Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 87275 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87275 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
Wow. My mouth opens to speak, but nothing comes out. I’m taken by surprise, but I also don’t know what to say to that kind of praise.
“I’ll talk to you later, Ripley.”
“Yeah, thanks. Good to see you, Landry.”
I wait until he’s out of sight before I scrub my hands down my face.
It's slightly embarrassing that his praise feels so good. But really, it’s all I want to do in life—have a role, a place, a purpose. I’ve always felt like what I do is important to our athletes, and it’s always given me great satisfaction to help others get and stay healthy. But no one has really appreciated it before. If they have, they’ve never said it.
I sit back in my chair and exhale deeply.
“Thanks for ordering for me. You really are my hero tonight.”
My breath turns into a throaty chuckle as I ponder this wild situation with Georgia. How in the hell did I wind up fake-dating the woman who hates me more than anyone in the world?
I’m not her hero, and we both know that. She’s playing her part just like I’m playing mine. But even though I know she’s saying things for the hell of it—to make herself look good and to try to bother me—it’s still amusing.
And it makes me curious.
She was nervous about placing her order last night. She’s always hesitant about ordering from new places. When our friend group goes to a new restaurant, or we’re at a bar, she always waits for someone to order first. Then, more times than not, she copies whatever they say. I wondered what would happen when it was just me and her.
When I pulled her chair out, she paused as if she was surprised. And when I told her she was beautiful, which wasn’t a lie, she basked in those words. And when I offered to order for her, she appreciated it.
My lips twitch.
Since our date, I’ve wondered what kind of guys she usually sees. Are they taking care of her? Building her up? Making her feel safe?
Not that I care, because I don’t. It’s just hypothetical. After all, she’s the reason my life went sideways. “I’m sorry, Mr. Brewer, but your scholarship offer has been rescinded.”
I force a swallow, ignoring the pit in my stomach.
“This isn’t complicated,” I tell myself. “It’s very straightforward. She hates me. I hate her. We just have to get through these next few weeks.”
I turn off my computer and stand.
Unscathed, hopefully.
Chapter Fifteen
Georgia
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” I say, flashing Ripley a smile so sweet that it might give him a toothache—just in case.
I’m flustered from the traffic on the way to the skating rink, nervous about skating, and I’m not sure if there are cameras aimed at my face. I tried to get in character on the drive over, but an old man flipped me off while we were going over the bridge and my character went from girl falling in love to girl on the verge of road rage.
I told Sutton I wasn’t the kind of girl you put on television. She should’ve believed me.
Ripley shoves off the half-wall in front of the skating rink in a pair of black joggers and a gray hoodie. A black bag is slung over his shoulder.
“Are you recording this?” he asks.
“Do you see a camera?”
He narrows his eyes.
“Are you?” I ask.
“Nope.”
My smile disappears. “Then, you know what, I’m not sorry for keeping you waiting. Shit happens. It’s not my fault.”
“Actually, it is your fault. If you would’ve let me pick you up, I wouldn’t have been standing here for the past twenty-seven minutes.”
“Oh, did you learn to tell time?” I ask, teasing him. “It’s a little late in life, but I’m so proud of you.”
“The irony of the person who was late mocking the person who was on time is rich.”
“Whatever.”
We stop at the entrance to the rink. People walk by and around us, moving through their day. I glance inside, a bubble of excitement rising in my stomach.
“When was the last time you skated?” Ripley asks.
“Actually, this will be my first time.”
He stops fiddling with his bag and looks up, confused. “Seriously?”
“It’s not like riding a bike. Not everyone ice-skates.”
“Huh.”
“What?” I ask, my brows tugging together. “What’s that huh about?”
“I swore I remembered you said you were going skating our senior year at Christmastime. A bunch of us were going caroling for extra credit, and you couldn’t go because you were going skating.” He shrugs. “Guess I got my people mixed up.”
My shoulders fall as I stare at him. How the hell did he remember that? I didn’t even remember that until now.
“No, you’re right,” I say in disbelief, clutching the hoodie I brought as instructed. “It was me. I just didn’t go.”
He waits as if he knows there’s a story there and he’s giving me time to share it. Maybe he senses that I need a moment to process the hidden memory. But when it becomes clear I’m not delving into that particular holiday tale—ever, if I can help it—he clears his throat.