Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 104869 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 524(@200wpm)___ 419(@250wpm)___ 350(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104869 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 524(@200wpm)___ 419(@250wpm)___ 350(@300wpm)
What? Where was this all coming from? Was it his aim to confuse her? Was this his revenge for her being a shitty wife? A campaign of confusion to keep her constantly bewildered and wrong-footed?
She sighed, a noisy, impatient exhalation of air from her nostrils.
She tossed her phone aside, refusing to be drawn into a conversation with him. Refusing to even think about this any longer.
She’d bought a pizza for dinner, had a stack of romance novels obtained from the secondhand book stall at the flea market in Wilderness, and was looking forward to an early dinner with a glass of red wine and then…
Bath. Book. Bed.
Bliss.
Kenna
Tina has invited me to the football game tonight. I’ve accepted.
Smith’s fucking stupid heart actually stalled for a second when Kenna’s message came through unexpectedly at noon the following day.
He’d all but given up on hearing from her again. He’d fully expected her to avoid him for the remainder of her time in Riversend.
And he’d been trying to sort through the ethical dilemma of how to insert himself back into her life without being a total stalking bastard about it.
This unexpected message gave him a sliver of hope.
Before it had come, he’d been half listening to Harris rhapsodizing about how little Flynn—the older twin—was starting to toddle. And how Jamie had just said his first word. Harris predicted that Flynn would be more athletic, while Jamie would excel at academics.
Not exactly riveting stuff.
Yes, Smith was a doting uncle and incredibly proud of his nephews’ genius. But it was difficult to be enthusiastic about their clearly outstanding achievements when he was so fucking preoccupied with his own personal shit.
Just another item to add to the growing list of Smith’s many flaws.
“You’re right. It does sound like Dada,” he absently appeased Harris, even though Jamie’s happy chatter hadn’t produced anything sounding remotely similar to the English language as far as Smith could discern.
He quickly typed a reply to Kenna.
I’ll be there too. I’m on the team
He’d adamantly refused to play for weeks now, but he didn’t want Kenna to change her mind because she thought he’d be underfoot all evening. If she knew he was playing, she’d expect him to be preoccupied.
Kenny
You are? I thought tennis was the only sport you could play.
He glowered at his screen, a little affronted.
I’m good at other sports. I just prefer tennis.
Kenny
Okay.
I’ll see you later then.
Kenny
I suppose so.
Not very promising. In fact, the exchange had been downright frosty.
But she was going to be there tonight and damned if that knowledge didn’t make him smile from ear to ear.
“Why the fu…uudge,” Harris quickly corrected himself, while eyeing the bright ginger heads of his happily babbling twin sons cautiously. “Um, why the fudge are you glowing like a happy little moonbeam right now?”
“Kenna’s coming to the game tonight.”
“Oh? I thought you said she wasn’t speaking to you.”
“She’s not, but we have agreed to give each other a heads-up if we thought there was a chance we’d be occupying the same areas around town.”
“Very civil of you both. Divorce done right.”
Smith chose to ignore his brother-in-law’s facetiousness. He was rather proud of his forbearance, truth be told.
“I told her I’m playing,” he said and Harris choked on his spit and then went into a coughing fit, which his sons tried to imitate.
He eventually mastered himself and stared at Smith, eyes still streaming and lips clearly losing the battle against the grin that was trying to creep onto his mouth.
“Playing?” Harris repeated incredulously. He caught the adventurous Flynn, who was tumbling headfirst over his father’s upraised knee, without taking his eyes off Smith’s face. “Playing what exactly?”
Smith glared at his so-called best friend. “Football, arsehole.”
“Spencer and Brand will be thrilled to have you, of course. They seem to think that simply adding to our numbers will somehow make us not suck.”
“I think I’d be a decent goalkeeper,” Smith muttered defensively, not at all certain. He was good at fielding crosscourt shots. Surely that translated into decent skills in other ball sports?
“Sure, buddy, whatever you say,” Harris agreed condescendingly. He flipped Flynn onto his back and began blowing raspberries onto his round, soft tummy.
The baby chortled, a surprisingly deep chuckle that could drag an answering grin out of even the stoniest of hearts. Smith grabbed Jamie and gave him the same treatment, eliciting an identical laugh from his nephew.
He loved these little stinkers to death, so right now he was going to enjoy his time with them and not worry about anything else.
“Oh my God,” Kenny whispered to Tina in amusement. “You weren’t joking. They’re terrible.”
The team was full of athletic men, all in peak physical condition, and very few of them possessed an ounce of footballing skill.
It was embarrassing.
They were being soundly trounced by a team of skinny teenagers. Granted, some of the kids had some serious skills. Tina had pointed out at least three young men and one of the girls who were being seriously scouted by professional European teams, thanks to a few phone calls from the extremely influential Sam Brand and Charity’s husband, Miles Hollingsworth.