Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 96284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
“No thanks to you.” I smiled and buckled my seat belt. “Will I see a lot of chaps tonight?”
“If I drop you off in West Hollywood instead, I’m sure there’s a club for you.”
I laughed. Funny.
“Oh, this is a good one.” He cranked up the volume on the stereo. “He’ll probably play this tonight.”
I side-eyed him, more interested in studying Jake than hearing a song. There was something inherently sexy about how he drove. He made life look easy when he was on the road. One arm along the edge of the window, the sleeves of his open flannel shirt rolled up—some serious forearm porn going on—two fingers gripping the wheel loosely at the bottom. He tapped his foot to the rocky beat, and his lips moved subtly to the singer’s voice.
Ratty USMC ball cap on the dash. Since he always wore it backward, he took it off when a headrest was in the way.
Fitting lyrics, about holding on to things you believed in.
Of course, it being a country rock song, the topic was the singer’s truck.
It was the miles that made a man, huh?
How many miles till I fell out of love with him?
“I’d be nothing without you, so I’m holding on.”
Surprisingly, a line not about the truck.
“I’m not the openin’ act,” he chuckled. “Quit starin’.”
That was the fucking problem, wasn’t it? He was the headliner.
I shrugged. “Then stop giving me a show.”
He smirked and drove past another car. “Nice.”
The song morphed into another, and we spent the next half hour cruising between comfortable silence and mindless chatter. I told him about my Alaska idea—how we could turn it into a survival show with a comedy twist, and Jake liked it. A heavy project like Currahee was making him want something lighter too.
“We should talk to Ortiz,” he said.
Oh yeah. He didn’t have to elaborate. Before season two of Travel Back, Ortiz had told us to come to him when we were ready for Netflix. He used to say you could shoot for the IDAs and Oscars, more serious genres—which was where he placed Currahee—or nature and history documentaries for National Geographic, Discovery, and the History Channel that might get you an Emmy and some other awards. In other words, Nomads, our contribution to the miniseries about the Nordic countries, and Travel Back. Those series had put us on the map and gained us recognition. But Netflix was an ever-growing player these days, so Ortiz was changing his categories. Either you shot for prestige, or you shot for mainstream. Awards and big money didn’t always go hand in hand.
Jake and I had no complaints in the finance department, but nailing a series with Netflix would make us more independent for future projects. Get the big bucks first, then go after the prestigious awards.
The Alaska thing could definitely be up Netflix’s alley.
“I’d sure as fuck watch you tryna survive in the Alaskan wilderness,” he said, turning into one of the parking lots. “Comedy gold.”
I scowled. I’d fucking gotten better. “I’m not as bad as I was, fuckface.”
“No, but you’re still shit,” he laughed. “My li’l Bambi on ice.”
He was exaggerating!
The fuck did he know, anyway? We hadn’t gone camping yet this year, and I’d learned a crapload over Christmas. I’d visited Greer on his farm, I’d hunted small game with Cullen and Kyle, and I’d had my nails painted by my niece. I was ready for anything.
I’d show him. Next time Jake and I headed out, I was gonna blow his mind with my survival skills.
We started our trek to the outdoor amphitheater, and I was a little disappointed by the lack of cowboys. Thousands of people were here, and only one…two, three… Hell, maybe a dozen cowboy hats?
“Look!” I jerked my chin toward a couple walking hand in hand toward the venue. “The guy’s wearing a bolo tie.”
Jake looked over there, then hitched a brow at me. “We’ve been all over the South for Nomads—how do you still come off as someone who’s never left Brooklyn?”
I grinned and lifted a shoulder. I was fascinated by the South. Sue me. Two of my cousins slash brothers had come home after their USMC careers with new accents. Not a lot, but some South Carolina drawl.
Also, Jake was no fucking better. “This from someone who thought every New Yorker had mobster connections. Get the fuck outta here.”
He rumbled a laugh and draped an arm around my shoulders. “Every person from Brooklyn, not every New Yorker.”
I rolled my eyes. Go to Park Slope and Bed-Stuy, and the only connections they had were for BabyBjörn retailers and froyo.
“Roe! Jake!”
We turned around as two women hurried toward us.
Jake stiffened a little but put on a brave, brave face.
“Are you gonna watch Dierks Bentley too?” one of them asked.
“Absolutely.” I smirked. There was nothing else to do up here. We were surrounded by green hills and hiking trails.