Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80562 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80562 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
I’ve always liked that about Jake. It’s probably part of why people gravitate to him so often. He has a way of making everybody feel important and interesting–like when you’re with him, life itself feels just a little more vibrant and magnified.
“Want a break from that thing?” I ask, pointing to the baby carrier he’s got strapped to his chest. Walker is happily looking around at the city with bulging eyes. I guess Manhattan’s sights and smells are probably a little much for a baby from Frosty Harbor.
“Nah,” he says, resting a hand on Walker’s head and patting him.
“You sure? I know it can get kind of hot.”
Jake shrugs. “I run a little cold, anyway. Born for the ice,” he adds with a smirk.
I roll my eyes but fall in beside him and focus on keeping up with his long ass strides. I decide not to point out that the ice would be worse for somebody who runs cold. He seems happy, and I’m not about to ruin that.
“Jake Summers?” a voice calls.
We both turn to find a young guy who might be in his twenties with a couple of friends.
“Yeah?” Jake says.
“Dude,” the guy says. “I told you! I told you it was him!”
“Did you all want me to sign something?”
“Uh,” the kid says, patting his pockets and looking flustered. “Can you just, like, sign me, I guess?”
His friends hold back laughter behind him. Jake produces a marker from his jeans because of course, he carries one around, and reaches around Walker in the carrier to sign the guy’s arm.
“Can you sign my backpack?” one of the friends asks.
The sight of Jake signing things draws more people. It’s the third such sudden mob since we left the hotel less than half an hour ago.
Before long, a line forms, and Jake is signing everything from notebooks, laptops, and even one bald guy’s head. A woman even shamelessly tries to get him to sign her cleavage, but Jake pretends to misunderstand and signs a much more innocent patch of skin just above her clavicle. He ignores the pouty disappointment on her face and caps his marker. “Sorry, everyone,” he says, raising his voice to be heard over the loud sounds of the city. “Gotta wrap it up. Baby will get hungry soon.”
That prompts a wave of reporter-like questions. People ask if he’s the father, if I’m the mother, if I’m his girlfriend, and everything in between. Jake pats his hands down, silencing the questions. He reaches his big arm around my shoulder, pulls me in, and flashes a winning smile as I squirm under the scrutiny. “This is my fiancée. Caroline. I love the shit out of her.”
“Uh, yep,” I say, caught off-guard. People asked similar questions earlier, but Jake dodged them.
He gives me a look I recognize, and my body goes hot all over, skin prickling.
Jake leans in and plants a perfect kiss on my lips.
For a split second, every fiber of my brain is focused on the sensation of his lips on mine. My brain flashes like fireworks are going off, my belly turns upside down, and I’m about to do the thing…
Don’t do the thing, Caroline. Don’t do the thing.
“Awww!” Someone half-yells.
And I’m doing the thing. I lift one leg at the knee and kick my foot up behind me like some freaking character from a romance movie.
He pulls away, and I’m left awkwardly wondering how you disengaged from this position. I slowly lower my leg like a dog who just finished doing its business, clear my throat, and then give his huge shoulder an awkward little pat. “Yep,” I say. “We do that all the time.”
Jake saves me from needing to do or say anything more by taking my arm and steering me away from the group further down the street.
“Just up here,” Jake says, pointing with his chin.
“I don’t know how you deal with that all the time.”
He shrugs. “I honestly can barely remember a time when random people didn’t stop me and ask me to sign things or pose for pictures. I got a lot of press in high school because of hockey. By sophomore year, kids at school or away games pretty much did the same shit. By senior year, adults were doing it, too.”
“Doesn’t it get old?”
Jake thinks about it for a little before he answers. “I try to focus on what it means for the people who stop me. Even if I know I’m just a guy who hits a puck with a stick, it doesn’t really matter, right? They think I’m someone to look up to or admire. And they get excited to see me. So the least I can do is let that be a happy moment for them. I like that I can do that for people.”
“You’re a better person than me,” I say. “I think a few days of dealing with that would drive me up the wall. I’d probably wear disguises every time I went out in public.”