Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 113072 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113072 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
“And your name, please?” Then she studies me, and her eyes narrow. “You’re the girl from that video.”
“It’s Zoe,” I say weakly.
“Interesting.” She lifts a phone and punches in a code before having a brief murmured conversation. “All right, Zoe from the video—go on up to The Lair.”
“Sorry?”
She frowns, as if I should already know what she’s talking about. “The penthouse level. Three players share it. You’ll see. Chase is in the second unit.”
“Okay, thank you.” I proceed to the elevator, with its plush carpet underfoot and its brass buttons, which go from 2 to 10, plus the topmost level, marked with PH. Someone has glued a label beside it that reads Party Headquarters.
Lord. I guess professional hockey player is an oxymoron.
The car rises swiftly on smooth hydraulics, and before I’m ready, the doors slide open to reveal a landing with three doors, marked not with the numbers I, II, and III but instead with 16, 41, and 7.
It takes me a second, but I realize those are jersey numbers. Tremaine is 16, Chase is 41. And I’m pretty sure DeLuca is 7.
I roll my eyes and then knock on 41.
“Just a sec!” calls a voice inside.
Be cool, Zoe. This is no big deal, right? Just a glimpse into Chase’s bachelor pad, where he brings all the models and Grammy nominees home for dinner and sex.
The door pops open, and Chase is suddenly in front of me, beckoning. “Come on in,” he says. I miss his next sentence. It’s something about food and his refrigerator. But I’m struck by the sight of Chase in low-hanging gray sweatpants and a threadbare T-shirt bearing the name of an AHL team in Connecticut.
It’s just unfair how good he looks in sweatpants. And, phew, is it hot in here?
Trying not to gape, I follow him inside, where I’m blasted by another beautiful view. It’s hard to know where to look first—at the sunset over New Jersey, visible through windows that stretch two stories high, or at the outrageously elegant loft apartment, with its miles of golden wood flooring and the most sprawling low-to-the-ground sectional sofa that I’ve ever seen. It probably has its own zip code.
Holy. Cow. I knew Chase had money, I just never imagined he’d be so good at spending it. There’s an open-plan kitchen, long and sleek, at the far end of the space. A lengthy stone-topped bar separates it from the dining area opposite. And over the kitchen area rises a loft level, which houses a well-stocked home gym.
Wow, I think as I shed my coat, hanging it on a hook beside the door, where I get an oblique glimpse through a doorway to the bedroom, also lined with gracious windows as well as a king-sized platform bed made up with a puffy comforter in slate green.
The place is so stunning that it takes me a moment to advance toward the kitchen, where the refrigerator is open.
And to spot the willowy woman standing in front of it.
“Hi, I’m Marnie,” she says. “You must be Zoe. I wondered who that extra portion of guacamole was for.”
A woman. Oh my God. His girlfriend is here. My heart climbs into my throat, and stays there, which makes it hard for me to squawk out a greeting. I manage. Just barely.
But I can’t stop staring at her. She’s tall. Really tall. Statuesque. Her thick hair is caught up in a braid down her back, like I used to wear. Maybe Chase has a type. It would almost be funny if I weren’t dying inside.
“All right, Chase,” she says with a smile. Fuck. She even has a dimple. “For lunch tomorrow you’ve got a quinoa bowl with lean proteins—chicken, salmon, or turkey. Warm it up, but add the avocado and fresh greens after, so they stay crisp. For dinner tonight you’ve got the enchiladas—chicken and bean. Whole wheat wrappers, so it’s almost healthy. Now I’ve gotta run. Time for yoga.”
“Thanks, Marnie. Really appreciate it,” he says.
She squeezes him on the shoulder. “I’ll leave you two to enjoy it.”
Then she leaves. No kiss, which seems weird, but it’s just as well, because I’d probably die of distress.
At the door she stops and turns around. “And no more cupcakes from Billy’s Bakery. I saw the box in the trash.”
Chase smiles at her suddenly, and I’m hit with a lightning bolt of familiarity. Because it’s a real smile—the kind I used to get. For a moment I feel joy fizzing behind my breastbone. But then it hits me that his smile is aimed at someone else, and I realize I’m probably going to need several of Billy’s cupcakes to recover from this evening.
I wonder how late that place is open.
Then Marnie is gone, the door closing behind her. Chase and I are going to dine together for the first time since the Obama administration. And I have no idea how to get through it.