Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 74956 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 375(@200wpm)___ 300(@250wpm)___ 250(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74956 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 375(@200wpm)___ 300(@250wpm)___ 250(@300wpm)
I reach over, thinking it might be Tank.
Maybe he and Steph forgot something or just want to say thanks for a fun afternoon.
But it isn’t Tank or one of my brunch buddies or Sheila from the crafting co-op texting to see if I want to start the beginning crochet class series next week.
It’s Remy. And she’s in trouble if her text is anything to judge by.
She shoots me a highway name and mile marker along with—Phone about to die. Also about to be run over by semi-trucks and can’t get the jack in the right place to change my flat tire. Please come. SOS!
In a heartbeat, I’m out of my chair, dashing into my bedroom to throw on clothes as I text—Be right there!
And I will.
As fast as my secretly smitten legs and Range Rover can carry me.
Chapter 3
Remy
I should have called my father.
The thought hammers at the base of my skull as I huddle against the guardrail, my car tilted sadly on its blown tire just a few feet away. The sun has just dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in streaks of orange and purple that would be beautiful under any other circumstances. But here, on this busy stretch of highway with semis and cars whizzing past at ninety miles an hour, the approaching darkness feels threatening.
Another truck barrels past, so close to the shoulder that the blast of air lifts my hair off my shoulders and rattles my car on the stupid spare tire jack I can’t seem to position correctly. My heart jams into my throat as the vehicle’s massive rear tire momentarily drifts toward the white line.
“Jesus Christ,” I whisper, shrinking back against the metal barrier. A few more inches, and I’d be roadkill. Or forced to throw myself down the rocky embankment behind me.
Just how I wanted to spend my Sunday night after an exhausting weekend— choosing between certain death and likely death.
I don’t want to be contemplating any kind of death. I just want to be home in bed with the covers pulled up over my head, pretending I’m not staring down another high-stress week of work after having zero time to recharge.
I glance at my phone, but it’s still as dead as it was forty minutes ago when I texted Stone. I guess I should be glad it stayed functional long enough for me to receive his text that he was on his way, but what if that wasn’t the whole message?
What if he texted “right after my food delivery gets here in thirty minutes,” or “as soon as Barb finally decides where to poop” or something, and I’m going to be stuck here even longer than I thought? Barb is the cutest little spoiled brat in the world, but Stone’s pampered chihuahua takes a notoriously long time to decide where to leave her three precious turds.
And in Stone’s book, Barb’s well-being absolutely comes before mine.
As it should. After all, Barb is his fur baby. I’m just the fuck buddy who kind of sort of dumped him two days ago.
My vision blurs with the tears I’ve been trying to hold back since the tire blew with a heart-stopping pop that sent me fishtailing onto the shoulder.
I shouldn’t be crying. Lauders don’t cry over flat tires. We don’t cry over almost anything. Even when Mom died. Aside from those last few moments at her bedside, I never saw Dad cry a single time, not even at her funeral.
Lauders don’t whine and whimper and “woe is me.” We pick ourselves up, brush ourselves off, and push forward, refusing to let the cruel world break us.
But I’ve been pushing so hard for so long…
For nearly three years straight, I’ve worked long days at the Badger admin office—wrangling paperwork, schedules, and the behind-the-scenes business of running an NHL team—before dashing straight to my latest coaching gig, to volunteer work at local schools, or to the gym to keep myself in the kind of shape that engenders respect in other athletes.
Now, I’ve added in prepping for the biggest interview of my life while coaching my best amateur team ever. The Frosted Bushtits—allegedly named after the American Bushtit, a bird native to Oregon, but we all know that bird on the jerseys isn’t fooling anyone—could win it all this year. I really don’t want to let them down.
Usually, just thinking about the Bushtits and how much I enjoy coaching the smart, hardworking, hilarious players on my team is enough to make me smile.
But right now, I’m just too damned tired.
I’m exhausted and starting to get genuinely scared as the light continues to fade and another truck—this one a white pickup, whose driver is clearly staring at his phone—swerves dangerously close to the shoulder.
He looks up from his screen in time, but just barely, leaving me trembling.
If Stone doesn’t get here soon, I might actually die out here. On the side of the road. Just another pathetic cautionary tale that won’t stop anyone from texting and driving because people who text and drive are stupid and careless, and stupid, careless people never learn their lesson until it’s way too late.