Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 115763 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115763 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
Okay, I’m not that humble.
I know I’m cute, if you consider an hourglass shape with a few extra minutes and a face without a single sharp angle to be cute. I’m what’s affectionately called slim thick, and while once upon a time a skating coach told me I needed to lose weight, my body type is having a moment. Not that I care what’s in vogue. This is who I am, and I rock what I’ve got to the best of my abilities, which, on the ice or with choreography, is pretty damn good.
In real life? Not so much.
Still, I hold my head high, swish my hips a bit more, and carry my bowl to the table we always sit at. Per my life and karma, however, I promptly spill a handful of shredded lettuce onto the table’s surface. “Shit,” I mutter, sweeping up the evidence of my blunder with my hand before grabbing the rest with a napkin.
“Here,” a gruff voice says.
I wish it were Dominic. Nope, it’s just Griffin, holding out his hand for my lettuce-filled napkin.
“It’s fine. I’ve got it,” I argue, balling up the paper and pointedly ignoring the couple of pieces of lettuce that fall to the floor at my feet. I try to step around him, intending on throwing my own trash away like the strong, independent woman I am, but Griffin grabs my wrist in a big, calloused paw of a hand. His touch is gentler than I would’ve expected, but still insistent. I can’t remember the last time he actually touched me. Usually, he keeps a solid three-foot distance, like it’s a league rule, and barely looks at me unless it’s to see how his barbed comments land.
“Give it here,” he demands, plucking the paper from my hand, which has opened unconsciously. Oddly graceful for a monster his size, he strides across the dining area, not bumping into a single table or chair the way I likely would’ve done, and deposits the napkin in the trash can.
When he turns back, I’m still standing stock-still, staring at him in shock. He touched me and the world didn’t immediately explode. It seems like a small win for mankind, but an even larger one for me. Like not only did I poke at him with my dress (sc0re) but, surprisingly, by making a mess (another score). I make a mental tally mark in my column—Penny: 2; Griffin: big fat goose egg.
I smile triumphantly as I sit. Our usual table is one of those booth-on-one-side, chairs-on-the-other type deals, and Dominic takes his place next to me on the booth, while Griffin sits across from me. I used to wonder why he didn’t sit across from Dominic instead of me, since Dom’s his friend, and once I asked him. He grumbled about their knees bumping since their legs are so long, which made sense, but something about it seemed like a convenient lie. I decided it was probably another way my protective brother keeps everyone away from me, by bookending my existence with his friend.
Maybe that’s why Griffin hates me so much? Because Dom’s always forcing him to hang out with me like some sort of de facto second brother to a younger, annoying—I mean, awesome!—little sister. Maybe?
“Ready for the game?” I ask once we’ve all had a few bites.
Hockey is a safe topic that’ll have the guys talking for hours. I don’t mind it either. I grew up with hockey and love it almost as much as Dom does. Though maybe not as much as Dad, who could easily be described as a superfan of the sport, which means he’s deeply proud of his pro son. And pretty happy about his hockey cheerleader daughter, too, though our uniforms aren’t his favorite.
“Yeah,” Dominic says. “The Beavers are known for their defense more than their offense, so we’re going to be hammering Beavers all night long. Right, Honey?” He ends with a chuckle, as if the bad pun isn’t cringeworthy all on its own.
“That’s my hope. Nifty wrist shots all night,” Griffin deadpans in the worst lie to ever be told. He’s a beast on the ice, more violence than finesse, and enjoys every clock-ticking second of it. The attitude carries over off the ice, too, only with slightly less fighting. Very slightly less.
Dom laughs at Griffin’s joke, and I listen while the two of them dissect the likely action they’ll see tomorrow. After a bit, Dom asks me, “What’d you do today?”
I freeze, a too-big bite of chicken and rice halfway to my open mouth. “Huh?” Lowering the fork, I answer, “Oh, I hiked up Devil’s Hill to witness a proposal. The ring was gorg! An heirloom solitaire I reset into a high-profile cathedral setting with tiny hidden birthstones for the bride and groom.” I wiggle happily, remembering Elaina’s wide, joy-filled eyes as she looked at the ring I’d made with my own two hands.