Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 86515 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86515 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
Birdie hums, the sound thoughtful. “And?”
“And I don’t want to do it,” I say, pushing off the counter and pacing a few steps. “It’s as simple as that.” I scrub a hand over my face, words spilling before I can stop them. “And she’s so young. I mean—who gives a project like this to a nobody?”
“What’s her name?” Birdie asks.
“Juno Paxton.”
“Let me look her up,” she says, and then goes silent. I take a bite of my sandwich, chew and swallow.
“She’s got a Wikipedia page, so she’s not a nobody,” Birdie says. “Looks like she’s got lots of awards. Film festival wins. Critical acclaim.” She goes silent for a moment and then gasps. “Holy shit. She did a documentary called Sanctuary that scored both Golden Globe and Oscar nominations.”
“You’re kidding?” I ask, completely astonished by this information.
“Didn’t win,” she says distractedly, and I can tell she’s still reading. Then she whistles. “Crosby… you didn’t tell me she was a knockout.”
I grimace because she’s not wrong.
“She’s downright hot. Why don’t you charm her? I mean… you’re drop-dead gorgeous too. Flirt with her a little.”
“What the fuck, Birdie?” I exclaim, completely exasperated. “She’s filming me, not auditioning to have my babies.”
Birdie laughs wickedly and I know she’s poking the bear.
“Change the subject,” I grumble, staring out the tall kitchen windows at the darkening trees beyond the veranda.
She laughs softly. “I’m just saying—you might want to rethink dismissing her.”
“I don’t care how good or pretty she is,” I say, jaw tightening. “I don’t want cameras in my face. I want some peace.”
“Fair,” Birdie agrees. Then her tone shifts, lighter. “Speaking of peace—I’m wrapping up this job. Should be decompressed in about seven to ten days.”
Another dangerous component to her job. She’ll stay in the pressurized chamber when she’s done, the pressure being reduced a little each day until she is physiologically back to normal. The goal is to let the inert gases leave her body without causing decompression sickness, joint or tissue injury… even neurological damage.
I hate her fucking job.
“You coming to visit?”
“I’m going to take a few months off,” she says. “Thought I’d check out your fancy new place.”
“You can help me unpack,” I say.
She laughs. “Wow. Hospitality at its finest.”
“I’ll buy groceries.”
“Tempting,” she says. “I’ll let you know when I’m on my way.”
“Sounds good.”
“And Crosby?” she adds before hanging up. “Try not to scare off the award-winning filmmaker before I get there.”
“Bite me, Birdie,” I say, before hanging up on her laugh.
CHAPTER 6
Juno
I’d done my homework on Arch Hewitt long before tonight, the same way I did with every player on the roster. Born in northern Minnesota, the oldest kid to blue-collar parents, it was the kind of background that produces men who don’t talk much about the pressure they grew up with.
He wasn’t a star coming up—no viral highlights, no headlines—but he climbed anyway. Steady hard work through junior leagues, minor systems and short-term contracts. Winnipeg took him because he was dependable, because he played like someone who understood that hockey was a job, not a performance.
On paper, Arch Hewitt is exactly the kind of player people overlook, but in person, it’s obvious why teams keep him. Because he is consistently dependable.
The bar we meet at isn’t loud or trendy. No neon signs screaming for attention or bartenders flinging bottles for entertainment. Just a low-ceilinged place with dark wood, scuffed floors and the low hum of conversation layered over muted music. It’s the kind of place where people come to exhale after long days and don’t care who’s watching.
“Good choice,” I say as we slide onto barstools.
He grins and signals the bartender. “I take that as a compliment.”
“You should.”
“What’re you drinking?” he asks, turning fully toward me.
“Dealer’s choice,” I reply. “But if it shows up in a novelty glass, I’m judging you.”
He laughs, easy and unguarded as the bartender arrives. “Fair. Two old-fashioneds,” he orders.
I clock that immediately—he’s decisive. Arch doesn’t hedge or ask for confirmation. He orders like he’s comfortable with outcomes.
“So,” he says, tipping his head toward me while we wait, “are you always this intense without a camera, or is that your work face?”
“I’m not intense,” I say with an eye roll.
Arch laughs. “I just watched Crosby blare his horn like a twelve-year-old, and you recovered in half a second. Most people would’ve been pissed, but you stared at him like you were deciding what kind of documentary you were going to make out of his personality disorder.”
I narrow my eyes, forcing myself not to laugh. “That is wildly unfair.”
“Sure,” he says, still amused. “But it was impressive.”
The drinks arrive and I take a slow sip, letting the burn settle before answering. “I don’t scare easily.”
“Yeah,” he says, studying me now with open curiosity. “I noticed.”
There’s no edge to it. No challenge, just sincere appreciation. I’ve already decided I like Arch Hewitt a lot.