Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 98324 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98324 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
I hold my breath.
“He’s getting seconds at the buffet. Which I respect, honestly, because those empanadas were exceptional.”
My stomach growls. “I didn’t mean to miss dinner. Although I’m probably too embarrassed to chew. So I might choke, requiring someone to give me the hug of life, which would be the only way to make this day more humiliating.”
“Deep breaths,” Zoe says soothingly. “Hmm. Now he’s leaving the dining room with his plate. But without gossiping. Darcy, it’s going to be okay. Come down to the pool and have a drink with me and Chase. Everything is fine.”
“You don’t know that.” I shiver. “The look he gave me? It was intense. And even if I’m wrong, he’ll still see the message eventually. His publicist might flag it. I’m going to lose my job! And even if I don’t, I’ll probably have to quit.”
Zoe sighs. “Stop it.”
“This is bad,” I say with a shiver. “If I quit now, I won’t be able to afford my tuition this summer.”
“Nobody’s quitting,” Zoe insists. “Babe, you’re catastrophizing. Tomorrow this won’t seem like such a big deal.”
“Are you kidding? My dignity has already packed its bags and caught a cab to the airport. Please don’t tell Chase about this.” Her boyfriend lives in the same building as Eric and DeLuca.
“I won’t. I swear.”
“This is worse than middle school.” I think about that for a second. “Okay, not quite. But it’s bad.”
“Darcy, should I come upstairs? Are you okay?”
I don’t want to ruin her evening, too. “I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.”
Her voice grows wary. “Call me if you need anything. I’ll be outside by the pool if you change your mind.”
As if.
We hang up, and I lie here on the bed, under the pillow, wondering if my boss would give me a decent recommendation. Probably not, though. I’m so screwed.
Then someone taps on the door, and I stop breathing. “Darcy?”
Oh God. It’s his voice.
“Hey. Can you open the door?”
I shove the pillow off my face and croak, “Why?” And I mean it in an existential way. Why did I screw up so badly? Why am I like this?
“Because I just want to talk to you for a second. Why’d you skip dinner?”
Hmm. He hasn’t mentioned the message. But it could be a trick.
“I’m a little tired,” I try. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
A pause. “Darcy, open the damn door. Let’s talk this out.”
Everything inside me sags.
“Besides,” he says through the door. “If you won’t talk to me, it’ll bother me. And I can’t carry that kind of negative energy into game seven.”
Oh shit. Everything rides on tomorrow’s game. If even 1 percent of Eric’s game day performance could be laid at my feet, I do not want to be responsible for causing a problem.
Damn it all.
I roll off the bed and march over to fling the door open. And there he is, delectable as usual, even in swim trunks and a Legends polo shirt. It’s infuriating. “You know what, Eric? I already know you’re a great captain. You never let issues fester in the dressing room. Talking it out is usually the right doctrine. But not this time, okay? Have you heard that phrase—you can’t fix stupid?”
He squints back at me, all six-foot-three worth of blond, hulking glory. “I’ve heard it.”
“Well, this is the kind of stupid you just can’t fix. So just leave me alone to wallow in my embarrassment. Don’t give it another thought. It’s better if we never discuss it at all.”
“That’s not true,” he says firmly. “And I think I can make you talk to me.”
“No way,” I insist.
He pulls a big hand from behind his back. And, damn it, that hand is holding a plate full of chicken, empanadas, and black bean salad. There’s also a wedge of cheesecake. “Delivery,” he says cheerily. “I even brought silverware and a linen napkin. Now, don’t you want to invite me in?”
My stomach growls, and I realize he’s done it again—figured out exactly the right thing to de-escalate a situation. I look into his gray eyes and marvel at him for a second. How does a person become Eric Tremaine? There must be some kind of wild alchemy responsible for his rare combination of competence and confidence. His leadership style is basically like if a golden retriever got a PhD in emotional intelligence and decided to captain a hockey team. He has this infuriating ability to be both ridiculously attractive and completely right about everything. It’s honestly rude.
I take the damn plate.
His grin is only a little cocky as he follows me into the room and shuts the door.
But now I’ve miscalculated, because Eric Tremaine is standing in my hotel room, his powerful body leaning casually against the furniture. My stomach does another backflip.
I hate everything.
Setting the plate down, I turn to him, resigned to my fate. “Look, I appreciate this gesture,” I start, avoiding those gorgeous eyes. “But I should be the one knocking on your door to apologize for being inappropriate. I’m very sorry. That message was…” I pause awkwardly. “Temporary insanity?”