Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 65884 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 329(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65884 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 329(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
And now he was waggling his brows.
“We’re not boyfriends.”
Robin wasn’t deterred. “Lovers, then? I believe the relationship correlation is inferred.”
“Oh, please.”
“You’re blushing.” He squinted as he cocked his head. “Definitely a blush. Curious. You can trust me, you know. Or…you can talk to me if you’d like.”
“I…I know. Thank you.”
“Well?”
“We’re…enjoying each other’s company,” I hedged.
“Ahh! Gosh, it feels good to be right.”
Robin’s smug expression was mildly annoying, but I chuckled, surprised at how nice it felt that someone in Smithton knew. It made it feel real.
A dangerous sentiment indeed.
“Latte with oat milk comin’ in hot. I brought croissants too,” Ty pronounced as someone called his name from the line at Coffee Cave. He inclined his chin in acknowledgment and set the drinks and a dish with two croissants in front of me.
I removed my bag from the chair I’d saved for him and set my phone on the table I’d secured in the corner. “Is it my imagination, or are people staring at us?”
Ty tore off a piece of croissant and glanced around the café. “Yeah, I think you’re right. Brady and Gus told me they heard a rumor that—”
“Yo, it’s the lovebirds!” Arlo hooted as he entered the shop. “That’s something new in Smithton.”
His football buddies snickered like delinquents, including Carson, who seemed a little less amused than his friends.
Ty frowned as the entourage made their way to the counter. “Carson.”
“Carson outed us? Why?” I whispered-hissed. “What proof does he have? What did—”
“Hey, relax. You don’t need proof to start a rumor, Walker. As for why? Who knows? I turned him down and he didn’t like it. Or maybe it wasn’t him. Maybe he made an offhand remark to one of his buddies who told a girlfriend or a parent or whatever the fuck. Doesn’t matter.”
“Yes, it does. It’s an invasion of privacy,” I groused, sipping my drink and immediately wincing. “Shoot, that’s hot.”
Ty pushed a napkin toward me. “You’ve got latte on your chin. Can I wipe it off?”
“No, you may not.” I scanned the shop briefly. “Why aren’t you upset?”
“Why would I be?” he countered. “They can think whatever they want.”
“Just like that? Are you nuts? What if it gets out…beyond Smithton? What if the Jackals—”
“Walker, no one knows anything. No proof, remember? Trust me. It’s gonna be fine,” he assured me, leaning in as his cell buzzed. “It’s my agent. I have to take this, and I’ve got class in fifteen minutes.”
“Go. I’ll talk to you later.”
Ty answered the call, slipping on his earbuds while he gathered his belongings.
“Czerniak here. Yeah, I know. It’s always urgent.” He winked and headed for the door.
I watched him go, sipping my latte and feeling like a fish in a glass bowl.
I didn’t like it.
Call me dramatic, but I’d learned to trust my instincts a long time ago, and I couldn’t shake the premonition that something dark lurked just around the corner.
CHAPTER 23
WALKER
The first call came on March seventh, a perfectly lovely Friday, I might add. It was crisp outside, but the skies were a pretty shade of blue that contrasted nicely with the daffodils and crocuses on the quad. Spring was in the air, and the birds and bees and a good portion of the student population knew it.
Shay had a date with Mabel’s vet this weekend, Robin was shamelessly mooning over a delectable dork in his physics seminar, and I’d passed not one, not two, but three couples making out on my short jaunt from the parking lot to the humanities building. I sighed dreamily, smiling at a random passerby as I reached for my cell buzzing in my pocket.
The caller ID read, SI.
I had no idea why I answered. I blamed the weather and my good mood.
“Hello?”
“Hi, there. This is Charles Auler from Sports Illustrated. May I speak with Walker Woodrow, please?”
I frowned. “That’s me.”
“Fantastic. Listen, we’re interested in doing a story about your father, Ketchum Clomsky.”
“My father?” I frowned and veered down a path leading toward the lake, away from the bustle on campus.
“He was a legend in the pros. He deserves a tribute and—”
“No, thank you.”
For your information, that was a panicked reply. Was I allowed to say no to Sports Illustrated? I wasn’t a sports person, so…yes, I thought so.
I sat on a bench overlooking the running trail and stared at the shoreline where the undulating current made sunlight glitter like diamonds scattered across the lake’s surface.
An article about my father. Now?
He’d been retired from hockey for over a decade. And why call me? No one knew my dad wasn’t well. It was a closely guarded family matter. Those who did know, wouldn’t say a word.
Perhaps I was reading too much into it. He’d asked, I’d said no…end of story.
But it wasn’t.
There were a dozen messages from various publications, news outlets, and social-media influencers on my cell after class.