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’s smile is soft when it comes, stripped of teasing for once. “You admire her.”
I don’t deflect. “Yeah… I do.”
She grins wider, the mischief sliding right back into place. “Also, she’s hot?”
I shoot her a deadly look. “Buzzard,” I warn, the nickname I call her when she’s getting bullish.
She laughs, victorious. “That’s a yes.”
I scrub a hand over my face, thumb dragging along my jaw like friction might erase the image already burned in. The way Juno looks like she belongs anywhere she stands. “She’s… compelling.”
The word feels safer than beautiful. Smarter than attractive.
Still not a lie.
Birdie throws her head back, laughter bouncing off the cabinets. “Oh my God, you’re doomed.”
“Stop.” The protest comes automatically, but there’s no heat behind it.
“You like her,” she says confidently.
I shake my head, even as something inside me shifts. “I didn’t say that.”
Birdie’s eyes flick to mine, unblinking, absolutely certain. “You didn’t have to.” She pushes off the counter and takes a long sip of her water like she’s already decided how this story ends. “You should ask her out.”
I scoff, the sound brittle and defensive. “That’s not how this works.”
She arches a brow over the rim of her bottle. “Why not?”
“Because she’s here to do a job.”
And because I don’t want to complicate a situation that already feels dangerous. I don’t want to cross a line I can’t uncross.
“And you’re allowed to be human at the same time,” Birdie counters. “Wild concept, I know.”
Before I can respond—before I can build another wall or find another excuse—my phone buzzes on the counter.
I glance down.
And for reasons I don’t let myself examine too closely, my pulse jumps when I see her name.
Juno. You owe me an interview. When do I get that invite to your house?
A weight lifts off my chest.
“Who is it?” Birdie asks, already smiling like she knows.
I look up, caught. Exposed. “It’s her,” I admit.
Birdie pumps a fist. “YES!”
I shake my head, but I’m smiling too as I text back. Consider yourself invited but remember, it comes with the promise of unpacking numerous boxes.
CHAPTER 13
Juno
I’ve been to my share of sporting events over the years because I like sports of all kinds. I’ve also been in luxury boxes.
But nothing could’ve prepared me for Patrick Rowe’s owner’s suite at the new arena.
It’s quite frankly… overwhelming.
Evan moves in front of me, camera on his shoulder to film what can only be described as beyond grandiose. The sheer size of the space is hard to understand, easily five times bigger than other suites I’ve been in. It feels more like the private wing of a luxury hotel.
The carpet is so plush, my boots sink into it, and the warm lighting has been placed to enhance the architecture. Curated art lines the walls along with branded team décor—the classic Wildfire logo showing the Cascade Mountains with forest and flames.
“I wonder if this will impress the players,” Evan asks, lowering his camera to glance back at me.
I laugh, shaking my head. “This suite wasn’t built to impress players. It was built to impress people who already own everything.”
“Truth,” he says, and lifts the camera again.
I spy Patrick Rowe talking to a group of men in power suits and peg them for city officials. I’m sure lots of palms had to be greased for the building permits on this prime piece of land on the river.
Patrick is not in a suit, even though I’m guessing he owns countless designer ones. Instead, he’s got on a pair of dark jeans and a crisp, white button-down shirt. Super casual, but when you have his kind of money, you dress how you want.
His eyes connect with mine and he makes his excuses to step away from those guests, approaching Evan and me with a smile. “Welcome.” He spreads his arms wide. “What do you think?”
I glance around at the staggering display of wealth, the dozens of guests milling about who represent the top one percent of the one percent. It’s extravagant and yet, I would not even consider calling Patrick Rowe ostentatious. He’s simply proud of what he’s achieved.
“It’s unbelievable,” I say. “Can we get a tour from you on camera?”
“Absolutely.” He beams, taking a moment to shake the hand of a passerby.
The invitation from Rowe included open access for the documentary. Every guest entering the suite was advised ahead of time we would be filming and has already signed releases, which are probably tucked neatly into the leather portfolio of Rowe’s head attorney. Guests were also advised that I might interview them, but they are free to decline to talk to me.
“This is the main space,” Patrick says, sweeping his hand toward clusters of deep leather seating accented with low chrome and granite tables dressed with flowers and candles. “As you can see, we wanted to invite conversation, but no one can deny, it’s the bar that grabs everyone’s attention.”