Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 91501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
“Who needs help bringing in a blanket? What you’re trying to say is, you saw her and used the opportunity to snake-in-the-grass your way inside to pester her for details, you nosey shit.”
Molly yawns. “Whatever. My point is, they seem supportive.”
That’s because they were.
Are.
If I had a game tonight—Monday night football—chances are, they’d have driven the two-hour drive from their place north of here and watched the game at the stadium with the rest of the families. The WAGS, the wives and girlfriends and friends of the players. My parents make most of my games, and most of Buzz’s, and I don’t know about True because she’s not an athlete.
Come to think of it, I don’t know much about what my sister has been up to lately. The last time I saw her was last weekend for lasagna after Buzz returned from his honeymoon, but it’s not like we spoke privately or anything—I was too rushed to leave.
Shit. Molly is right. I am an assbag.
Not taking time to talk to my little sister?
What a fucker.
Shame fills my gut and I feel my face flush.
“Aww, look at you,” the little terror coos. “You’re feeling the feels, aren’t you?”
The feels?
Yes, but not about Chandler. I still can’t put a label on what’s going on there. We’ve known each other five minutes; all I know is that she’s different in a good kind of way. Kind, sweet—but can kick my ass (obviously). Knows what she wants. Determined.
Tight as fuck.
If you aren’t able to tell Chandler how you feel, she won’t stick around long…
Is that true?
And am I willing to risk it?
Twenty
Chandler
“Dear Ms. Westbrooke, thank you for your time contacting Fire Fox Media about the publicist and promotions position. We were impressed by your portfolio, but unfortunately we are not hiring at the moment. If you’d like to apply for a summer internship, I have copied the link in the signature line of this email! We hope you’ll consider it—you seem like a great fit for Fire Fox! Keep checking back, and best regards!”
Another rejection.
Awesome.
I delete the email, which is a glorified fill-in-the-blank form letter, and sigh. The half-eaten bagel on my desk was stale before I took my first bite, but I’m starving and don’t have the energy to hit the breakroom. God forbid I run into someone who wants to make small talk; I’m not in the mood for that.
No one here talks to me unless they’re kissing my ass, thinking it will give them an advantage.
I rip into the carb with my canine teeth and chew miserably.
Lazy times call for lazy measures.
“Hey buttercup!” Dad sticks his head into my cubicle, perky and alert, always on. Never off.
Also, he’s never called me buttercup before, so when I lift my head to gaze at him, my expression is quizzical.
“Hey Dad.”
“How’s my girl settling in?”
“Fine?” I mean—I see the man every day; has he somehow forgotten about our meeting yesterday afternoon, where he asked what my goals are for the week?
Find a new job, find a new job, find a new job.
“Is that what you’re having for breakfast? Why don’t you let Rhonda scrounge something up for you? Some fruit, maybe.”
Rhonda is Dad’s secretary, but more of a personal assistant who fetches his dry cleaning, takes my parents’ dogs to the groomer, and buys anniversary and birthday gifts. Plus office and clerical.
Who knows.
“Thank you, but no. I’m good. This bagel is fine.”
Tastes like sandpaper, but I will live.
“Any plans for dinner tonight?”
No, but no way am I going to Mom and Dad’s house—again—so I can sit around their ridiculously large dining room table and listen to them go on and on about how excited they are that I’ve joined the Westbrooke Stadium family, which only makes me feel more guilty that I don’t want to stay.
I am not a lifer.
It is not my passion.
“Um. I have some unpacking to do, so I’m going to order a pizza and organize my bookshelves. Hollis left a few at the townhouse and I’m dying to fill them up.”
That’s not a lie.
After Dad leaves, I stare blankly at the computer monitor in front of me, a screen full of numbers and statistics I know nothing about. Baseball has never been my forte, nor my true calling, despite it being drilled into me from the time I was a child.
As an only child, I was raised to believe I’d work for the family—they sent me to college with the understanding that my marketing degree was in some way going to benefit Westbrooke Industries, benefit one of their vast holdings in one way, shape, or form.
But Dad and Uncle Thomas were not willing to put me in the marketing or publicity department, no matter what arguments I used to get my foot in that door. They want me on the business side, not the PR side, the decision final.