is going to be easy—you have to understand that. Nothing about a relationship with me will ever be normal. I mean, maybe once I retire and people forget about me ’cause a better player with more talent rockets onto the scene, but today, I’m the news.”
I continue to hold her hands as I speak, and she lets me, nodding along slowly with my words.
“There are going to be fans who blame you when my team loses. There are going to be stories about you, your family, your dad. Probably your dog too.”
She lets out a little smile at the mention of Kevin.
“Hell. My guess is that for once, the public is going to be fucking thrilled I’m dating someone relatable instead of . . .” Let’s see, how do I put this. “Some people from my past.”
“Do you really think so?”
I nod. “One hundred percent. America is going to love you.”
“I don’t need America to love me.” Then she says, “And let’s not get ahead of ourselves—I don’t even know what your favorite foods are, or where exactly you live. What was the name of your first pet?”
“Baxter. He was a beagle.” I laugh. “He used to play hide-and-seek with us, but he howled all the fucking time.”
She giggles. “My point is—we don’t know each other. You could still be a murderer.”
“I don’t have enough free time to murder people—when would I get around to it?”
We’re both laughing now. From the corner of my eye, I see Big Steve hovering in the kitchen, pretending to wipe off his kitchen counter. But his eyes and ears are on us, head tilted in our direction. He’s been listening to everything we’ve said.
“I don’t know what we’re going to do about your dad, though,” I say loud enough for Steve to hear. “Probably have to give him a new identity and put him in the witness protection program to be on the safe side. We want people to leave him alone.”
Her dad stops spraying the counter—no doubt he’s sprayed that same spot dozens of times already, the rag in his hand paused midwipe as he eavesdrops.
“Good idea.” Harlow nods in agreement. “He hates attention.”
It is taking every ounce of self-control that man possesses not to come busting into the living room and interrupt us, and it takes everything we have not to burst out laughing.
“I guess I could try to get used to the idea of dating someone . . . uh.” She groans, covering her face with the palm of her hand. “I literally hate using the word famous.”