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)
Flames spiral through me as I think about the first time he nearly kissed me at Ruma. The flames burn hotter as I remember his face just before he lowered his mouth toward mine at the rink. There was no camera then, and his gaze was without the promise of mischief.
I’d give anything for this feeling to be real—to feel this alive. I haven’t felt anything about anyone in such a long time. Even with Donovan, things felt blah. I didn’t even realize it until I compared it to what I’m feeling now.
Talking about my father isn’t something I do for fun, and I never share stories about him that make me feel sad. I don’t even discuss those things with Mom—she doesn’t even know the skating story. So, why did I share it with the man who can’t stand to be around me most of the time?
Is it because I was anxious, and I talk too much when I’m nervous? Did I tell him those things because I know once this is over, I’ll never have to talk to him—about anything—again? Or was it because once we were on the ice, I felt safe?
I dreamed last night, remembering things I used to want to do. Things I wanted to see … places I wanted to go. I woke up happy and inspired.
I woke up feeling like me.
“Are you okay?” Sutton asks.
Her words make me jump. “Me? Yeah. I was just thinking about whether I had any snacks to offer you.”
She laughs, standing. “It’s you, Georgia. Of course, you have snacks somewhere.”
“Let’s see what I have.”
She follows me into the kitchen, regaling me with tales of work that bleed into wedding planning. Then she transitions into potential honeymoon spots. She talks so fast that I can’t get a word in edgewise.
I pour us each a glass of sweet tea while she finishes her monologue.
“Oh,” she says, stopping only to take a sip. “Tate came over last night with Carys.”
“Hey, now. Don’t get cute on me. I’m the best friend.”
She laughs. “I know. Settle down.” She takes another drink, her red lipstick imprinting on the glass. “Anyway, Jeremiah and Tate went to pick up food, and Carys and I stayed back and talked. That poor girl …” She laughs again, shaking her head.
“What about her?”
“She’s getting trashed by men left and right. Her stories have made me chuckle all day. I told her she's too nice for the men she's trying to date, and that she either has to toughen up or find a new type.”
I open my computer and unlock it. “What’s her type?”
“Tate, but older and edgier.”
“Why doesn’t she just date Tate and put a leather jacket on him? He’ll be older in a few years.”
Sutton rummages around my pantry and pulls out a box of cookies. “She’ll never date Tate. And I don’t think Tate would ever date her. They’re literally the same person, except one has a dick. I think if I brought up fucking Tate, Carys might puke.”
“Okay, probably not a love connection then.”
“Definitely not.”
I open my email, and my heart starts to race. A message from an hour ago sits at the top of my inbox.
“I’m so glad I’m not dating anymore,” Sutton says. “I like this era of picking out furniture and wedding invites way better than—”
“Sutton!” My hand clamps over my mouth as I read the rest of the message. “I got a job.”
“You did?”
I read the email aloud to her, bouncing on my feet like a child. “Sincerely, Todd Downing, Downing Enterprises.”
I squeal, jumping into Sutton’s arms and hugging her.
“This is amazing,” she says, pulling away. Her face is lit up like Christmas as she peruses the attachments to the email. “That offer is phenomenal, Georgia. The benefits alone would have me saying yes, even if I wasn’t getting that salary.”
“I know.” I glance over my shoulder. Yup, the email is real. “I’m just … shocked. But so happy.”
“And I’m so happy for you. I knew you’d get something as soon as the universe found a job worthy of you.”
I blush.
“I’m coming back tonight with cake. We’re celebrating,” she says. “But right now, you need to accept that offer and I need to get back to work. Don’t make plans for tonight. I’ll be here around six.”
“I’ll be here.”
“Love you. See you then.”
“Bye,” I say, watching her walk out the door.
The email is maximized on the screen, each word easily visible. I read through it again, just to be sure. It’s almost too good to be true.
Dear Ms. Hayes,
We are pleased to formally offer you the position of Media Relations Specialist. Our offer includes a salary and benefits package detailed in the attachment to this email. Your expected start date is two weeks from the date of receipt of your signed contract (also attached). Please respond by within ten business days.